The Peerless God Of Choas

A wicked grin spread across Anos' face.

It was unnatural—wrong.

An infant should not be able to twist their lips into such a sinister expression, should not be capable of exuding such a presence. It was as though something dark and ancient had taken root within him, something far beyond mere human comprehension.

But the truth was far worse.

If only Anos were possessed.

If some eldritch demon had latched onto his soul, if some infernal being had whispered corruption into his newborn body—then perhaps there would have been hope of purging it. Perhaps an exorcism, a divine ritual, a miracle of the gods could have undone this horror.

But Anos De Luna was not possessed.

There was no external force to blame.

This darkness, this hatred—was his and his alone.

Anos took a deep, mental breath—a habit ingrained into his very being.

He could feel the overwhelming excitement clawing at the edges of his mind, threatening to burst forth in laughter, in manic glee. But he reined it in, smothered it beneath the iron will that had carried him through countless schemes and dark desires.

Now was not the time to lose himself.

"Deborah," he commanded, his mental voice steady, cold. "Show me the descriptions of the awarded gifts."

[Yes.]

A blue screen shimmered into existence before him, the ethereal text radiating a soft, divine glow.

---

A blade bestowed upon the most righteous of humans—the chosen hero. It is indestructible and accelerates the wielder's sword mastery at an immeasurable rate.

Additional Effects:

Soul-Bound – Can only be wielded by Anos De Luna.

Servant Binding – The sword's ego has sworn absolute loyalty and obedience to Anos De Luna.

God's Gift – Maximizes Anos De Luna's light-attribute aptitude.

---

Anos' gaze lingered on the text.

Interesting.

There was no doubt this weapon was a treasure of immeasurable value, a relic that could propel him to unimaginable heights. He could already picture it—cutting down heroes, corrupting its holy light with blood and despair.

The irony was exquisite.

But before he could move his attention to the next reward, a sudden heat surged through his body.

At first, it was a flicker, a warmth buried deep within his veins. Then, without warning, it erupted—a searing inferno blazing through his bloodstream.

His muscles burned.

His bones cracked.

His soul—his very essence—felt like it was being torn apart and reassembled all at once.

A newborn's body was never meant to endure such torment.

The pain was unbearable.

The weight of it crushed his mind, suffocated his thoughts, reduced his carefully controlled composure into raw, primal agony.

And in that moment, there was nothing left of the schemer, the destroyer, the future calamity of this world.

Only a helpless, suffering infant.

His screams pierced through the mansion, sharp and desperate, echoing into the cold night.

Outside, the village came to a sudden halt. The music ceased, the dancing stopped. The villagers, caught in their revelry, turned toward the source of the sound—the cries of their 'hero.'

Their joy vanished in an instant.

Panic surged through them as they rushed toward the dull mansion, their only thoughts filled with concern for their savior.

If only they knew.

Their savior was already their doom.

The air grew still.

A thick, suffocating silence blanketed the village, a stark contrast to the joyous festivities that had filled the night just moments ago.

Then, from the tiny body of the newborn, it emerged.

A greatsword, jagged and ominous, pierced forth from Anos' chest.

The villagers froze, their eyes widening in shock, in disbelief, in awe.

A sword—a weapon that took even veteran cultivators decades to manifest—had appeared from the body of an infant who had been born mere minutes ago.

At first, there was a moment of celebration.

Gasps of admiration swept through the crowd. A miracle. Anos De Luna, their beloved hero, was truly beyond mortal comprehension. He was a gift from the heavens, a legend in the making, a warrior destined to bring peace to their world!

But then—

The light in their eyes shattered.

The greatsword shifted.

A suffocating, vile aura bled from the weapon, thick and cloying, curling through the air like a living thing. It clung to the villagers' skin, wormed its way into their souls. The warmth of celebration was snuffed out, replaced by something ancient.

Something evil.

The village head stumbled backward, his breath caught in his throat.

His eyes, once filled with reverence, were now wild with terror.

Because he knew this aura.

He had heard of it only in whispers, in legends told to warn rather than educate.

The ominous presence, the suffocating weight of the countless innocent souls it had devoured—this was no mere sword of the righteous.

This was a blade meant for the King of Demons.

Which could mean only one thing.

Anos De Luna, their cherished hero, their beacon of hope—

Was none other than the successor of the Demon King.

The night air grew heavy, thick with the scent of fear.

The once-celebratory village now stood frozen in time, its inhabitants paralyzed by the aura exuding from the newborn's body.

The greatsword pulsed, its jagged edges drenched in a writhing darkness that devoured the surrounding light. It was as if the weapon itself was alive—breathing, waiting, starving.

Then—

The massacre began.

Without warning, the greatsword ripped itself free from Anos' tiny chest, and the moment it fully emerged, the air screamed.

A soundless, maddening wail echoed through the village, a presence so malevolent that it sent the gathered people to their knees.

Some clutched their heads, eyes rolling back in agony. Others vomited as an overwhelming sense of despair drowned their very souls.

And then—

The blade moved.

It slashed through the first row of villagers without hesitation, its dark steel singing through the air. Flesh split apart like fragile paper, limbs were torn asunder, blood erupted in thick, violent sprays that painted the dull mansion in an infernal crimson.

A woman screamed.

A child's voice cracked with terror.

A man tried to run, only for the greatsword to cleave him in half, his torso sliding off his legs before collapsing into a twitching heap.

The village head, still on his knees, stared in sheer horror as the sword—no, the entity—danced.

It was merciless.

It was ecstatic.

It was alive.

And Anos reveled in it.

Lying in the arms of the now-dead village head, the newborn's small lips curled into a sickening grin.

The warmth of fresh blood dripping onto his tiny body… the shrieks of the dying weaving a symphony of agony… the beauty of limbs torn apart, organs splattered across the cold dirt…

This.

This was true peace.

The sword came to a sudden stop, hovering in the air. Its dark steel pulsed as if savoring the last vestiges of life it had just devoured.

And then, the whisper came.

A voice, deep and guttural, dripping with an ancient, malevolent hunger.

"I have found you… my Master."

The blade turned slowly, as if gazing upon Anos. The infant, unfazed by the carnage around him, only chuckled—a dark, inhuman sound escaping his tiny mouth.

His mind echoed with the name that now burned itself into his soul.

A name that would be feared for eternity.

Soul Sword - Venom.

The greatsword of the Demon King.

And tonight, it had chosen its heir.

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