Chapter 10
A faint ache pulsed through Aron's veins—the first whisper of karma's backlash, sharp as broken glass under the skin. As a whole air conditioner had just fallen on him, but he ignored it and dialed his phone once more, calling Adam again. The ring persisted, unanswered.
'Come on, Adam. I need you. Pick up…'
But silence. Aron pocketed the phone with a quiet sigh. More than any herald, he ached to reunite with him. In the previous timeline, they were….
No. Not now. Regret was a luxury he couldn't afford. He had returned to this timeline for a reason. He would mend things with Adam eventually. The end of the world hinged on them—the two first men—more than anything.
Yes, he was strong. Stronger than he fully understood. "…Status."
[Administrative Interface — Restricted Access]
Access Granted: Bearer of the System
User: Aron
Authority: Bearer of the System
Status: Active since Genesis Day 1
Missions Completed: 97% (∞ recorded · 8 failures · 0 abandonments)
True Age: █████████████ (suppressed by user request)
Apparent Age: 33
Identity
True Name: Aron ben Adam
Titles: Slayer of All Things · The Last Man Standing (new)
Core Parameters
(Tier 2 planetary cap in effect. Higher values suppressed.)
Strength: 567,879
Dexterity: 245,876
Constitution: 765,987
Intelligence: 243,873
Wisdom: 607,736
Charisma: 893,736
Divinity: 999,999+ (99% locked)
Karma: 999,999+ ⇒ -23,567 ⇒ -22,517 (⚠️Timeline Disruption Detected⚠️)
Luck: Locked (⚠️Karma fracture⚠️)
[Warning: Unauthorized Authority Detected. Karma threshold breached. Monitoring active. Power usage will trigger escalating consequences—backlash, hunters, enforcers.]
Updates applied:
- Karma +300
- Karma +350
- Karma +400
Total change: +1,050 Karma (previous -23,567 → current -22,517)
[Profile updated. Awaiting next command for parameter adjustments.]
The warning flashed red—karma bleeding away. Pitiful. Restricted to one percent of his divinity. That wouldn't suffice against Hermes. He knew it.
Demigods were manageable. The gods themselves played on another plane. Raw strength could shatter them, but miracles… miracles were different.
'Accounting for my karma deficit, what's the guaranteed hit probability of a god's miracle?' he asked the system.
[Analyzing…]
[Taking the high karma of the Olympian Pantheon and the karma of the host.]
[The hit accuracy would be 1000%. Striking the host with absolute devastation.]
Aron's jaw tightened, a cold knot forming in his gut. The numbers didn't lie. His system never had. One miracle from Hermes could erase him outright. As Karma reined absolute in this world. Even he wasn't arrogant enough to ignore that danger.
"The odds are heavily in their favor," he muttered, voice low.
"…Huh, my lord?" Peter asked from across the dim penthouse lounge, city lights flickering through floor-to-ceiling windows behind him.
Aron swiped the screen away. "Nothing. You look ready," he said, noting Peter's packed bag beside the leather sofa, the young man's face still pale under the warm glow of overhead lights.
"Indeed. Lady Khorn said her private jet is ready anytime. She asked what time we should depart…?" Peter replied, hands trembling slightly against the dark fabric of his jeans.
Aron caught the shake, the uncertainty in downcast eyes. City sirens wailed faintly far below, a reminder of the chaos outside. "…After."
"After?"
"After you say goodbye to your family for the night. Did they settle nearby? I don't want you… unfocused."
Peter nodded, eyes still lowered. His lips parted, then closed. Aron crossed the polished marble floor and placed a steady hand on his shoulder. "Come. Sit with me for a while."
They settled on the wide leather sofa, the cushions sinking slightly under their weight, distant traffic humming through the glass.
"Now tell me—what's bothering you?"
"Nothing, my lor—" Peter began, but those golden eyes pierced him, gazing straight into his anxious soul.
"My lord… I want to be brave. I want to stand at your side. But I felt it—when we fought those demigods. As I am now… I'd only be a burden to you."
Aron gave a small, knowing smile. "Did Khorn tell you that?"
"…There were hints," Peter admitted, scratching the back of his head.
"She's right. You are weak," Aron said simply.
The words struck deep. Peter's heart sank all too sudden.
"You are naive," Aron continued.
Peter hunched slightly, forcing a weak smile over miserable eyes. Hearing his hero saying those words.
"You are inexperienced. You lack the will to stare into the abyss and not flinch."
Each truth gutted him further. The weight of his own body felt crushing. Demeaning.
But Aron's finger tapped his chest—right over the heart that was drowning.
"But that is not why I choose heralds."
Peter blinked, confused.
Aron leaned closer, voice low so only Peter could hear amid the quiet hum of the city beyond the windows.
