Heaven in hell—it seemed the perfect way to describe the scene around him.
The once-peaceful estate he had known for years was now drenched in blood.
The fleeting sense of satisfaction Michael felt instantly vanished the moment his gaze swept over the carnage.
He turned his gaze toward his apartment building—or, more specifically, the window he had leapt from.
Aunt Mia stood there, peeking through the window.
Her body trembled, but she forced herself to watch—not the carnage, but at him.
Michael frowned.
He hated what Aunt Mia was doing to herself. This was nothing short of mental torture.
Yet, there were things he couldn’t control—her freedom to be one of them.
Strangely, while the bloody massacre before him was horrific, it stirred little more than mild discomfort.
Perhaps it was because he had spent the past few days knee-deep in corpses, battling monsters, and narrowly escaping death.
This kind of horror barely fazed him anymore.
What he did feel, however, was anger.
It wasn’t a righteous fury or some heroic urge to save the world—this was personal.
It was about his family.
Michael had inherited this body’s feelings and memories.
While he still recalled his past life on Earth, those memories felt distant, like fragments of a dream.
This world, though more perilous, had given him something his old life never did: a healthy body and extraordinary power.
He had an incredible undead army and a unique talent.
Even if some day most of it was stripped away, the healthy body alone was enough for Michael to embrace this new life fully.
And now, a group of lunatics called demonic supernaturals wanted to ruin that.
Michael’s anger ignited, burning hot and fierce.
What would have happened if he hadn’t awakened?
This plan had clearly been in motion far longer than Miachel could fathom, its reach engulfing an entire city like Woodstone.
Without his powers, his family—and he himself—would have perished.
To some degree, Michael could understand the mindset of the demonic supernaturals.
Growth often reshapes perspective.
The rich cannot truly understand the struggles of the poor, just as the poor can’t comprehend the life of the rich. Mortals can’t fathom the thoughts of gods.
But understanding did not mean forgiveness.
If one aspired to live like a king—or at least experience a life different from the constraints of an ordinary life—then the battle should be against those in power, not those who didn’t have any of it.
In Michael’s opinion, doing the opposite of this felt both flawed and twisted.
As a human, he understood what he was capable of thinking.
If he, one day, as a Rank 4 Awakener, were ever forced to stand in a long queue with ordinary humans and be treated the same, he knew he’d lose his mind.
Though he didn’t think this was likely to happen in real life, considering how supernaturals had little societal influence despite their overwhelming power, who knew if something like this had happened before or not?
Perhaps, at some point in his 18 years in this realm, someone with godlike abilities had been forced to behave like an ordinary human, waiting in line like everyone else alongside him.
Michael could understand where the bitterness stemmed from, but that didn’t excuse poor behavior.
“Thank you so much for your help.”
Michael, who was still lost in thought as he stared at the red, gloomy sky with a frown, was pulled back to reality by a voice.
He turned his head and saw an elderly man standing beside him.
Though the man’s face seemed vaguely familiar, Michael didn’t know him personally.
“It’s no problem. This is what I should be doing,” Michael replied politely.
The old man opened his mouth to speak more, but a sudden scream cut through the air, interrupting him. Following the scream, two hands grabbed Michael’s shirt.
“You killed my father! You killed my father!”
A young man, roughly Michael’s age, stood before him. His hair was dyed in three colors and tattoos covered his face.
Though Michael wasn’t one to judge by appearances, it was clear what kind of person was clutching his shirt now.
Unfortunately, not only did Michael not know this person, but he also couldn’t understand the sudden hostility.
Worse still, his patience was already running thin.
He had just slain over 200 monsters, his bloodlust was still simmering, and the thrill of battle was pulsing in his veins.
It was a miracle he hadn’t slapped the man outright.
“Get your hands off me.”
Michael’s voice was calm but it carried a chill that sent shivers down everyone’s spine who heard it.
Even the surviving ordinary people—mourning over their lost loved ones or their own injuries—fell silent and stared at him.
Despite the warning, the young man didn’t let go.
Sweat dripped down his forehead as he glared at Michael with defiance.
“Oh? And what will you do? Do you think that just because you have some fancy powers, you can do whatever you want?” the youth spat, jealousy and rage flashing in his eyes.
Michael’s gaze turned icy.
He debated whether to handle this lightly or use some force, but before he could decide how to act, a fist flew from nowhere, slamming the young man square in the face.
The blow sent the youth flying five meters away, leaving the crowd stunned.
The one who delivered the punch was someone Michael recognized: his neighbor from the apartment building. The man was one of the strongest Supernaturals who had fought alongside him during the chaos.
“Brats these days. They don’t know their limits—or when to show gratitude,” the man muttered, turning to Michael, who watched him curiously.
“My apologies for my nephew’s behavior,” the man said with a sigh. “He’s just grieving my brother’s death. Some people, blinded by their upbringing, believe everyone is equal. They simply refuse to accept the truth of the world.”
*****