Chapter 17 — The Day Heaven Taught Him Despair
Victoria did not answer immediately.
She stood before Max, eyes red, hands clenched so tightly her nails cut into her skin. The blood in the air, the kneeling vampires, the ruined city—it was all too much.
"I need time," she said at last. "If I choose this… I can never go back."
Max nodded.
"No matter what you choose," he said quietly, "I will protect you. From the Church. From the world. From the gods themselves."
It was not a promise of love.
It was a vow of war.
Victoria stepped away, escorted by Noctyrr's shadows, her back trembling as if she could feel destiny breathing down her neck.
Max watched until she vanished. That was the last moment of peace he would ever know.
When Heaven Answered
The sky did not darken.
It opened.
Light descended—not warm, not holy, but sharp enough to cut the soul. The air screamed as wings unfolded, vast and blinding.
An Angel of Judgment.
Not a servant. Not a messenger.
A weapon forged by the god the Church worshipped.
Its voice echoed without sound.
"Max—Anomaly. Blasphemy. Abomination. You are to be erased."
Max raised his hand.
The angel moved.
He never even saw the strike. Pain unlike anything before tore through him—ribs shattered inward, organs rupturing, body slammed into the ground hard enough to carve a crater.
He tried to rise.
The angel stepped on his chest. Bones turned to dust.
"Fight," Max growled, blood pouring from his mouth.
The angel tilted its head. Each blow was measured. Precise. Cruel. The kind of violence that exists only to teach helplessness. Max's powers activated instinctively—regeneration, hardened skin, stolen strength—but every adaptation was anticipated, countered, crushed.
The angel tore his arm off.
Watched it regenerate.
Tore it off again.
"You learn too slowly," it said.
Max screamed—not from pain, but rage.
He unleashed everything. Blood control. Beast strength. Speed beyond sound.
The angel caught him mid-strike. And laughed.
It drove a blade of divine light through his spine, pinning him to the earth.
"This is the limit of stolen power," the angel leaned close. "Remember this feeling."
The Coward's Choice
Max ran.
Not because he wanted to.
Because if he stayed, he would die.
Every step was agony. His body failed faster than it could heal. The angel followed lazily, not chasing—confident.
Then Max froze.
Victoria.
She was still out there.
Still vulnerable. Still human.
"No…" he whispered.
He turned back.
The angel was gone.
So was she.
The battlefield was empty. No blood. No struggle. No trace. Only silence.
Max fell to his knees.
"No. No—no—no—no—" His hands shook violently as he clawed at the ground, searching for anything. A scent. A drop of blood. A sign.
Nothing.
"It's my fault," he whispered.
His voice broke. "I was too weak."
The wind answered him.
"She's the last person I have."
His heart cracked—not loudly, not dramatically—but completely. Something inside him died.
The Birth of the Apocalypse
Max stood. Slowly.
There were no tears left.
Pain dulled. Fear evaporated.
Love retreated into something colder.
His eyes changed—not glowing, not monstrous—just empty, like a grave after the coffin sinks.
"They took her," he said softly.
Noctyrr appeared, watching carefully.
"This path—"
"Is already chosen," Max interrupted. His voice held no emotion.
"I won't beg gods who play with lives like toys."
He clenched his fist.
"I won't protect a world that cheers when I suffer."
The air around him twisted. Blood across continents responded—battlefields, execution grounds, sacrificial altars—it all answered him now.
"I will become what they fear," Max said. "Not because I want to. But because they deserve it."
The world trembled.
Somewhere far above, the gods felt something new.
Not rebellion.
Not hatred.
Resolve.
And for the first time since creation…
They were afraid.