Reincarnated as the Villain’s Father

After staying by my side for a while longer, Annabel quietly excused herself and left. She said nothing, but I hadn't expected her to.

Now, at last, the time had come to fully assimilate my second technique.

The method of assimilating a technique varies depending on how it was acquired. The danger and difficulty of assimilation increase based on the origin.

The most grueling ones are usually techniques transferred directly from objects into the body. Perhaps I should speak to Rebecca, ask her to help Annabel with her own assimilation process.

In my case, the technique I had acquired -Dark Judgment- was something few even knew existed. Only certain churches and powerful noble houses were aware of it.

It was the Path of Divine Inheritance.

Normally, the only way to pass on a technique is through blood, parent to child. If a mother or father possesses a technique, it can be passed down genetically. But I was no child of Igrathar. I hadn't just been born.

Divine beings like Igrathar can bestow their techniques on chosen individuals. Those who receive such blessings are often called the "Chosen." But my situation was different. My power had come not from a god but from a demonic god, and worse, one that was imprisoned.

Naturally, I wasn't seen as chosen. In fact, if anyone knew I was connected to a demon god, they might launch a holy crusade against me.

Perhaps there were those among the demon races who might try to protect me. But I had no idea how Igrathar was perceived among them. After all, does a fallen god deserve love and worship? Even demons might hate him. So I had no choice but to keep this technique hidden, never even utter his name. In the novel, some demons respected Igrathar's heir, but I have no idea about all the demons.

Anyway, back to the matter of assimilation.

Divine techniques, for reasons unknown, are far more painful to assimilate than any other type. It makes no sense. Shouldn't a gift from a god be less painful, not more? Just asking.

But then again, this novel's author created so many illogical rules in this universe. Those damn rules are bound to cause me serious trouble down the line. But whatever.

This technique, "filled with darkness and gifted by a demon god," felt less like a blessing and more like a curse branded into my soul. To assimilate it, I needed more than just mental focus. I had to be spiritually prepared. Because this technique wasn't just something I learned. It was something that shaped me. Transformed me. And transformation... always comes with pain.

I closed my eyes and concentrated the energy welling up inside me.

Dark Judgment 

Even the name alone echoed as a dark whisper through my mind. Was it Igrathar's voice? Or an old memory awakened the moment I touched this power? I couldn't tell. Maybe both.

I took a deep breath. As soon as I touched the first layer of the technique, my body convulsed involuntarily. I felt my bones ache, my heartbeat falter. It was as if my very being was rejecting me.

Then the pain began.

At first, it was a sly kind of pain, like a tingling sensation crawling across my fingertips, slithering through my veins. But what came next was like a poison flooding through me. My bones, my marrow -every fiber of my being- burned. But it wasn't fire. It was something unnamed. A cursed darkness carving itself into me.

"AHHHHHHGGĞ!"

My knees gave out. I collapsed. My palms hit the stone floor, but even that contact only amplified the agony. The veins beneath my skin briefly glowed with pitch-black light. It felt like something inside me, something demonic, was trying to be born. Like a presence rising from the pit of my soul, tearing at my body, trying to escape.

I clenched my teeth. My jaw cracked. It was unbearable.

The pain had gone beyond the physical. It was now eating away at my memories, my thoughts, my very identity. Every attempt to think tore my mind further apart. I couldn't even remember my own name for a moment. I was becoming someone else. Or... something else.

My heart stopped.

It literally stopped.

The rhythmic pounding in my chest fell silent. For a second, the whole world went mute. I couldn't breathe. Even time itself seemed to halt. At that moment, a bond formed between the darkness and me. Not by force. Not by consent. It wasn't a pact.

It was surrender.

It wasn't me who chose. It was my body.

A low moan escaped my lips, alien, hollow, ancient. I spat blood, black blood. Not the blood of a wound, but something deeper. The blood of the soul. My humanity, piece by piece, was being vomited out.

The darkness filled my lungs. Not like air. Not like smoke. More like a void. It seeped not into me, but into something within me that wasn't.

It wasn't a parasite. It was a rewrite.

Dark Judgment wasn't merely giving me power. It was making me like itself. Reshaping me. Forcing me to question every cell in my body.

And I asked myself:

Who am I? But no answer came. Because at that moment, I was gone.

All that remained was a formless sliver of consciousness, suspended in the dark.

Then… an image appeared in my mind.

A throne.

Upon it sat a chained, eyeless giant. It had no face, but it saw me.

"Do not obey. Take form."

There was no direction to the voice. Perhaps it wasn't even a voice, but a reflection echoing from the depths of my being.

The silhouette rose in a skyless void. Its chains unraveled one by one. And when the last chain fell, silence gave way to whispers.

The whispers... they brushed against the edges of my thoughts, rewriting meaning.

They said virtue was not goodness. That only will could rule through power.

They crossed out everything I had ever been taught.

And I let them.

Because the darkness wasn't a choice. It was a necessity.

At that moment, I felt a new space open within me. Like an empty chamber. Dark Judgment settled there.

Permanently.

When I opened my eyes again, something had changed in my vision.

There was now a shadow cast over everything. I could see the lies, the desires, the guilt clinging to people's faces like masks. It was all visible to me.

I stood up, but I stumbled and fell to the ground.

Shaking. But with power. With authority. It was as if the ground bowed beneath every step I took.

I looked down at my hands. The dark veins beneath my skin had begun to fade, but the burning at my fingertips still lingered.

The darkness was within me now. And I was one with it.

I rose to my feet again. My legs trembled. Sweat had soaked through my clothes, clinging to my skin. My tongue was dry. The sweat that dripped from my brow, blocked by my eyebrows like a dam, now ran down my nose. Some of it stung my eyes. Some of it reached my mouth, and I tasted the disgusting, salty bitterness on my tongue.

Pushing my shaky legs, I staggered over to the table. I grabbed the massive pitcher sitting on it and drank straight from the lip. I didn't bother with a cup.

My body drank like a camel that had finally found an oasis after days in the desert.

But I drank so much, so fast, that a dull ache started in my stomach.

After drinking, I stripped down completely and threw myself into the wooden tub in the bathroom. I couldn't wait for the servants to prepare a bath. So I jumped into the water used for washing hands and feet.

Fuck... That was by far the most excruciating pain I had ever felt in my life.

I suppose… that's the price of assimilating a god's technique.