For what purpose did He cast me into this world?

  Even in my past life, I was already left with nothing, stripped bare until there was nothing left to take. What could someone like me possibly offer Him?

  Beneath the starry night, the gnarled and twisted trees of the forest cast terrifying shadows upon the ground. The place was teeming with slippery moss, as if sunlight had never penetrated its depths. The mountain wind howled through the woodland, rustling leaves that seemed to whisper to her. Yet, even stranger sounds grew in her ears—sounds that did not seem to come from the distant lake or the mountains, but rather from deep within herself.

  She could not understand their meaning, or the emotions they sought to convey. They were like countless murmurs intertwined in a chorus, growing increasingly mesmerizing.

  I have seen such a starry night before—back in my childhood village when the wheat in the fields was ready for harvest. Every child had to gather the stalks the harvester left behind before the rain came. I kept at it until nightfall and finally rested atop a stack of bundled hay. The night that day was just like tonight’s...

  That wasn’t me.

  The air was damp, reminding me of my hike up Montevideo. Truthfully, the slope wasn’t bad, but the famous cloud forest terrain made it treacherous—exposed tree roots covered in moss as thick as pizza cheese littered the ground. Without spiked hiking boots, I would have surely suffered.

  Who’s speaking…?

  Forests… I hate forests. As a child, I grew up in a village right next to a forest. The lord who ruled it was brutal and savage, never appearing in our village except to demand things. To persuade him not to raise the land rent, the village offered him a young maiden as a servant every year. But once they entered the castle, no one ever saw them again. Eventually, my brother and I realized—those women had all been killed and buried in the forest…

  Silence!

  Edwin heard footsteps—shuffling, slow—approaching his way. Though the forest path was rough, it wasn’t so difficult as to warrant such labored movement. A dull thud echoed now and then, as if the person had collided hard with a tree trunk before struggling back up and trudging onward.

  A villager? Or just a passing traveler?

  Edwin calmly turned the spit over the campfire, the smoked sausages and bread releasing the scorched aroma of grain and meat. He had planned to eat his long-overdue dinner and ride to town immediately afterward.

  As the footsteps drew nearer, the bizarre voices in Yvette’s mind shattered her reason. She covered her face, panting heavily. The scent of smoke and roasted food filled her throat and nostrils, awakening a deep-seated hunger in her soul.

  Earlier, she had eaten a farmer’s meal—rich in fat and dairy—so much so that her stomach now felt uncomfortably full from the portion meant for a man. Yet she still had an invisible hunger to satisfy. The smell in the air was unmistakably familiar, reminding her of a certain past feast.

  Sweat was the residue of metabolism in the blood. In this forest, there was a man whose blood smelled recognizable—she had tasted someone similar before.

  Pushing through a thicket, Yvette spotted a man fiddling with the fire before his tent. The flickering flames illuminated his familiar features, and his vivid hair burned into her eyes.

  Could it be… him?

  Her heart pounded. Saliva pooled unnaturally in her mouth.

  When Yvette appeared, Edwin’s gaze locked onto the uninvited stranger. Her clothes resembled those of an ordinary university student, but when he noticed the shadows behind her, his eyes narrowed.

  Slender, crimson tendrils floated behind her, and they seemed to worsen by the second. A commoner possessed by a monster? Or a superhuman whose rationality had collapsed?

  The Doomsday Clock sought truth and ascension. After rising from the slumbering abyss to witness the unfathomable darkness that even the stars trembled before, any superhuman would feel powerless. But those of the Doomsday Clock saw even more—they realized that the virtues, wealth, and knowledge society cherished were worthless. The world and life itself had no purpose or comprehensible truth.

  Rejecting all values and dismissing the ignorant masses as beneath them, their actions were unbound by mortal morality. All members of the Doomsday Clock were steeped in nihilism, displaying antinomian and antisocial tendencies, eagerly employing immoral means to achieve their goals.

  When faced with a superhuman teetering on the edge of madness, if his survival offered no benefit, the Doomsday Clock would hasten his corruption—even without conflict—simply because a fully warped superhuman would descend into an aberration. And aberrations were invaluable materials for ascension research—even their corpses could be fashioned into mystical artifacts.

  Pity, mercy, and justice were mere placebos for the weak. To Edwin, the world itself was a rotten sham, its morality indefensible. Why else could the lord of his hometown brutalize commoners with impunity, while a peasant who stole a spoon would hang?

  When he first met the Kindly Father, he still recalled the teachings of his late scholarly father—to worship the Holy Spirit, never lie, steal, or kill. Even after being stripped of everything and condemned to serfdom for publishing forbidden texts, that feeble man clung to his beliefs until death.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  The Kindly Father then took him to a remote circus filled with scarred, malnourished beasts—obedient and docile, performing ridiculous tricks under the ringmaster’s whip.

  "They were trained from cubs. Hunters killed their parents and sold them here to entertain their enemies under the lash. At first, they resisted—biting, clawing—but their milk teeth and tiny claws posed no threat. Slowly, they learned the whip’s meaning. Years later, even with grown strength, their minds remained shackled by childhood fear, never daring to escape."

  "You are like them. Humans have been lashed by invisible whips until most forget their noble spirit, mistaking rules and glittering wealth for their true selves. They internalize their chains and become the chains themselves—a flawless system, trapping and assimilating its victims. So perfect that few ever see the truth."

  Edwin remembered the animals’ dull, lifeless eyes—bodies alive but devoid of wild vitality. They were just like him—lost, with nowhere to turn.

  "Want freedom?" the Kindly Father asked as Edwin clutched his sleeve.

  "Can I?"

  "If you choose it."

  A faint light flickered in the Kindly Father’s eyes. Onstage, the lion—coerced into leaping through fiery hoops—paused. Its golden pupils burned with unnatural hunger.

