The Peerless God Of Choas

Anos had welcomed death as though he were embracing a long-lost mother. The thought of finally leaving behind the wretched peace of his previous world filled him with salvation. No longer would he have to endure the dull harmony that plagued existence. No longer would he be forced to witness the sickening smiles of those who reveled in tranquility.

If only he knew.

His wish had been granted.

And yet, it was about to become his greatest curse.

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In a land where myths wove themselves into reality, where the extraordinary was mundane and the impossible was but another story to be told, a small medieval mansion stood beneath the twilight sky. Its ancient stone walls, worn by time, would have faded into obscurity if not for the dim golden glow of lanterns flickering through the windows. The light, warm and inviting, illuminated the air of festivity that surrounded the grand hall within.

A celebration was underway.

The halls echoed with the sounds of laughter, the rhythmic claps of dancing villagers, and the sweet melody of lutes and flutes harmonizing in the background. People swayed, spun, and cheered, their faces alight with unfiltered joy. This was no ordinary gathering—it was the commemoration of a birth.

The birth of a savior.

A child had been brought into this world, destined to lead it toward righteousness. A hero, chosen by fate, meant to stand against the inheritors of demonic legacies.

At the heart of the festivities stood the village head, a man whose aged face bore the weight of wisdom and devotion. In his arms, wrapped in fine silken cloth, lay the infant—the very symbol of hope. His eyes, though barely opened, reflected the flickering glow of the lanterns above.

If only they knew.

The child's birth was not the blessing they believed it to be.

No, it was their ruin.

For the newborn in the village head's embrace was none other than Anos De Luna, the peace-hater.

Slowly, Anos' eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the blinding lights and vibrant colors around him. His gaze, sharp despite his infantile form, took in the sickening sight before him—villagers smiling, dancing, rejoicing. Their eyes shimmered with unbridled happiness, their voices a cacophony of merriment. The very air carried a warmth of love and celebration.

It was peace.

And he despised it.

What the hell is going on?!

He wanted to scream, but his infant body betrayed him, allowing only a soft, unintelligible cry to escape his lips. His thoughts, however, were a maelstrom of rage and confusion.

Why is everyone smiling?

Why is there no bloodshed?

Why am I alive?

Has death abandoned me?!

He loathed every bit of it. The warmth, the joy, the love—it was an insult to his very existence. It was as if fate itself had decided to mock him, shoving him into the very world he had sought to escape.

And just as he felt his frustration reach its peak, something shifted.

A flicker of unnatural light caught his attention, and before him, suspended in mid-air, a translucent blue screen manifested.

Its presence was unnatural, yet eerily familiar. He had seen such things before— in games, in anime, in the fictional worlds of his previous life. But never in reality.

The text upon the glowing screen was clear and bold, almost taunting in its cheerfulness.

[Greetings, Host! I am the ultimate supportive heroine, Deborah.]

Before he could process what he was seeing, a voice followed—soft, feminine, and unbearably saccharine.

"Greetings, Host! I am the ultimate supportive heroine, Deborah!"

The words were spoken in perfect sync with the text, carrying an unsettling warmth, as though the owner of the voice were smiling behind a veil of unseen existence.

[I was designed with the sole purpose of helping you thrive in this world and become the ultimate OP Hero!]

Anos stared, unblinking.

A tense silence stretched between him and the floating screen.

And then—his scowl deepened.

With the unfiltered irritation of a man who had just been dragged through hell and then spat back into it, he let out a sharp, venomous breath before snarling,

"A hero? Who the hell said I wanted to be a hero?"

His voice, despite being nothing more than an enraged thought, carried an intensity that could have shaken mountains.

The voice—Deborah—paused.

Then, as if genuinely confused, she responded, her tone laced with programmed reasoning,

[Most of your previous world's arts focused on hero tales. It was presumed that all humans from your world would aspire to be heroes.]

A beat of silence.

Then, as if dropping an irrefutable decree, the voice continued,

[And by far, you were the most talented among millions of souls. Choosing you… was the only logical choice.]

Anos' expression darkened.

He could feel it—the heavy chains of fate tightening around him. The twisted irony of it all was unbearable. He, a man who had longed for destruction, a man who hated peace, had been chosen as its protector?

His fingers twitched, his tiny body trembling with an anger that no infant should possess.

But deep within the storm of rage, a thought slithered through.

A realization.

If they expect me to be their hero… then I will grant them the greatest tragedy they will ever witness.

His lips curled ever so slightly. A smirk. A promise.

The world had forced him into the role of its savior.

Now, he would ensure that role became its greatest mistake.

Deborah had never felt fear before.

She had no form, no flesh, no heart to race in panic—yet in this moment, as she observed the newborn child before her, she felt something close to dread.

Anos De Luna was only moments old, his body still small and fragile, yet the aura that exuded from him was anything but innocent. It was as if the darkness within him had already lived for eons, festering, waiting for the right moment to be unleashed. His eyes, though reflecting the dim lanterns above, held a depth that no child should possess.

And they were staring straight through her.

For the first time, Deborah—the ultimate supportive heroine, the guiding force of peace—regretted her choice.

This was a mistake.

But it was too late.

She was eternally bound to him, tethered to his soul like an unbreakable chain. There was no running, no pleading, no way to undo what had been done.

This world had its 'hero.'

And there was nothing she could do to save it.

Anos, now perfectly composed, allowed a small smile to grace his infant lips. It was a smirk of amusement, of calculation, of a predator humoring its prey. His earlier burst of rage had been impulsive, yes, but now? Now, he had full control.

With a voice that resonated with eerie calmness in the confines of his mind, he addressed the unseen entity,

"Deborah, I must apologize for my… overreaction."

He could feel her hesitation.

"Now," he continued smoothly, "could you tell me the benefits of having you as my 'supportive heroine'?"

A brief pause. Then, her voice responded—still unnervingly cheerful, yet laced with something new. Caution.

[I possess limitless functions, though some are currently sealed due to our lack of strength. However, I do have a few things that will surely guide us in the right direction.]

As soon as her words concluded, a mechanical chime echoed through his mind.

[Ding! Congratulations, Host, you have been awarded the Beginner's Gift.]

A small flicker of intrigue sparked in Anos' mind.

[Should I reveal your presents?]

[Yes / No]

He did not hesitate.

"Yes."

[Ding! Congratulations, Host. You have acquired the Hero's Sword: Excalibur.]

[Ding! Congratulations, Host. You have acquired a Heaven-Grade Cultivation Technique: Honors of the Celestial.]

[Ding! Congratulations, Host. You have acquired an Evolution-Grade Cultivation Guide: Angelic Descent.]

Silence followed.

Anos slowly digested the information, his thoughts twisting and turning with layered amusement.

Excalibur…

Honors of the Celestial…

Angelic Descent…

He scoffed inwardly.

How poetic.

The rewards were powerful—he had no doubt about that—but their origins…

He could already feel the sacred, righteous energy radiating from the names alone. Angel-class techniques, divine cultivation, the supposed pinnacle of light's path.

And it was all in his hands.

A devil clad in the gifts of angels.

The irony was almost laughable.

"Deborah," he mused, his voice a low purr in his own mind, "these rewards… they're quite something, aren't they?"

She hesitated, as though sensing the underlying meaning behind his words.

[They are among the high-tier rewards a hero could receive.]

"A hero… of course."

His smirk widened, unseen but deeply felt.

If these sacred techniques were designed to forge a protector of peace…

Then he would wield them to craft the greatest harbinger of destruction this world had ever seen.

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