"I choose heralds who can still feel. Who can still believe. Who can stand beside me not with raw power—but with… heart."
He rested his hand on Peter's shoulder, grounding him.
"I don't need another soldier, Peter. I have millions of those in memory. I need someone who won't lose himself in the storms ahead."
The tension in Peter's shoulders eased, trembling giving way to relief.
A small, almost embarrassed smile flickered on Aron's lips as he patted Peter's hair once—like a parent reassuring a frightened child.
"Soon," Aron whispered, "we'll hold the ritual. And you'll become my herald in truth. Until then… believe in me. And believe in yourself, Peter."
Peter exhaled, the crushing weight lifting in a rush of quiet joy.
"…yes… YES MY LORD," he declared.
Good—that was the Peter he needed, fully active and ready. Aron nodded as he stood, Peter rising with him. They were prepared to head to the Netherlands.
Yes, he wanted Peter's morale high, but more than for Peter, Aron had been speaking to himself, really. He wanted to believe in Peter— who was believing the new him. Believing that he was using this second chance for good. Hoping he could change the miserable future he had come from.
Khorn stood just beyond the door, having listened the entire time. Those words, that warmth, that unfamiliar sensation behind them—it was the first time in centuries she had felt anything like it.
'Did he change in those years…?' she thought, but let it pass. Perhaps she was simply feeling a flicker of jealousy, watching the young herald receive such attention from her lord.
She stepped inside. "My lord, shall we depart now?" she said, entering the room.
Aron checked the time. "....How long until we reach the Netherlands?"
"Normally, eight to nine hours," she replied.
"hmmm…Too long," Aron said, jaw tightening a bit, as within that time—James might already be clashing, perhaps too deep in Hermes' reach or something else altogether.
"But my jet will make it in three hours at most," she added with a faint smile.
"Oh, you clever little thing," Aron said, shaking his head slightly. "Good. Where is Theo? We leave after I speak with him."
"The apostle? He's downstairs—healed, but cuffed," she answered.
"Prepare the chopper then. I'll return shortly," Aron said, moving toward the door.
"But my lord, he's an apost—" she began.
"I'll return… shortly," Aron cut in firmly.
Khorn could only nod. She didn't understand what had changed, but something definitely had during the years he was gone.
She turned to Peter, who was smiling broadly.
"What are you so happy about?" she asked.
"Nothing, just…"
"Just what?" she pressed.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
Peter's phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket—the name "Uriel" glowing clearly on the screen. He knew instantly why she was calling. He moved quickly toward the door. "It's for the lord," he said.
Khorn's hand shot out, seizing his wrist instantly.
"What… are you doing?"
Before he could react, she had taken the phone. "Peter…You are not one of them anymore. You are one of US," she said, crushing the device into fragments. "Remember that, Peter."
A distant chime echoed faintly in the air—like fractured bells—as if something angelic had felt the break.
He swallowed hard, feeling the ache in his wrist. "Understood. But could you let go, please?"
Khorn released him. Red marks lingered on his skin, as though his arm had been briefly squeezed in a vice. Peter rubbed it, realizing—belatedly—just how deeply Uriel and Khorn despised each other.
"Why do you hate her so much? She's literally an angel," he asked.
"You don't know her like I do," Khorn replied. She waved a hand; the marks on Peter's wrist faded swiftly. "She is no angel. I'll tell you that now. She only looks like one—nothing more, nothing less."
She walked to the balcony, signaling her men to ready the chopper.
"I know you don't believe me," she added, "but you will see."
Aron returned just then, expression hidden—he had given Theo a mission. Something that made the unpredictable somewhat predictable. "What were you discussing? Is the chopper ready?" he asked, glancing at Peter.
Khorn pressed a finger to her lips, silently warning him not to speak.
"Nothing important, my lord," Peter said quickly, shifting the subject. "Oh—yes, what did you discuss with Theo?"
Aron smiled, reading the intent. "Nothing critical. Let's go. We're short on time."
Peter nodded, shouldering his bag. Rotor wind whipped across the balcony as Khorn confirmed they were ready.
They boarded the chopper, clothing flapping in the downdraft.
Peter pulled out a photograph—his daughter and ex-wife, both blond with bright blue eyes. For a heartbeat, the image blurred: a flash of blood, screams echoing from memory. 'I think I've made it, sweetie… don't worry. I'll bring you back. I'll bring Mommy back to life… I swear I will,' he thought as he settled into his seat, his doubt much clearer than before.
"To the airport!" Khorn commanded.
The chopper lifted, leaving the tower behind—but Aron's gaze lingered down, down to the city, down to where he had left Theo.