  The oblivious ringmaster cursed, brandishing a gaudy, flimsy whip—useless against a grown lion. Then—gasps, screams—the crowd surged up, blocking Edwin’s view. But before they did, he saw the lion rear and rip the man’s head off.

  A gruesome tragedy, yet for Edwin, it was as if a locked door burst open inside him. The lion had defied its oppressor, just as he had once unleashed his awakened powers against the lord who tormented him, shredding his enemy before the vengeful ghosts of slain maidens.

  His heart swelled—not just for the lion, but for himself.

  If I wish it, I can be free. No authority, law, or morality can rule me.

  Since then, he obeyed the Kindly Father’s will. The Church preached that virtue tamed the beast within—a lie. Once the world’s falseness was laid bare, laws and doctrines were but obstacles. Edwin and his brethren retained humanity—but only for their own. The rest were mere livestock.

  So when he spotted this deranged superhuman, his first thought was exploitation. As he turned the spit, he weighed his options, hesitating.

  The stranger’s shifting gaze suggested she was unaware of her corruption.

  That hesitation wasn’t from compassion—he was on critical business and wanted no complications. Perhaps he could let her leave...

  But if she discovered the tendrils later, she’d recall their encounter and return to silence him. After sending his telegram, he’d linger nearby—risking his plans.

  Killing her first seemed the only way.

  "You seem unwell—are you all right?" Edwin asked, breaking the silence.

  Yvette bit her lip, not uttering a word. Yet his kindness kindled the last embers of humanity within her.

  His blood carried a scent—familiar, almost comforting. Was he kin to the red-haired man? If so, surely he was different. Lord Spindle and the Duke of Lancaster shared no resemblance, after all. Perhaps he wasn’t a villain, showing concern for a stranger…

  No, I must leave.

  "I’m a botanist," Edwin said casually, gesturing to the woods. "Camping to collect fern specimens. The wind’s fierce tonight—you’re in no state to travel. Would you care for Turkish coffee?"

  He didn’t wait for an answer. Producing a small copper pot, he added grounds, sugar, and water before shaking it over the fire.

  Unlike the European method of filtering, this brew started cold, requiring patience. Edwin pretended to focus on the pot but watched Yvette’s reflection in the coffee tin’s lid.

  Her shadow moved. A glint of metal—a gun—drawn from beneath her coat.

  So much for the easy way, Edwin mused grimly.

  Poison was timeless. Some things eluded honest effort but yielded to guile. Even Doomsday Clock agents had fallen victim to a doctored drink while chasing myths.

  One case came to mind: an agent infiltrating a textile mill, hunting a Dionysian cult. The factory women—Maenads in disguise—had invited him to dinner. One sip of tea later, he was their feast’s main course.

  Edwin had pieced it together after inheriting the case. After documenting their rituals, he’d lured a special investigator into their den, letting him vanish too. The subsequent disappearances attracted Albion’s occult enforcers, who purged the Maenads and staged their end as an industrial accident.

  Old tricks worked best. Supernatural gifts didn’t make one invulnerable—flesh was flesh. Edwin merely hadn’t expected Yvette’s quick trigger finger.

  Let’s hope the shot doesn’t draw the village...

  Stirring the coffee, he waited for the shadow in the tin lid to aim.

  ——

  Chaos reigned in the house—residents sprinted, shrieked, knelt in fervent prayer.

  "I feel her! My spirit burns with hers! Cradled in her radiance, blessed with joy! O flawless grace! Her kingdom is my rest!"

  "Living Waters, Pure Baptizer, Chosen Messiah—I offer my flesh to your feast, my past as repentance!"

  The intangible gate had opened. The Messiah’s will touched each soul, overwhelming them with divine mercy.

  She had raised them from filth, gifted them clarity. Now she sought more lost lambs—how could they not rejoice?

  Their minds were warped, consumed by a singular hunger: to bring more sacrifices into the fold.

  "Brother..." Ledbetter whispered. Though the master faced his last kin, his soul thirsted.

  Too long since blood watered the earth—his brother’s would do. No—especially his brother’s! The fool couldn’t see paradise was here!

  Pain would fade. The master’s will was absolute. She’d given him, the unworthy, gifts. Surely she’d extend that grace.

  "Ledbetter," crooned Miss Moore, the maid. Honeyed words, yet her hidden limbs slithered free, gripping his shoulders. Her hunger mirrored his.

  This... is true kinship. Souls melded, transcending blood.

  He yearned for his brother to know this ecstasy.

  "I’ll show him," he vowed.

  ——

  Yvette’s gun trembled in her grip. Restraint held her back—then a voice echoed in her skull.

  *"Exalted One, do not act rashly. I know his power. The false god gifted him stolen abilities—stolen, as mine were. He carries one now, though I know not which.

  Two pints of blood become his effigy—a second life. Kill him, and the effigy dies first, cursing you: your power weakens for days; you’ll feel his blood loss.

  He twists supernatural gifts nearby—but blindly, like a child smashing a puzzle. If you exploit this, his mind will touch yours. Arrogant as he is, he cannot withstand you.

  Deliver him from ignorance. I beg you."*

  Who—?

  Normally, she’d assume delirium. Now, the voice was as unquestionable as a chair’s existence.

  Firing meant losing an ability. If her bullet killed the effigy, she’d be crippled for the fight ahead.

  She holstered the gun.

  Edwin’s power thrived on counterattacks. Without provocation, he was limited. His current stolen gift—mental suggestion—had failed on her unraveling mind.

  He’d rather avoid bloodshed. Losing his effigy now would be inconvenient, especially with other threats in the village. Poison was preferable.

  Yvette’s hesitation suited him.