Pain dragged Richter back to reality, his body heavy, his mind sluggish. Peeling his eyes open was a battle against the dried, crusted blood sealing them shut. Reality hit like a hammer, shattering any illusion that this was just a nightmare. He had taken a young man's life. Had there been another way? Had he hesitated too long, acted too rashly, failed in a moment where failure meant death? Doubt clawed at him, wrapping around his mind like a vice. Grief. Fear. Guilt. The weight of it all bore down on him. He was a murderer. His fingers traced over the searing mark on his right cheek, the skin raised and raw—a cruel reminder of the System’s judgment, branding him for the crime he could never take back.

  His body protested every motion, stiff and aching, as if he had aged a lifetime in mere hours. A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his ribs at the slightest shift, forcing a ragged gasp from his lips. His breath came shallow, each inhale sending fresh waves of discomfort radiating through his battered frame. His muscles burned, locked in place as if his body itself was resisting the very act of movement. He wanted nothing more than to remain where he lay, letting the weight of his pain keep him grounded. The sky, once a tranquil blue, had darkened into an ominous shade of red—nightfall was approaching. The air was eerily still, absent of even the faintest breeze. No rustling leaves, no distant calls of life. The clearing was utterly, unnervingly silent. He strained his ears, listening—not for threats, but for anything. A whisper of wind. The chirp of an insect. A distant crack of branches. But there was nothing. The world held its breath, as if mourning with him. Alone. The realization pressed down like a crushing weight, settling in the hollow space where human voices should have been. He had never felt such an absence before—not just of sound, but of presence. No one to call out to, no one to answer. Just silence, vast and suffocating.

  How long had he lain there, drowning in blood and regret? Richter didn't know for certain, but it must have been over an hour, as his potion cooldown had reset. Forcing his trembling hand downward sent another jolt of pain through his ribs, making him wince. His fingers twitched as they neared the pouch, the simple motion feeling like dragging lead weights through molasses, but still, he hesitated. His fingers hovered over the opening, uncertainty gnawing at him. Did he even deserve to heal? The weight of his actions pressed down on him—Jason's lifeless eyes, Sophie's final breath, Dave's sacrifice. Was survival just another selfish act? A way to delay the inevitable judgment? He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his chest tightening under the weight of doubt. Instinct overruled hesitation. His survival instincts clawed their way to the surface, overriding the crushing guilt. He focused on the health potion—and it was suddenly in his grasp, though his fingers trembled around the glass. Even the simple act of uncorking the vial felt arduous, his grip weak, uncertain. For a brief moment, he tilted the vial in his hand, watching the liquid swirl inside. The soft glow of the potion reflected in his tired eyes, its promise of relief stark against the weight of his guilt. He considered throwing it away, rejecting the comfort it offered, letting the pain remain as penance for what he had done. But his body screamed for relief, for restoration. With a quiet, shuddering breath, he tipped the vial back. The sweet, rejuvenating liquid slid down his throat, and warmth spread through his veins, unbidden yet undeniable. It surged toward the worst of his injuries—his ribs, his face—knitting the damage together. His health bar steadily refilled. His fingers went back to his face, tracing the jagged lines of the mark. It pulsed faintly, not just a scar, but something deeper—something woven into his very essence, a living condemnation of his crime. The System had ensured he would never forget, that every glance in a reflective surface would remind him of the blood he had spilled. A punishment. A warning. A curse.

  "Finally, he wakes." The voice was deep, resonant—unmistakably male. Richter was not alone. Instinct took hold before reason could catch up. He surged upright, his staff raised, muscles tensed despite the ache in his battered frame. He didn't know if he deserved to live, if survival was even worth fighting for. But his body had already decided for him.

  Richter hadn’t known what to expect, but the sight before him shattered any lingering assumptions. The man before him was monstrous in stature—easily twice the size of any human Richter had ever seen. His bare chest, thick with sinewy muscle and marred by a tapestry of old scars, radiated raw power. A weathered leather gladiator-style skirt was his only clothing, the dark hide worn and battle-stained.

  His hair was a wild tangle of dirty blond, his stubble uneven, giving him a rugged, almost primal appearance. But none of that was what made Richter’s breath catch in his throat. It was the scar. A massive, unmistakable handprint seared into the side of his face, the edges deep and brutal, as if someone—or something—had once tried to crush his skull with their bare hand. It was an impossible wound, one that should have killed any man, yet here he was—alive, whole, and undeterred.

  The air around him was different. It felt heavier, as though the very atmosphere bowed under his presence. A pressure clamped down on Richter’s chest, his body instinctively recognizing the sheer difference in strength between them. This man could end him with a flick of his wrist. And yet, he lounged atop the slain bear’s corpse as if it were nothing more than a worn-out piece of furniture. His posture was casual, his confidence absolute, like a king surveying his domain—one who feared nothing.

