Chapter 2: 02. The Monster

If you notice any errors, please feel free to give me constructive feedback. English is not my first language, so if you notice any mistakes, please mention them in the comment section at the end of the chapter. Let's begin the story!

Word Count: 3770 Words

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Calming his ragged breathing, the man slid down the pillar silently, landing lightly on the ground. The stillness of the night pressed upon him, sharp and heavy, as his eyes caught the sight of the garage door slightly ajar. Moving with the careful precision of a predator, he crept toward it, taking care not to alert the intruders. His gaze fell upon one of them—a mugger standing idly by, admiring the sleek beauty of his car, its polished surface gleaming faintly in the dim light.

A surge of anger flared within him, raw and unyielding. Stripping off his shirt, he rolled it tightly into a makeshift gag. Without hesitation, he moved in silence, stalking the man like a shadow. In one swift motion, he draped the fabric over the mugger's head, pulling it tight over his mouth to stifle any cries. His grip was fierce, his intent resolute as he dragged the man backward into the shadows.

The mugger struggled violently, thrashing and kicking, desperate to break free. But the young man, though uncertain of himself, clung to him with grim determination. The memory of loss gnawed at him—the faces of loved ones taken too soon, their presence now shadows that haunted the halls of this house. His heart, heavy with yearning and grief, urged him to hold tighter. Losing his loved ones in the house, their memories and his yearning for them, bringing him back to the house.

As the mugger fought back, his elbow jabbed into the man's ribs, drawing a sharp wince of pain. The young man's hand brushed against something cold and solid—a large screwdriver lying abandoned on the ground. Instinct overrode reason; he seized the tool and, in a reflexive, almost unconscious act, drove it into the mugger's skull.

Born to strict Asian parents, he spent his life, not just mastering his academic skills. He spent his school life, mastering even non academic skills. From participating in the extra curricular activities such as music. From playing piano to guitar, violin and flute.

He had also learnt self defense and various martial arts. He spent his time mastering them.

Drawing upon his Martial Artist self, the hours he used up, practicing and mastering them. He moved.

The struggle ceased.

Releasing his grip, the young man stumbled back, his breath shallow and uneven. His bloodied hands trembled as his wide eyes fixed on the lifeless body before him. Tears streamed down his face, hot and unchecked, as he backed away, his knees nearly giving out. Leaning against the car for support, he gazed at the crimson stains on his hands, the stark proof of how far he had fallen—from a simple college student just days ago to a killer standing in the shadow of his ancestral home.

His trembling gaze drifted downward, settling on the faint gleam of metal. The barrel of the mugger's gun peeked out from beneath the hem of his pants. Its weight seemed to call to him, an offer of power or salvation—or perhaps damnation.

---

Inside the mansion, the remaining four intruders stood in tense silence, their breaths shallow and their eyes fixed on the staircase. The dog lay lifeless at their feet, a grim testament to their violent intrusion. The plan had been simple: eliminate the owner quietly in his sleep. But the dog had ruined everything, forcing them into a prolonged and risky game of cat and mouse.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of the young man. Impatience gnawed at them, and they split into two groups. Two headed upstairs to find and kill him, while the other two descended to the basement, intent on retrieving the hidden loot that had brought them here in the first place.

Upstairs, Mugger B and Mugger C entered separate rooms, moving cautiously through the dimly lit halls. Mugger B scanned each space methodically. The first room was barren, its bed untouched and its windows shut tight. Frustrated, he moved to the next, only to find the same emptiness.

By the time he reached the final room on his side of the corridor, unease had crept into his chest. The silence of the house seemed too loud, the darkness too dense. The bed was made, undisturbed, and the wardrobe stood empty. He sighed, chiding himself for his growing paranoia. The tales from the villagers about this house being haunted felt laughable now. "Were the villagers speaking the truth? Is this Mansion, truly haunted?"

But then he heard it—a faint sound, like the jingle of keys.

His heart pounded as he raised his pistol, scanning the room with wide, fearful eyes. "Is someone there?" he whispered hoarsely, stepping closer to the source of the noise. He tapped the bedframe cautiously, then bent down to peer beneath it. Nothing.

Shaking his head, he moved toward the wardrobe, his grip tightening on the gun. Slowly, he opened the door, only to find it as empty as the rest of the room.

Relief flooded him, albeit briefly. He lit a cigarette by the window, exhaling smoke into the cold night air. "There's no such thing as ghosts," he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration. "How did we fall this far? Hunting down some boy for half an hour in an empty house..."