Meanwhile, the person in mind was walking out the elevator, down on the lobby, exiting the building. The flaps of the helicopter from the top above, reaching even him.
"…There they go…" Theo muttered, watching the helicopter slip beyond the skyline of glass and steel. Aron's words still clung to him like smoke.
*Hate. Hate and only hate. Hate them all. Don't let that fire die.*
He had nearly dismissed it earlier, when Aron claimed they shared something. But the truth pressed on him now. Peter wasn't the only one who had watched the Slayer crush that demigod's skull until it was paste.
Peter feared Aron. Theo saw himself reflected in that brutality. A dark thrill spread through him as he recalled Aron pulverizing all three demigods. A smile tugged at his lips. For a moment, his mission felt complete—his lifelong hatred finally appeased. He had thought vengeance impossible; the Olympians had become too powerful. But before absolute strength, they were pathetic.
Yet the Slayer wasn't naive enough to be a pawn. Theo knew it. Aron's parting words made it obvious: this time, *Theo* was the one being used. And strangely… he didn't mind. He would play the role.
His gaze drifted to the charred building, memories of blood rising vivid and warm. He wanted to relive that scene. And he would. With the Slayer at his side, he would drag every Olympian screaming into the abyss.
"I will end you all. Every bloodline," he whispered, yellow eyes flaring.
"…So it was you." A voice he knew slid behind him.
Theo turned. There stood the bastard whose face should've been pulp. "…Yo… you should be dead."
Ron smiled faintly, watching Theo's burning eyes collapse into dread. "No," he said, stepping forward.
Theo stepped back.
"I will not die."
Step.
"Not until I have vengeance," Ron growled.
Step.
"Not until I rip his head from his shoulders!"
Step.
"Not until I make him *SUFFER!*" he roared.
Ron lunged. Bystanders scattered in terror.
"Wh—what do you wan—?" Theo stammered.
Before he finished—
Slap!
Ron's palm cracked across his cheek, sending him crashing to the pavement. Theo blinked, dazed.
Slap!
Again.
Slap!
Ron grabbed a fistful of Theo's yellow hair, hauling him up as he kicked and trembled. "You just crawled out of the herald's den. Doesn't take a genius to know which filthy hand you kissed, traitor!"
"No—no, I didn't! I swear… please, I swear on the gods!" Theo choked, clinging to Ron's wrist. Pain seared through his scalp as strands tore free.
Ron leaned close until their noses brushed. He examined those shaking pupils—the collapse of all courage. "Ah… there it is. Our pet shows its true color."
"Please, master… please. I'm still loyal," Theo begged.
"Yes… you are. And you'll tell me everything," Ron said, divinity crackling along his fist.
"Ye—yes, mas—"
Bang!
One punch and Theo folded, hitting the ground like discarded meat.
. . .
He awoke tasting iron—his own blood. His wrists itched, but nothing moved. His eyes opened slowly, stinging under harsh white light. He tried to shift, but chains bit into his skin, pinning him to a wooden chair.
From the shadows, Ron stepped forward. "Our slave is awake," he sneered.
Theo couldn't respond. His throat burned dry, his stomach cramped with hunger. Time blurred—minutes, hours, days. He didn't know. All he could do was watch.
"ohh...He's alive indeed," another voice rumbled.
Theo's blood froze. Recognizing that voice. Ron and his siblings were monsters, but this one—
'No… not him. Anyone but him…' Theo thought as a broad-shouldered man emerged, dark-haired and blue-eyed. Taller than Ron. Colder, than Ron.
"Thank you, uncle, for com—" Ron began.
The man shoved him aside and approached Theo. "I'm only here because you claimed you faced an immortal and lived. Well, Theo… you still remember me, don't you?" His voice was mechanical, emotionless.
Theo swallowed hard and forced a nod.
The man smiled—white teeth sharp in the light. "hmmm...seeing your reaction...I don't believe you," he said calmly. "So I'll have to remind you… again."
Terror tore through Theo. Memories slammed into him—pain, screaming, drowning. His body quaked violently, the chair creaking under him as his PTSD kicked in.
"If you truly remember me… say my name," the man whispered, leaning close enough that his lips brushed Theo's cheek in a taunting mockery of affection.
Theo's throat scraped raw. His cracked tongue tasted blood. Teeth loosened in his gums. But he had to speak, or the torment would start anew.
"Ju… Julius… son of Poseidon," he rasped.
The man's smile widened, satisfied beyond cruelty. "Good. Now I won't have to try as hard to break you this time.
So, My dear Theo… you're going to tell me everything—every last detail—you know about the one and only..Gooldeeennn immortal.
Is that clear?"
"…Y-yes," Theo whispered.
"Good," Julius whispered back. "Now scream."