  "Put that little stick down, boy. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have woken up at all." His voice rumbled like distant thunder, deep and filled with something between amusement and disinterest. "Not that the System would let me, anyway. Doesn't like us gods roughing up you fragile little mortals." He flashed a wide grin, the expression almost clownish, but there was something unsettling behind it—something that made Richter's grip tighten on his staff despite himself.

  "G-God..." Richter stammered, his throat dry, his voice barely more than a whisper. A cold sweat beaded on his brow, his heart hammering in his chest. The sheer weight of the man’s presence crushed down on him, every instinct screaming that he was prey standing before a predator.

  The scarred god let out a long, exaggerated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck as if this entire interaction were an inconvenience. "Gods, I forgot how exhausting talking to mortals is. It’s been way too long. Do I sound intimidating enough? Should I add more lightning and ominous whispers?" He smirked to himself, seemingly amused by his own joke. "You’d think after all these years; you'd lot would be a bit less starstruck. But no, always the same wide-eyed fear and reverence. Makes it real hard to hold a decent conversation."

  Richter swallowed hard, his thoughts scrambling to reconcile the sheer casualness of the being before him. The man—no, the god—didn’t move with the ethereal grace Richter had always imagined divine beings possessing. There were no grand gestures, no celestial glow, no overwhelming presence of wisdom or righteousness. Instead, he lounged atop a dead bear, stretching like a man who had just woken from a nap, more amused than imposing. And yet, despite the humour in his voice, despite the ease of his posture, the sheer weight of his presence told Richter one undeniable truth: this god could snap him in half without a second thought.

  "What is it mortals usually ask in these situations?" The god mused, rubbing his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Oh, right. Introductions. Let's get that out of the way. Name's Cain—you should've gotten a fancy little notification about it. Cain, the First Murderer. Quite the title, huh?" He smirked, his tone dripping with amusement, as if the weight of that name meant nothing to him. "You're Richter, yeah? I got notification for the system about you getting my blessing."

  Richter just nodded, his mind struggling to process the reality before him. Cain. The same Cain the System had warned him about—the one who had killed more beings than any other in the universe. And now, here he was, lounging before him, amused, nonchalant, as if his very existence wasn’t the stuff of nightmares. And even in that moment, Richter’s curiosity momentarily overshadowed his fear. "Cain... like Cain and Abel?" The pieces had clicked into place—the name, the title of 'First Murderer'—and the coincidence was too blatant to ignore. His voice wavered slightly, uncertainty lacing his words, but the question had already left his lips.

  The air grew heavy, thick with a crushing presence that pressed against Richter’s chest like an invisible force. Cain rose from his lounging position in a slow, deliberate motion, his posture no longer relaxed but coiled with restrained fury. His golden eyes locked onto Richter, and for a brief, terrifying moment, Richter felt as if he were staring into the abyss itself. The playful smirk was gone, stripped away as if it had never been there, replaced by a glare of pure, unfiltered hatred.

  The ground trembled beneath them, faint cracks forming at Cain’s feet as his power surged to the surface, reality itself bending under his wrath. But something held it back—an unseen force, an invisible chain pulling him to a halt. Was it the System? Whatever it was, it stopped him from unleashing what Richter could only assume was devastation beyond comprehension.

  Cain’s voice cut through the thick air, low and razor-sharp, stripped of its previous arrogance. Richter’s grip on his staff tightened instinctively, his knuckles turning white as if the flimsy weapon could offer any real protection against a being like this. His breathing quickened, shallow and uneven, his chest rising and falling too fast, as though the very air had grown too thick to pull in properly. "What did you just say?" The words weren’t shouted, but they didn’t need to be—the sheer weight behind them made Richter’s stomach lurch.

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  "Where did you hear that name?" His eyes bore into Richter, sharp and unrelenting, as if peeling back the layers of his mind, searching for something buried deep within him—something Richter himself wasn’t even aware of. His legs locked up, his entire body stiffening under the crushing weight of that gaze, an animal caught in the sight of a predator that had already decided its fate. The weight of that gaze sent a chill down his spine, making him feel exposed, dissected, like prey caught in the unwavering focus of a predator.