His gaze drifted outside, and his heart froze. Beyond the gates, his companion's body hung impaled on the iron spikes, blood dripping down in steady rivulets. A chill raced down his spine as he felt a warm breath against his neck. Every instinct screamed at him not to turn around, but curiosity betrayed him.

When he turned, he saw a young man clinging to the pipe outside the window. In the next instant, a heavy metal cylinder slammed into his face.

"Smoking is injurious to your health," the young man quipped, his voice calm and cold.

The mugger staggered back, disoriented and bleeding, his gun slipping from his grasp. Before he could recover, the young man climbed through the window and brought the fire extinguisher down on his head with a sickening crunch.

The noise drew the attention of Mugger C, who called out, "What happened? Did you get him?"

The young man, steadying his breath, responded in a hoarse, mocking imitation of the mugger's voice. "It's nothing. Just a box of old junk."

Mugger C frowned, suspicion flaring as he approached the room. The voice sounded wrong, too strained to belong to his companion. Gun raised, he stepped cautiously inside, his eyes sweeping over the room. His breath caught as his gaze landed on the bloodied corpse of his companion sprawled near the window.

Panic seized him. He spun around, scanning the room, his gun trembling in his grip. The wardrobe stood slightly ajar, and he moved toward it with deliberate steps, yanking it open in one swift motion. Nothing.

But the young man was already behind him. Sliding out from under the bed, he lunged at the mugger, wrestling the gun from his grasp. The first shot misfired, striking the floor. Seizing the screwdriver, the young man drove it into the mugger's neck, silencing his screams.

As the body crumpled to the ground, the young man sank to his knees, his bloodstained hands trembling uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps as he leaned against the wall, staring out at the night sky. The stars glimmered faintly, and the moon hung low, casting a crimson glow over in the room.

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "The moon's red... Have I gone mad from all this killing?"

He wiped at the blood spattered across his face, but the stains lingered—on his skin, on his soul. The blood dripping down his face, his vision blurred by all the blood.

---

Hidden in the shadows beneath the staircase, the young man waited, his breath steady and his grip on the stolen gun firm. He knew the last two intruders had descended into the basement, their greedy hearts focused on whatever treasures they sought. He could hear their muffled voices, faint but distinct, as they argued amidst their work.

Mugger D and Mugger E were restless. Their companions were taking far too long to return, and the fifth man—stationed outside as a lookout—seemed unconcerned by the delay.

"Where the hell are they?" Mugger D muttered, frustration lacing his tone. "This isn't a job for just two people. If we want this done before sunrise, we'll need at least two more."

"Fine," Mugger E grumbled, pushing himself to his feet. "I'll go get them. God knows I'm the only one around here doing anything."

Climbing the stairs, his irritation flared into anger. "They get the fun part, probably torturing that kid or something, while I'm stuck doing the grunt work," he muttered under his breath. "What are they doing up there, dissecting his body?"

Reaching the ground floor, he turned to ascend the stairs to the first floor—and froze.

There, in the dim light, stood the young man. His posture was eerily calm, his eyes cold and unwavering. The mugger hesitated, momentarily caught off guard. The confidence he'd placed in his comrades wavered for a fleeting second, but his gun remained tucked away, his arrogance intact.

It was a second too long.

The young man raised his weapon and fired. The bullet hit its mark with brutal precision, tearing through the mugger's face at point-blank range. There was no time to react, no chance for defense. Mugger E crumpled to the floor.

The sound of the shot echoed through the house, alerting Mugger D below. His heart raced as he realized the kid they'd dismissed as insignificant was armed and merciless. Panic overtook him as he retreated deeper into the basement. The young man, exhausted but resolute, shoved the corpse of the freshly killed mugger down the stairs, forcing Mugger D to take cover.

Sighing heavily, the young man muttered to himself, his voice tinged with grim determination, "I know every inch of this house. And you think you can play cat and mouse with me?"

---

In the basement, Mugger D pressed himself against the doorframe, his weapon clutched tightly in his trembling hands. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he listened for the faintest sound of movement. The boy's gunshot still rang in his ears, a haunting reminder of the danger he faced.

He debated his next move, paralyzed by the realization that this wasn't a simple mission anymore. His companions weren't responding, and he refused to believe they'd been bested by a single person. Yet doubt gnawed at him, a silent predator in the corners of his mind.

Sliding down against the wall, he cursed himself and his choices. His wandering gaze fell upon the thick steel door farther down the basement, its edges weathered with time. From beneath the door, an ominous liquid began to seep, pooling onto the floor.

His breath hitched. He looked to the stairs, only to see the same viscous substance flowing down the steps, its source unknown. The metallic scent of blood filled the air.

