Max's eyes widened.

His heart dropped.

His most powerful attack—his trump card—couldn't even leave a scratch.

Mark looked at him, face still calm, still smiling.

"Why the long face?" he asked. "Let me guess… I forgot to mention?"

He stepped forward slightly, his voice rising.

"You're standing in the presence of a god."

He let the word hang in the air.

"The God."

A hush fell over the hall.

The word hit harder than any spell.

Yes, they'd all heard the legends—of how power could grow beyond mortal bounds. Of Mythic ranks, and perhaps even the Divine. But to declare oneself as "the God"?

That was blasphemy.

Insanity.

Arrogance beyond comprehension.

And yet—none of them could deny what they had seen.

His strength. His invulnerability. His command over the infernal.

He was something beyond them.

"And now you don't believe me," Mark said with a light chuckle, shrugging. "Typical."

He turned back to Max, that same twisted grin spreading across his face again.

"Well then… let's get back to business, shall we?"

He gestured casually toward the altar, where the crimson sword still stood buried in stone, surrounded by the flickering remnants of the shattered hall.

"Max," he said, voice cold now, sharp. "Now that I've given you everything you wanted—power, legacy, destiny…"

He pointed at the sword.

"Go. Take it. Pull it out of that altar."

Then his smile faded—just a little.

"Or I'll kill your sweet little girlfriend."

His eyes gleamed.

"Alice, right?"

Max's blood froze.

His head snapped to the side—his gaze finding Alice, who stood paralyzed behind the protective barrier, her eyes wide with horror.

No.

The world around Max faded into silence.

Rage erupted inside him like a tidal wave.

Killing intent—cold, suffocating, absolute—poured from his body like a fog. The very ground beneath his feet began to crack and melt.

His pupils narrowed.

His jaw clenched.

"Why don't you do it yourself?" Max said, his voice sharp, eyes locked onto Mark. "You're the god here, aren't you? You just said it yourself—you can do anything."

Mark let out a quiet sigh, almost as if Max's question had been expected.

"True," he admitted, nodding slowly. "I am the god here. In this place, in this world… there's nothing I can't control."

He raised a single finger and pointed toward the altar—toward the crimson sword buried in stone.

"But," he continued, "there's always an exception."

His voice dropped slightly.

"That sword… it's not just stuck in an altar. It's sealing a part of my soul. A fragment—cut off, locked away, buried beneath that stone."

He paused, then looked Max straight in the eyes.

"And because it's my soul—my own essence—I can't go anywhere near it. The seal repels me. If I get close, it rejects me."

The room fell into stunned silence.

Max's eyes widened. His thoughts froze.

The others—the leaders who still watched, battered, frozen, helpless—stared at Mark, barely breathing.

They'd all assumed the same thing: that some great evil, some ancient being, was sealed beneath the altar. That Mark was here to unleash something.

But this? This was worse.

The soul sealed beneath the sword… belonged to Mark himself.

He was trying to free himself.

Max's chest tightened.

He's already this strong. And that's with part of his soul missing?

What would happen if he got that part back?

What kind of power would he wield then?

Would anything be able to stop him?

"Why do you all look so surprised?" Mark asked suddenly, his voice laced with sarcasm as he looked around. "What—did you really think I went through all this trouble just to free someone else's soul?"

He gave a small, amused laugh and shook his head.

"You idiots."

"You couldn't begin to imagine how long I've waited for this moment. Millennials. Maybe longer. Watching. Preparing. Waiting to awaken the another half of what's mine."

His smile faded a little. His gaze turned distant.

"Don't bother asking who sealed me here, or how it's even possible," he added with a bitter edge. "Yes, I'm a god. Yes, it shouldn't be possible."

He looked down for a moment. His voice dropped.

"But it happened. And it's… personal."

Then he looked back up, eyes cold again.

"And if any of you ask that question again, I might have to kill you all just to make a point."

The silence that followed was thick with dread.

And then—Mark turned back to Max.

"Now," he said, smiling again, tone light, almost cheerful. "Go on. Pull the sword out. Do your part."

Max's brow furrowed.

"You really expect me to believe," he said slowly, "that whoever sealed you in there didn't make absolutely sure no one could just… walk in and pull the sword out?"

He narrowed his eyes, gaze sharp.

"I mean, what if someone just stumbled in here by accident? What if they got curious, touched the sword, and freed you by mistake?"

He tilted his head slightly.

"Wouldn't that be a little too easy?"

Mark didn't reply right away.

But his smile deepened.

Not in amusement.

In something else entirely.

Something darker.

"The one who sealed me here…" Mark began, his voice dropping lower, heavier. "I didn't just let him walk away."

He exhaled slowly, almost tiredly.

"I hurt him. Badly. Crippled him, actually. That's the only reason he fled before reinforcing the seal."

Mark pointed toward the altar.

"But don't misunderstand—just because he left before completing the process doesn't mean anyone can just stroll in and pull out the sword."

He gestured toward the glowing forcefield surrounding the altar—the swirling, pulsing wall of dense red energy that shimmered like a living flame.

"Do you see that?" he asked, his tone sharp now. "The altar is overflowing with infernal energy. It's protected by a forcefield made from pure condensed infernal essence. If any being—even the strongest one alive—were to step into that barrier, they wouldn't survive."

He paused for emphasis.

"They would vaporize," he said bluntly. "Erased. Turned into mist. Their body, soul, and energy would be absorbed into the forcefield itself. Gone."

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by Aunomay