  Richter’s thoughts scrambled, panic clawing at his throat. Why had he said that? Why had he let his curiosity slip past his fear? His breath hitched, his words tumbling out too fast, uneven, desperate to fill the unbearable silence Cain had left hanging. "I—it's just a story! A religious story! Christianity—it's, uh, one of the biggest religions on Earth, people follow it, believe in it—uh—Cain, he—he killed his brother, Abel, that’s—that’s how the story goes. The first murder." His voice cracked; his pulse thundered in his ears. He couldn’t stop himself from talking, as if the explanation might somehow lessen the crushing weight of Cain’s glare. "It’s—it's just a myth! I-I didn’t mean anything by it, I just—it's a weird coincidence, right? Y-you being called the First Murderer and named Cain? I wasn’t trying to—I mean, I didn’t think—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything!"

  For the briefest moment, Richter caught it—the god’s brow furrowed, a flicker of something foreign in his golden eyes. Curiosity. The shift was almost imperceptible, but it was there. Then, a whisper—barely audible, as if Cain had spoken more to himself than anyone else. "How would they know..." The words hung in the air, a slip of thought not meant to escape. But it had.

  Cain’s posture stiffened the instant he realized Richter was watching him. With practiced ease, he straightened up, rolling his shoulders, the usual smug grin sliding back into place. Too quick. Too forced. But Richter had seen behind the mask, if only for a second. Cain was unsettled.

  "Alright, enough with the dramatics. Let’s get to the real reason I’m here."" The large man rose, but not in the way Richter expected. He didn't move like a warrior, nor like a seasoned gladiator accustomed to battle. Instead, his movement was something else entirely effortless, unhurried, almost lazy, yet there was an underlying precision to it, like a beast that knew it was the apex predator in the room. Every shift of his body carried a strange weight, as if space itself adjusted around him rather than the other way around. Richter felt it in his bones—the sheer certainty that this man, this god, had never once needed to fight for survival. Survival bowed to him.

  "I—I didn't want this. I didn’t mean for it to happen," Richter's voice wavered, thick with regret. His breath hitched, his chest tightening as the words tumbled out, desperate to justify what couldn’t be undone. "It—it all happened too fast." His grip on his staff tightened, white-knuckled, as if clinging to it might anchor him, might keep him from drowning in the weight of what he had done. His heart pounded, hammering against his ribs like a caged thing trying to escape. "I'm not a murderer." The words came out fragile, barely above a whisper, as if saying them aloud might make them true. But even as he spoke to them, they felt hollow. Empty. The System had already decided.

  Cain barely even blinked. "You killed this young man. That makes you a murderer. No sense arguing about it now." His tone was flat, devoid of empathy, like he was stating an unchangeable fact rather than condemning Richter for it. Then, with the same casual indifference, he stepped over Jason's body. Not a glance, not a hesitation. As if Jason had never even existed.

  Richter’s stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. The nausea wasn’t just from Cain’s words—it was from the truth of them.

  Cain stretched slightly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an idle thought. "Anyway, where was I?" He spoke as if they were discussing something as mundane as the weather. "Right. Gods giving blessings. Normally, we hand them out to mortals we find promising. But me? I don’t get to choose. You have my blessing, whether you want it or not." His golden eyes flicked toward Richter, unreadable. "Now, why do gods give blessings in the first place? It’s not charity, kid. It’s an investment. We put a bit of power into a mortal, let them do their thing, and in return, we get a share of whatever they accomplish. A small cost for a bigger payout."

  Cain’s smirk returned, though this time, there was something sharper behind it. "So, congratulations. You're my investment now. Best part? I didn’t have to put a single bit of my own resources into you—pure upside for me." He chuckled, shaking his head. "It’s like finding a coin on the ground. No effort, all reward."

  "You showed up at a good time, not gonna lie. My resources are running a little low—some bad bets, poor investments, you know how it is." Cain stretched, rolling his shoulders before flashing a lopsided grin. "So, before the System decides it’s done with our little meet-and-greet, any questions? Make 'em count."

  Richter stood frozen for a moment, the weight of everything pressing down on him. Earlier, he had questioned if he even deserved to live, if there was any point in trying. But the more he thought, the more he realized—he wanted to live. There were too many questions left unanswered, too many things that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t a murderer, no matter what they said. No matter what the System had decided. It was an accident. Any court would have seen that. But this world had no courts, no trials—only judgment. And so, he had to survive. Not just to stay alive, but to prove—to himself, to the System, to whatever forces were watching—that he was more than the label they had forced upon him. That he was still him.

  "What do I do now? How do I survive?" Richter’s voice was cold, detached, stripped of emotion. He had spent enough time drowning in regret—right now, logic had to take over. "I’m alone, a healer with barely any combat ability, and even worse survival skills. I won’t last long like this." His gaze locked onto Cain, scrutinizing him. He had an all-powerful god in front of him—one who clearly wanted him alive, though not out of kindness. Cain had already admitted it. Self-interest. An investment.