---

Upstairs, the young man worked with a somber purpose. He dragged the body of the mugger he'd hung on the gate back into the house, setting it near the growing pile of corpses. Then, gently, he picked up the body of his beloved dog, its lifeless form cradled in his arms.

Lighting a fire in the center of the house, he locked the doors. The flames roared to life, casting flickering shadows across the walls. Outside, he straddled a motorcycle he'd retrieved from the garage, its engine purring beneath him.

As he waited, his gaze remained fixed on the house. He saw the last mugger panic, running toward a window in desperation. The young man raised his gun, his aim steady. When the man reached the window, he pulled the trigger. The fire inside illuminated his expression of shock as he fell, silenced forever.

"The houses had claimed its fair share of my loved ones. I am not even sure of why I came here now."

---

In the backyard, beneath the faint glow of the moon, the young man dug a grave for his dog. The shovel bit into the earth with each deliberate motion, the act as cathartic as it was heartbreaking.

As he buried the loyal companion who had sacrificed everything, his thoughts drifted. Somewhere along the chaos of the night, he'd lost his phone. He couldn't even call for help, not that he believed any would come.

Shouldering his grief, he stepped into the woods behind the house, letting the darkness swallow him whole. The trees stood tall and silent, their branches casting eerie patterns on the forest floor. He wandered aimlessly, the weight of the night pressing heavily on his shoulders.

Hours passed, the stillness of the forest broken only by the faint rustle of leaves. When the first rays of sunlight pierced through the canopy, the young man stumbled upon a road. The air felt lighter, though the shadows still lingered.

His relief was short-lived.

A horn blared to his right, startling him. He turned his head, only to be blinded by the glaring headlights of a speeding truck.

There was no time to react.

The collision was swift and merciless. His body was flung through the air, bones shattering and organs crushed as he hit the ground with a sickening thud. Darkness enveloped him, but in those final moments, a strange calm washed over him.

"I miss you, Star Eater Void Lord," he whispered, a faint smile ghosting his lips as his legs gave way beneath him.

And then there was silence.

---

Unknown Location

Year: Unknown

The young man, struck by the truck, found himself engulfed in agony, the worst he had ever experienced. Each breath was a battle, his chest heaving in defiance of his failing body. His eyes refused to open, yet faint, fragmented sounds pierced through the haze of his pain, drawing him back to the edge of consciousness. Summoning all his will, he forced them open.

What he saw was surreal—a chaotic battlefield drenched in blood. He lay amidst a pool of crimson, the lifeless bodies of countless people surrounding him. Carriages lay overturned, their shattered frames like skeletal remains. Before him, a pup lay still, its small form pierced by a gruesome, gaping wound on its right flank.

A violent clash raged nearby, the air heavy with tension. His disoriented gaze struggled to make sense of the scene, but one truth was unmistakable: this was not the world he had known. His fractured memories whispered the impossible—he had reincarnated.

The pain was real, making it silent contrast, drawing upon the realisation of this being his new reality and not a dream.

Still groggy, he stared at his small hands, so different from those of his past life. Slowly, he reached up to his head, feeling for the shape of his skull. His fingers froze as they traced an absence—a vast, horrifying void where a portion of his right brain should have been.

He staggered to his feet, his trembling legs barely able to hold him. His disbelieving eyes fixed on the battle unfolding before him. Figures wielding magic fought desperately against a colossal, grotesque monster. Their powers clashed, explosions of light and shadow carving through the night.

The young man's gaze shifted to the lifeless pup, its stance protective even in death. His heart clenched. It had fought to shield him, to the very end. A wave of grief and anger coursed through him, his hands balling into fists.

The overturned carriages and scattered bodies painted a harrowing picture. His own attire, rich and ornate, marked him as someone of status, unlike the simpler garb of those strewn around him. The elegance of his clothing mocked the grim reality of his surroundings.

Above, the stars glimmered in a mesmerizing array, their light defying the chaos below. But when his gaze locked onto the crimson glow of the red moon, his thoughts froze. A strange clarity cut through the fog of his mind, and his trembling fingers moved to wipe the blood from his face, smearing it around his eyes.

Hoping for it to not be Crimson.

Desperately, he willed this to be a nightmare, but a sudden, blinding headache assaulted him. Clutching his head, he screamed, his voice echoing through the night. The crimson moon seemed to pulse in response, casting its ominous glow over his battered form.

Through labored breaths, he muttered, "The Evernight Goddess?" The name escaped his lips instinctively, as though his soul recognized it even if his mind did not.

