Becoming the God of the Void — Chapter: The Killer and the Shadow

  The dagger was already raised for the strike.

  Time itself seemed to stop.

  The sharp steel gleamed faintly under the moonlight, reflecting in Hiro’s pupils.

  In the next moment, the blade lunged downward—but its motion was suddenly halted by another hand clad in a black glove.

  It was Hiro.

  Without a word, he gripped the assassin’s wrist and, with a single motion, yanked her out of the room.

  The girl was thrown onto the balcony, then off the third floor, landing on the brick square below.

  She slid across the ground, her dagger scraping against the stone to slow her fall.

  Hiro stepped to the balcony’s edge and leapt down with ease, landing on his feet.

  The girl stood several meters away, clearly enraged.

  “Another man standing in my way,” she hissed, straightening herself.

  “No matter. I am Akira, the great killer. Killing you will be no trouble!”

  Hiro scoffed, his gaze cold as ice.

  His eyes glowed faintly pink, his expression sharp and focused.

  “That title suits me better,” he said quietly.

  Akira burst forward.

  In an instant, the dagger was already aimed at his head.

  But Hiro didn’t even blink.

  Time flowed differently for him.

  He caught her wrist, dodged, and drove his elbow down, shattering her arm.

  A crack echoed through the square.

  Before she could scream, he struck her abdomen with his knee.

  The air escaped her lungs with a gasp as her body was thrown aside.

  She trembled but forced herself back up, eyes darting wildly.

  Hiro stood still, as if merely observing another training session.

  “Where… is your weakness!?” she spat.

  He didn’t answer.

  Instead, he lifted her dagger—and crushed it in his bare hand with a loud snap.

  Akira roared and lunged again, her movements now desperate and fierce.

  Hiro met her head-on, grabbed her left arm, and delivered a flurry of powerful blows to her stomach.

  Each strike echoed across the plaza, and with the final hit, blood burst from her lips.

  He threw her over his shoulder, slamming her into the ground.

  Cracks spread through the brick floor as dust filled the air.

  Rosalyn awoke to the sound of impact.

  Her heart raced, breath unsteady.

  She jumped out of bed and ran to the window—only to see Hiro standing amidst the dust, and a bloodied girl sprawled on the shattered bricks below.

  “Oh no…” she whispered, rushing downstairs.

  Meanwhile, Akira coughed blood, yet a mad spark lit up her eyes.

  “I’ll have to… use it…” she rasped, touching her shoulder.

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  Light-green lightning danced across her body.

  Her broken arm straightened, her muscles hardened, and a crooked grin twisted her lips.

  “Now then… let’s see!”

  Hiro silently watched, analyzing the change.

  At that moment, Rosalyn burst onto the square.

  “Hiro!” she called.

  He turned toward her voice—and immediately realized his mistake.

  In a flash, Akira appeared behind Rosalyn, a new dagger glowing with green energy in her hand.

  She lunged—but her arm froze mid-strike, as if hitting an invisible wall.

  “What the hell—!?” she yelled.

  Hiro stood a few meters away, his arm extended.

  The air around his hand shimmered, mana waves distorting the space.

  Rosalyn turned, saw the paralyzed assassin, and darted aside.

  The next instant, Hiro vanished.

  When he reappeared, he was beside Akira—pink lightning flickering across his body, reflecting in her eyes.

  He struck.

  The force of the blow sent Akira flying a kilometer away.

  She soared across the street, trailing light-green sparks, and crashed through the wall of a fighting arena, vanishing into a cloud of dust and debris.

  Hiro glanced toward the direction she had flown—then disappeared, leaving behind a trail of pink lightning.

  Rosalyn stood afar, clutching her chest.

  Akira had crashed through the arena wall, breaking it clean through.

  Sand rose around her, but she quickly stood up, slapping her cheeks.

  “Get it together…” she muttered.

  Her body glowed lime-green again, lightning racing along her skin.

  She drew two daggers from her belt, taking a combat stance.

  Hiro appeared inside the arena.

  Slowly, steadily, he walked toward her—his eyes glowing fluorescent pink, arcs of energy crackling over his form.

  Akira attacked in a blur—but Hiro was already behind her.

  Before she could turn, his hand grabbed her head and slammed it into the ground.

  Sand exploded outward, the entire arena trembling from the impact.

  With a snarl, she vanished again, reappearing behind him like a flash of lightning.

  Her dagger came down—but Hiro turned, taking the strike with his abdomen.

  The blade shattered on contact.

  Akira’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “What the—” she thought, before she could even react.

  Hiro seized her head again, dragging her across the ground before flinging her forward.