  Fine. If Cain was going to gain something from this, so would Richter. If he had to play along, he’d make sure he came out of it with answers, power—something that would help him survive.

  Cain couldn't help but smile, a slow, knowing grin stretching across his scarred face. The boy had been teetering on the edge, but now—now something had shifted. Not broken. No, something had finally clicked into place.

  "Ah, there it is," Cain mused, his golden eyes gleaming with something between amusement and satisfaction. "That little moment when all the whining and self-pity burns away, and what's left is something useful. Took you long enough."

  Richter's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He wasn’t about to give Cain the satisfaction of a reaction.

  Cain chuckled. "Don't give me that look, kid. I’ve seen it happen a thousand times before. That little shift in the eyes, the moment the brain stops wallowing in ‘why me’ and starts thinking ‘what now?’ Congratulations. You just figured out the only thing that actually matters in this world."

  Richter exhaled slowly, his fingers loosening slightly around his staff, as if testing the weight of his own resolve. "And what's that?"

  Cain leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to something quieter, something almost conspiratorial. "You survive. That’s it. Everything else is just noise."

  Cain’s movements became exaggerated, almost comically so, as he strutted back and forth like an actor on stage. Richter furrowed his brows, watching in wary confusion.

  "Ah, now that’s a tricky question!" Cain declared, throwing his hands—well, hand—up in mock exasperation. "The System, you see, has all these pesky little rules about what gods can and can’t do for their dear, helpless little mortals. It frowns upon direct intervention. Says it 'diminishes the integrity of the trial' or some other self-important nonsense." He let out a deep, theatrical sigh, dramatically placing a hand over his chest. "So, alas, my hands are tied! Whatever shall I do?"

  Cain tapped his chin thoughtfully—not with his own fingers, but with Sophie's severed hand, still attached to the arm the bear had torn off. The sight sent a cold shudder through Richter’s spine. Cain noticed the look and grinned, wiggling the lifeless fingers like a grotesque puppet. "What? Waste not, want not."

  Cain made his way over to the bear's corpse, running a hand across its thick hide. "Fascinating creatures, these 'bears.' Every race seemed to have their own version, even before the System got involved." He crouched down, sniffing the air above the carcass, only to recoil with a disgusted grimace.

  With a contemplative hum, he traced the scars along the beast’s muzzle. "Every one of these I've come across has a den. You see, other creatures, even the dumb ones, they know better than to wander into the home of a predator this big. Instinct, self-preservation—it keeps them out. After all, you never know when the predator is going to come back."

  Cain let the thought linger before his expression shifted into something too deliberate, too performative. With an exaggerated flick of his wrist, he let Sophie’s severed hand drop from his grip. The motion was pointed, theatrical—too obvious. The dismembered limb landed with a dull thud, its fingers twitching slightly before going still, and yet, it just so happened to fall in a perfectly aligned direction—pointing straight toward where the bear had entered the clearing.

  Richter’s breath hitched. The realization hit him like a bolt of lightning—clear, undeniable. Cain wasn’t just making a point; he was leading him somewhere. The direction, the timing—it was all deliberate.

  "Anyway, sorry I can't help—rules and all. But hey, time's up." Cain flashed a cheeky wink, his grin widening. "One last thing—look down."

  And then, just like that, he was gone. No grand exit, no dramatic farewell—just an absence, as if he had never been there at all.

  The moment he vanished, the world stirred. The wind returned in a sudden rush, rustling through the trees, sending leaves dancing across the clearing. The forest exhaled, sounds rushing back all at once—the distant calls of birds, the subtle hum of insects, the creaking of branches swaying overhead. Richter stiffened. Had time stopped? Or had he simply not noticed its absence until now??

  Cain reappeared in the grand hall, his presence barely disturbing the flickering ethereal light. The blue god lifted his head from his tome, his glowing eyes settling on Cain with mild curiosity. "Why did you lie to that mortal? The System wouldn't have stopped you from telling him how to survive."

  His tone was calm, almost indifferent, as if the answer didn’t truly matter—but he had asked nonetheless.

  Cain smirked, stretching his arms behind his head as if the question amused him. "Where’s the fun in that? If I handed him all the answers, there’d be no challenge. No struggle. Mortals need a little pressure to show what they’re really made of. But it’d be nice to have a Blessed that lasts longer than a couple of weeks. Haven't had one live longer than a few weeks, let alone a whole tutorial."

  Cain’s chuckle was loud and hearty, vibrating through the hall as he clapped a heavy hand on the blue god’s back, nudging him slightly forward. "Admit it, you’re curious too. Let’s see if this one actually makes it."