Fragments of foreign memories began to surface, merging with his own. He clung to them, piecing together an identity that was not his. 'I am Williams Moriarty,' the memories whispered. 'A young Son of an Earl from the countryside. My family oversees vast farmlands and is devout to the Church of the Evernight Goddess.'

But the haze of his predicament offered no answers as to how he had ended up here. A grim realization dawned on him—he had been thrown into the world of' Lord of the Mysteries'. The weight of the universe's dark lore bore down on him.

"Why am I being punished?" he rasped, the question a futile cry against the uncaring fate. His breathing grew shallow, his chest tightening as despair threatened to consume him.

He raised his eyes to the red moon, its baleful light filling him with dread. His cursed knowledge of this world sharpened, details emerging with unnerving precision. Memories he had wished he had left buried in his past life now surged to the surface, mocking him for their irrelevance then and their terrifying relevance now.

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The monster fell.

The Beyonders who had fought it surveyed the battlefield, their gazes falling upon the boy. He stood motionless, the eerie crimson light of the moon framing his silhouette.

At first glance, he seemed ordinary—a teenage boy, silent and still. But as they drew closer, the ghastly reality became clear. Half of his skull was missing, yet he remained upright, staring at the red moon with a vacant intensity.

Fear gripped their hearts. A boy who should not be alive, who should not be standing—this was no ordinary sight. They moved to attack, their instincts screaming that he was a threat.

Before they could strike, the boy let out a bloodcurdling scream, his voice reverberating through the silent forest. Clutching his head, he collapsed to the ground.

His skin began to peel away in strips, exposing countless, unnatural eyes that opened across his body. The Beyonders froze, their courage draining as those otherworldly eyes met theirs.

Seeing their fear, the boy fought to reclaim a shred of sanity. He could feel, his belly swell a bit, clashing against the miracle healing that came with his transmigration. His mind, fractured but determined, pieced together a plan. He drew upon his memories of both lives, speaking in a voice rough but commanding.

"The serene crimson moon," he began, his words halting yet deliberate, "is the key to the cosmos. Protected by the Seven Orthodox Churches, it holds the secrets of divinity. Gaze into the abyss beyond the ever-expanding space, and there lies the throne of the Greater Gods."

The Beyonders hesitated, their steps faltering as the corruption began to seep into their beings. The boy's voice cut through their panic, delivering words as much a curse as a revelation.

He didn't need them to travel to the moon, similar to Roselle. All Beyonders were infectious to the knowledge of the Cosmos, all need was make them aware of the Cosmos.

"Gaze too deeply, and the abyss gazes back. The cosmos is the haven for the Gods and for Beyonders to comprehend."

His body trembled violently, his stomach swelling unnaturally as the corruption of the Outer Gods warred with the miraculous regeneration granted by his transmigration. His head throbbed, yet his memories persisted.

The Beyonders succumbed one by one, their minds unraveling under the weight of the forbidden knowledge. Their screams filled the night, a symphony of madness. The boy watched, his breathing ragged.

'Being a Beyonder, they were infectious to the corruption of the Cosmos. Just knowing the existence of it, spilled their doom.'

Sighing at his fate, he muttered. 'It's my fortune that there weren't any Angels among them.'

Dragging himself across the blood-soaked ground, his gaze fell on a peculiar item—an ornate box lying near a fallen Beyonder. Inside, a small die gleamed faintly in the moonlight.

His memory jolted—this was the Uniqueness of the Wheel of Fortune pathway. It was a gamble, but so was his life. Desperation clawed at him as he swallowed the die.

Clearly amused at himself and to what his life had come to, he mused, 'When life gives you lemons, drink lemonade.'

Coughing up blood, he witnessed the healing of head and other body. Now, waiting for the fallout after consuming the Uniqueness of the Wheel of Fortune.

To him it was a chance, if he was destined to die. He wished to fight till his last breath and avenge his death.

Pain exploded within him, his body convulsing as the die's power took hold. His skull began to regenerate, cells multiplying at a furious pace. Yet the corruption surged, threatening to overwhelm him entirely.

A haze taking over his mind, his consciousness fading. When he experienced excruciating pain. In a final act of defiance, he plunged his hand into the chest of a dead Beyonder, extracting the glowing Beyonder Characteristics. His fading consciousness hoped it was of the Monster Pathway. Hoping for it, to mend the effects of consuming the whatever it was that he had consumed.

As darkness claimed him, his body moved on its own, consuming every Beyonder Characteristic nearby. His consciousness lost in the endless sea of Will of the Cosmos. It dragged itself into the forest, its form transforming, adapting, and regenerating. Torn clothes fluttered in the night breeze, leaving behind only a trail of blood and whispers of a boy who refused to die.

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**The End**

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