"Oh ho, you noticed. Smart. How about I give you a reward?"
Barry's hand clamped down on the old director's face.
The old man screamed incoherently, so terrified that he lost all control of himself. But as the true mastermind behind everything, he was now completely helpless.
From the very start of the massacre, Barry had sliced through the man's Achilles tendons and wrists, forcing him to watch his followers die one by one—then wait, powerless, for his own end.
"Don't—don't do this! You can't! Michael! Michael, save me!"
"Hee-hee-hee, I'm a great man destined to change the world. This little hardship doesn't scare me. I'm going to kill you!"
"I'm gonna use my move, I'm gonna... I wanna eat happy fried chicken, Mom! I want fried chicken!"
The old director's mind had completely broken. The terror shattered his sanity, leaving him babbling nonsense. A man who once studied madness and evil was now nothing but a madman himself.
"Real or fake, I don't care—you're dead."
Barry's grip tightened. The skull under his fingers might as well have been tofu—five deep dents appeared as blood and brain matter leaked from the holes.
The old director's raving stopped instantly. His head slumped forward, lifeless.
He was dead.
Slash!
A flash of the blade, and his head flew through the air. Arterial blood sprayed across the already crimson walls.
Even though he was just a mortal man who dabbled in dark powers, Barry lived by one firm rule—leave no loose ends. So he stomped down hard, crushing what was left of the head into paste.
Now, he was really dead.
---
A few minutes later, Barry made his way down to the underground sacrificial chamber.
After searching around, he smashed through a section of wall and discovered a hidden room. Inside was the cult's operating fund—ill-gotten wealth the old director had hoarded through his crimes.
Barry sighed, taking the money with a heavy heart. He'd use it someday for good, he told himself.
---
"Thank you. I'm leaving now."
"You're not welcome. You're dying."
After that final farewell, Michael closed his eyes and went still. His soul finally let go.
His lingering will faded, and without resistance, Barry absorbed him completely.
Michael's powers transferred over—his resurrection ability grew even stronger, and a new power began to awaken.
When Barry returned to the shadows, he felt a strange sense of belonging. Now, he could see faint cracks in space—gateways invisible to ordinary people.
Those who dared could use them for short-distance teleportation.
A perfect trick for a chase—essential for any cold, relentless killer.
With this new skill, Barry could easily pass for a complete, unstoppable slasher villain.
Of course, that was just in theory. Right now, he was still full of righteous intent.
Everything he did was for the sake of protecting humanity.
After all this struggle, Barry had finally taken a major step toward becoming human again.
"At last... I finally have a complete body again."
After absorbing Michael, his resurrection energy had intensified, transforming his once-scarecrow body. Veins branched out from his heart, circulating pure vitality throughout him.
He could feel it—warm blood flowing, strong muscles tightening, nerves firing, organs working in harmony.
For the first time in ages, his body felt alive.
He could bleed, feel pain, get hot or cold.
As long as he didn't overuse the dark power inside him, he could live as a perfectly normal man—just one with an impossibly long life.
Honestly, he didn't even know how long he'd live. As long as his soul didn't burn out, he wouldn't die.
Standing in front of a mirror, the young man with black hair and dark eyes studied his reflection.
He looked at himself with narcissistic admiration. Somehow, the reconstruction had made him even better-looking than before.
All the little imperfections were gone. His face was more balanced, natural—almost perfect.
"Damn... the guy in this mirror is actually more handsome than me. That's just unfair."
"Oh wait—that's me. Never mind."
The longer he stared, the more captivated he became. It was like there was magic in his reflection.
After a while, he finally tore himself away and stepped out of the bathroom.
Throwing on a black trench coat, he got ready to head out.
"Oh my God, you—"
Kristen, the blonde girl sitting on the couch scrolling through her phone, looked up. Her phone slipped from her hand and hit her face, but she didn't even flinch—she just stared, blushing furiously.
"What's up?" Barry asked, confused.
She didn't answer, just sat there in a daze.
He shrugged and left.
Now that he had money, the first thing on his list was a proper house and a good car. Living in someone else's place wasn't ideal.
As he walked through the streets, he got a firsthand taste of what "turning heads" really meant—camera flashes everywhere.
That's when he realized: being too handsome could be a curse.
With a helpless sigh, he slipped on his Armani shades, finally calming the chaos around him.
That night, after touring countless properties, he still hadn't found one he liked.
He was looking for something unique—a haunted mansion, something with a little mystery.
But ironically, all the supposedly haunted houses were already occupied.
Guess cheap prices really do make people overlook the supernatural.
Well, time wasn't an issue. He'd find the right one eventually—or just throw money at the problem.
For now, it was time to sleep.
Good night, Maka Paka.
---
"Alright everyone, time to vote. Raise your hand for the person you want to be class president."
Ms. Ellis stood at the podium, names written on the board behind her:
Emma Grossman, Barry Orga, Rhett Pierce.
"First up, Emma Grossman. Raise your hand if you support her."
About half the class raised their hands. Clearly, Emma was pretty popular.