The silence, again.
After the thunderous energy of the council hall – all those watching eyes, those whispered prayers, that suffocating expectation, the secluded chamber felt like stepping into another world entirely.
Stone walls rose around him, swallowing sound, casting shadows that seemed animate.
This was sanctuary, where he could finally shed the performance, if only for a moment, and face the cold reality of what he'd become.
He stood alone, the System screen hovering before him.
[Infernal Sovereign Protocol – Online]
Host: Liam Cross
Essence: 4,210
Evolution Points: 22
Stage: 3-Star Greater Fiend (1,300 TE required for 4-Star Ascension)
True Essence: 200
Dominion: 0.8%
Infamy: Feared Tier
Status: False Sovereign (Ascending)
Belief Network: Stable
A slow, bone-weary sigh escaped his lips.
One thousand, three hundred True Essence. The number sat in his mind like a boulder he couldn't quite shift.
The massive surge of belief from the Nine Houses had hit him like a freight train, catapulting him into the 3-Star rank in one explosive leap.
He'd felt it instantly—that tidal wave of raw power crashing through him, solidifying in his core, making everything sharper.
Colors brighter, sounds clearer.
His own heartbeat louder.
The world had snapped into a kind of hyper-focus he'd never experienced before, even with all the supernatural changes he'd undergone.
But the euphoria had been short-lived.
Converting the massive Essence haul from the council had given him a strong foundation, sure, but looking at what came next? It was like standing at the base of Everest with a pair of sneakers and some granola bars.
"It's going to take a while," he murmured to the empty room.
The words fell flat, swallowed by stone and shadow, leaving him alone with the weight of them.
He shook his head, forcing himself to push the daunting number aside.
Standing here worrying about the mountain wouldn't help him climb it. He needed to focus on what he could control.
Right now, that meant getting better tools for the inevitable shitstorm heading his way.
His gaze shifted to the list of Unlockable Skills, and a wry smile tugged his lips. He'd already burned through 7 of his previous Evolution Points to unlock Hell's Summon just before the council meeting—a desperate gamble that had paid off in spectacular, reality-rending fashion.
The looks on Veridia's face alone had been worth the investment.
Now, the new options glowing before him were all combat-related.
The universe – or the System, or whatever cosmic game-master was pulling the strings – had a hell of a sense of timing.
---
Unlockable Combat/Magic Skills:
1. Abyssal Plate (Unevolved)
Manifest armor of solidified shadow and hellforged energy. Durability and passive effects scale with evolution.
Unlock Cost: 8 EVP
2. Blink (Unevolved)
A momentary phasing through the spaces between. Allows for short, instantaneous repositioning.
Unlock Cost: 10 EVP
3. Soul-Drinker (Passive - Unevolved)
A portion of damage dealt to living foes is converted into Essence and minor health regeneration.
Unlock Cost: 12 EVP
4. Oblivion's Gaze (Unevolved)
Channel a concentrated beam of null-energy from your eyes that disintegrates matter and unravels lesser magic.
Unlock Cost: 15 EVP
---
Liam studied the options with the intensity of a chess player three moves from checkmate.
Each skill had its promises—power, survival, dominance. Abyssal Plate was tempting as hell.
Nothing said "immortal demon god" quite like armor that materialized from literal darkness and survival was paramount when you had an entire kingdom's worth of zealous paladins looking to introduce your face to their blessed steel.
And Oblivion's Gaze? That was pure, concentrated nightmare fuel.
Eye beams that disintegrated matter and unwrote magic itself. The theatrical part of his brain—the part that had kept him alive this long—practically salivated at the image.
But both were expensive. Too expensive.
His eyes kept drifting back to Blink. In a battle against holy warriors and siege engines, mobility could mean the difference between walking away and becoming a dead god.
It was the difference between a spectacular performance and a short, bloody finale that ended with his head on a pike.
And Soul-Drinker... he lingered on that one.
A passive ability that would let him fuel his own power in combat, turning every enemy into a walking battery.
It was sustainable. Self-perpetuating. Smart. It was exactly what a cunning, eternal demon god would do—feed on the very forces arrayed against him, growing stronger with every blow he dealt.
The actor in him appreciated the poetry of it. The survivor in him appreciated the practicality.
"Blink and Soul-Drinker," he said quietly into the darkness, his voice carrying the decision.
[10 EVP Spent!]
[Skill Unlocked: Blink (Unevolved).]
[12 EVP Spent!]
[Skill Unlocked: Soul-Drinker (Passive - Unevolved).]
[Evolution Points Remaining: 0]
The knowledge hit him instantly.
Blink wasn't movement—it was something stranger, more fundamental.
The information flooding his mind taught him how to fold space itself, to step through a dimension of pure nothingness that existed in the gaps between here and there.
It promised vertigo, disorientation, a sensation that defied every natural instinct the human mind possessed.
Soul-Drinker was darker, more intimate.
He understood it on a visceral level that made his stomach twist. It was the sensation of a phantom hook settling deep in his core, ready to cast out and tear loose the life force of those he harmed, feeding it back to him in an endless cycle of violence and renewal.
He had to test them. The need was immediate, almost compulsive.
Focusing on Blink, he fixed his gaze on a point across the chamber—maybe ten feet away, near where the shadows pooled thickest.
He willed himself to be there, to simply exist in that space without crossing the distance between.
The world flickered.
There was no sensation of movement, no rush of air, no feeling of his feet leaving the ground.
Just a sudden, gut-lurching discontinuity that made his brain scream in protest. One moment he stood by the table, the next he was across the room, his body reassembling from nothing with a soft thump of displaced air.
A wave of dizziness crashed over him, his new Magic Core pulsing with the exertion, and he had to catch himself against the wall to keep from stumbling.
[- 400 Essence]
Of course, the use consumption was abysmal.
The ability however was jarring. Unnatural. Wrong in ways his human instincts couldn't quite process.
And utterly, absolutely incredible.
A slow grin spread across his face, genuine and fierce.
Then he turned his attention to Soul-Drinker.
He raised his hand toward the stone wall, and a wisp of Hell's Flame—no larger than a candle's flame—ignited on his palm.
The dark fire danced, he pushed it forward, letting it kiss the surface of the ancient stone.
A small patch of the wall blackened and cracked under the otherworldly heat.
And he felt it.
A tiny, almost imperceptible trickle of energy flowing back into him, like a thread of warmth sliding through his veins.
It wasn't Essence from belief or fear—this was something rawer. Life force, siphoned directly from his target, a minuscule return on the energy he'd expended.
[Soul-Drinker: +1 EP]
It worked.
Liam stood in the center of the chamber, the scent of scorched stone hanging in the air.
He looked down at his hands—these hands that could now step through reality itself, that could drink the life from his enemies—then at the space he'd just crossed without crossing.
The actor was gone from his eyes. In its place was the calculating awe of a man who wasn't just pretending to hold the tools of a god anymore.
He was beginning to wield them and understand them. To become them.
He had the stage. He had the audience hanging on his every word, every gesture. And now, finally, he had the props for a performance that wouldn't just convince them.
It would conquer them.
The battlefield at Ashard was waiting for its new god, and Liam Cross was almost ready to give them a show they'd never forget.