  She barely managed a counter-thrust aimed at his face—but he dodged easily.

  The blow missed.

  Time slowed for him.

  He caught her arm, spun her around, and leapt, slamming her into the ground with such force that the floor split apart and sand erupted into the air.

  She couldn’t follow the next attack.

  An uppercut sent her body flying, and before gravity could reclaim her, Hiro appeared above and drove her down once more.

  The arena cracked, the stands trembled, chunks of sandstone flying into the air.

  Her glow faded.

  The lightning vanished.

  Akira lay unconscious—bones shattered, internal bleeding—but alive.

  Hiro stood beside her.

  Suddenly, small orbs of light floated into the air, illuminating the arena.

  His eyes no longer glowed—they only shone in the dark.

  Rosalyn entered, her spell wrapping Akira in soft healing light.

  “She’s alive,” Hiro said. “This was an assassination attempt.”

  Rosalyn struggled to process his words.

  “I–I…”

  “Take her to the capital,” Hiro continued. “The king must be informed. Then get some rest. There’s no one else around.”

  Rosalyn nodded silently.

  Hiro turned and walked back toward the dormitory.

  He lay down on his bed, closing his eyes.

  A faint image crossed his mind—the embroidery hoop he had dropped in Rosalyn’s room.

  He opened his eyes again; now even the whites glowed pink.

  He looked toward the women’s dormitory.

  Through the flow of mana, he could see everything—how the girls slept, how the servants moved on the third floor, how Rosalyn sat on her bed, lost in thought.

  From that night onward, Hiro became more vigilant.

  ---

  A translucent silhouette of a boy—around seven years old—floated above the meadows.

  Barefoot, dressed in a worn gray shirt and short pants, shackles dangled from his wrists—the chains broken, as if he had torn himself from the depths of darkness.

  His eyes were black voids reflecting the empty sky above.

  He was the God of the Void, one of Hiro’s four subconscious selves.

  He drifted slowly, as though even the wind struggled to carry him.

  His gaze fell upon the world he once thought was alive.

  > “How many years have I wandered this land…”

  “I’ve seen many things, but never found what I seek—the Book of the World.”

  He descended among the cracked rocks and ancient ruins.

  He peered into caves, temples, and shrines long forgotten—where faith itself had rotted away.

  Everywhere, only silence.

  > “The one in the Temple of Oblivion is just a copy. The real one is lost… or hidden.”

  “There was once a sage, granted wisdom by Alpha herself. Of course, he wrote everything in a book—and hid it. Then the Warrior of Light, sent by the Creator, killed him.”

  “And so, I search for the shadow of the one who knew the meaning of all things.”

  He stopped.

  Before him stood an old signpost, swallowed by moss and time.

  Words shimmered faintly upon it, as if written by the void itself:

  > “Forget your name. Forget your purpose.

  Here you shall gain nothing—but lose everything.”

  The God of the Void smirked.

  “Charming,” he murmured.

  He stepped forward.

  Fog thickened with every step, growing viscous, almost alive.

  Soon, he couldn’t even see his own hands.

  “I’m practically a ghost,” he said, snapping his fingers. “The elements of this world don’t affect me.”

  The mist obediently parted.

  Ahead, carved into an ancient tree, glowed a mark—a symbol of a book containing a globe.

  His eyes widened.

  He exhaled, “The Phantom Forest… Of course. If the old man wanted to hide it—this is where he’d do it.”

  He sank through the ground—silently, smoothly.

  Darkness gave way to a dimly lit chamber.

  Torches burned on the walls, flames eternal and magical.

  In the center stood a stone pedestal.

  Upon it rested a book beneath a transparent dome, reflecting the faint light around it.

  The God of the Void approached.

  He reached out—

  The book glowed softly, copying itself into a phantom form, like everything he touched.

  He opened it.

  “Finally…” he whispered—and at that instant, reality shifted.

  Everything turned white.

  No floor, no walls—only endless brightness, like clouds.

  A whisper filled the silence, as though the world itself breathed down his neck.

  He closed his eyes wearily, as if he had seen this place countless times before.

  “And here I am again… summoned once more.”

  He lifted his gaze, voice turning cold.

  “Who dares?”

  Behind him, a gentle female voice spoke:

  “Well? Did you finally find it?”

  He turned slowly.

  Before him stood a girl made entirely of white.

  Her hair, her dress, even her eyes—pure, colorless, untouched by shadow.

  She was light incarnate, stripped of life.

  Her tone was flat, emotionless.

  “I’m glad to see you again, God of the Void.”

  The boy’s face twisted with irritation.

  He narrowed his eyes, uttering her name with slow, venomous disdain:

  “Alpha…”