Urban Plundering: I Corrupted The System!-Chapter 384: Blessing or Curse? 2

He was on his knees now.

The steam of blood mist still clung to the air, thick with that burnt-metal tang of spilled lives, and his breath came sharp and rattling. Hands. He looked at his hands—his fucking hands—painted in red and twitching like they were still pulling ribcages apart. There was silence now, like the world had swallowed its own voice in fear.

Moments ago, it hadn't felt like him doing all that. It hadn't felt like anyone human. His mind had blacked out, taken a backseat while something monstrous danced behind his eyes.

Now… clarity returned.

Like a tide pulling back.

Like waking up with sand in your mouth and not remembering how you got to shore.

Then came the voice.

It didn't speak like a person. It reverberated—like an ancient drum calling out from the bottom of the world.

{Chosen warrior of the gods…Do you answer the call?}

He didn't think. His body bowed low—but it wasn't his muscles moving. It felt like his soul dropped to its knees, spine folding under the weight of a crown he hadn't asked for but already bore.

"Yes," he said. Or maybe whispered. Or maybe just thought it and the world translated it into truth.

The voice hummed like it had been waiting eons to hear that answer.

{Very well.}

And then it started:

*

{Trait Granted: Relentless Will.

> You will never die until your purpose is fulfilled. You will survive after hope is gone, and rise where others fall.

Power Blessed: Immortality through Pain.

> The more pain you endure, the more your power grows.

The deeper the wound, the stronger the resurrection.

You will evolve through agony.

Flaw Inherited: Fractured Mind.

> Every time you cheat death, you lose a piece of yourself.

Die once? You recover. Die twice? You're still you.

Die again? Your soul begins to forget humanity.

Your strength is boundless, but your mind is the cost.

Growth Trait: Pain Ascension.

> Pain is no longer weakness. It is your energy!

With every scream, you bloom. With every drop of blood, you climb.

The gained power is permanent.

Immortality awaits. Endure. And harvest its fruit!}

*

He couldn't breathe. Couldn't blink. Couldn't even believe. Every cell in his body was whispering this wasn't a dream.

He looked at himself, his blood-soaked arms still trembling, now radiating with heat—no, energy. Not the cute superhero bullshit. Something ancient. Cosmic. Like he'd been taken out of the timeline and reinserted with a glitch the gods forgot to patch.

He wanted to laugh.

To scream.

To cry.

Because whatever happened back there… it was a gift dressed as death. A miracle painted in massacre. This—this right here—was the moment his life turned from a tragic footnote into a fucking saga.

But something gnawed at his chest.

That old paranoia, that instinctual whisper of, what now?

The voice answered before the question even finished forming.

{Your enemies are marked. You will see the blood-sign—dark red, burning atop their skulls. That is the mark of betrayal. Of rebellion against us.

Kill them. Do not hesitate. They are the enemies of Olympus, and they must be erased.}

He nodded slowly.

No resistance.

No rebellion.

A man who once never gave a damn about gods, who thought the only divinity worth chasing was money—was now kneeling before cosmic authority like he'd been born for it.

And somehow? That felt okay.

He started to rise but wobbled. His knees buckled, his vision dipped. The rush had left him drained, muscles twitching under the weight of what he'd become. He felt weak after all that energy and adrenaline he'd used to eliminate his enemies.

He felt so damn weak than he was before although his wounds he'd been healed.

Couldn't even walk.

Then he saw it.

A shard of metal from a broken blade. Jagged. Rusted. Not clean, not ceremonial—but sharp enough. He limped toward it. Picked it up. It felt like steel and electricity had a baby. His grip tightened.

Didn't they say pain gave him strength?

He didn't hesitate.

With a grunt, he jammed it into his thigh.

White-hot agony exploded up his spine. His scream was primal, full-throated, gluttal. The kind of scream that cracked teeth and made ghosts flinch. But even before the sound finished, his body surged.

Power hit him like a tsunami.

His skin rippled. Muscles expanded. Veins flared to life with molten heat. His heart? It didn't beat—it roared. Five times stronger. Ten times maybe. The pain wasn't just fuel—it was acceleration.

In Olympus, Ares tilted his head and grinned.

"Smart bastard," the god muttered. "Now that's how you use what I give."

Down below, the soldier-turned-nightmare stood fully upright now.

Sweat and blood dripped down his face. A new smile carved itself across his lips—this one wasn't for vengeance.

This one?

This one was for the future.

Because whatever this was—blessing or curse—he was ready to burn the world just to find out.

****

The cold had teeth.

It gnawed at his fingers, chewed through the threadbare holes of his jacket, bit down on his ribs like it wanted to hollow him out from the inside.

And he was tired.

So fucking tired.

He crouched behind a busted dumpster in the alley of some city that stopped mattering years ago. The walls were painted in piss and neon graffiti, and the only thing louder than the wind was his growling stomach.

Again!

Of course.

He hadn't eaten in two days—unless you counted half a cigarette butt and a slice of moldy bread he'd stolen from a blind nun. Which, in his defense, wasn't even real bread. It was suffering dressed in yeast.

A rat skittered by.

He didn't move.

He wasn't afraid.

He was the rat.

The wind howled again, blowing snow into his face like the gods were spitting at him. He blinked. Once. Twice. Thought about dying. Just a little. But something inside him growled louder than the storm. A dry, cracked voice that said:

{You're not allowed to quit. Not yet.}

And then—

The alley bent.

Not physically. Not really. But it felt like space around him flinched. Like the world noticed him for the first time.

The shadows moved.

They crept unnaturally, slithering along the walls like they were waking up. Like they were breathing. And he should've screamed, or pissed himself, or passed out.

Instead, he smiled.

Not a happy smile.

The kind of smile you see on someone who's finally snapped.

A voice came—deep, ancient, whispering straight into his fucking bones.

{You. Street rat. Forgotten. Frostbitten. You could've given in. But you didn't.}

{'We' like that.}

The shadows thickened. Danced. Swirled around his broken boots, curling up his spine like cold smoke. His heart thumped once—then again, harder—and suddenly, the pain in his limbs didn't feel like pain. It felt like power waiting to be let off its leash.

*

{Your trait is stubbornness,} the voice said. {Your curse is trust. Your gift... is dominion.}

Trait Chosen: Absolute refusal to surrender even to misery.

> You will never be broken. Not by weather, not by hunger, not by the gods even!

Power Blessed: Shadow Manipulation.

Flaw Inherited: Paranoia of loyalty.

>You trust no one. Not even those who bleed beside you.

You might kill your ally before your enemy. Sometimes even for blinking wrong!}

*

And then the shadows merged with his body.

Slipped under his skin like ink into paper. And he gasped—not in pain, not in fear—but in something new.

Ownership.

He stood.

Not shivering.

Not limping.

He stood like the alley belonged to him. Like the cold had to ask for permission to bite now. Like the shadows would kneel before him if he raised his fucking hand.

In the darkness above, one god whispered to another.

{A rat no longer,} it said. {We just crowned a king.}