Chapter 45 When One Man Becomes God #2
His jaw tics at her name. Predictable. “Yes, well.” Eric straightens, voice tilting toward defiance. “The girl’s work, while notable, is hardly irreplaceable. Our internal teams are close to perfecting the stabilization sequence. We won’t need her much longer.”
“How fascinating.” I let a thread of amusement lace my tone.
“Though you should know that Luna has accepted my marriage contract. Any action taken against her would be interpreted as a direct assault on the Darkmoor family.” The color drains from his face and I savor the shift.
“But please,” I add, “continue detailing your plans to eliminate my future wife.”
“Marriage?” His pristine composure cracks. “But Vivienne . . . surely you can’t—”
“Can’t what, Eric?” I step closer, my smile never wavering. “Secure the most brilliant mind in essence manipulation? Ensure the integrity of our research with proper oversight?” I pause deliberately. “Protect my investments?”
He falters. “The other families won’t stand for this,” he says, but the certainty is gone from his voice. “A second wife? And so young—”
“Think bigger,” I murmur. “Her innovations have already tripled your profit margins. Imagine what she’ll accomplish with full Darkmoor patronage.” The transformation is immediate, his indignation collapsing beneath opportunity. Morality folds and calculation takes root.
This is what I’ve always respected about Dr. Vale: his ethics are precisely as resilient as his revenue stream.
“The waiting list has expanded substantially,” he admits, recalibrating his stance.
“And with Luna as my wife,” I say, “those treatments become proprietary to Vale Grace. Exclusivity ensures prestige and safety.”
I watch the realization bloom behind his eyes. Power. Leverage. Ownership. The idea of letting such advancement slip into another hospital’s hands in Veldrith is unthinkable.
Eric’s smile returns, genuine now. Not from approval but understanding. Status, scandal, even pride becomes trivial when weighed against supremacy.
“Well then,” he says, adjusting his collar, “I trust the wedding will be appropriately extravagant?” Such a perfect puppet.
A scream shatters the air.
The monitoring screens flash warning signals, then stabilize. Another weapon forged in the crucible of necessity.
“Our success rate remains impressive,” Eric observes, studying the data. “Though our essence supply is strained. Even with Kian’s networks in the Northern Wastes, and the arena-grade specimens, we’re depleting faster than we anticipated.”
He hesitates. Then adds carefully, “The sanctuary’s full inventory would rectify the shortage. Or perhaps agreements with other regions . . . ”
“The supply chain is being handled,” I say dismissively.
Let him fret. The creatures we have will serve my purpose perfectly. Quality over quantity, and these particular specimens house exactly the kind of devastating power I need.
“There’s another matter,” Eric continues, lowering his voice.
“The psychological impact of more aggressive essences. We never saw this level of consciousness override in the pure creature trials. The essence isn’t just enhancing their abilities, it’s dominating the host’s original personality, rewriting their very nature. ”
I arch an eyebrow, inviting elaboration.
“The Hellweaver candidates,” he says, gesturing to the far chambers, where shadows snarl against reinforced glass. “Their magical signatures have been completely subsumed. They’re not enhanced humans anymore. They’re becoming true Hellweavers, with all the chaos and destruction that implies.”
I observe a dark flame coiling across one subject’s arm. It clings to the skin like a parasite with intent. Not destruction alone, but appetite. The old texts called Hellweavers demons that dream of being dragons. Watching that fire stalk the chamber, I understand why. It doesn’t burn. It hunts.
This is what the others fear to grasp—that evolution demands sacrifice. Greatness cannot be achieved through half-measures and careful regulations. When history looks back, it will not list committees and councils. It will speak one name. One savior. One god.
The masses cry out for order, for protection, for someone to carry their burdens. I will answer, and deliver them from their own weakness. And in doing so, become eternal.
“They’re not just gaining abilities,” Eric says, tension threading into his words. “They’re being rewritten entirely. We won’t be able to control them.”
“And this troubles you?” I keep my tone mild, though inwardly I smile at his shortsightedness.
I don’t need them controlled. I need them unleashed.
“The permanent psychological alterations—”
“Luna’s current project will resolve any behavioral discrepancies,” I interject. “We’re not cultivating an army of healers, Eric. We’re engineering weapons we’ll need when the time comes.”
When the other Founding Families resist. When the regions refuse to kneel.
I pivot. “Tomorrow’s trial schedule. How many subjects are prepared?”
“Twenty from the Lower Rings, all pre-screened and processed. Three more elites for the public program upstairs.” He hesitates. “Though after last night’s event, we may need to revisit the screening protocols.”
Ah, there it is.
The first fissure. The beginning of doubt.
“Incidents are inevitable in work this radical,” I say soothingly. “Though if you feel we’re moving too quickly . . . ”
“No!” He catches himself, softening his tone. “No, of course not. We can’t afford hesitation. The potential is too great.”
I watch another subject’s body absorb the transformation, already calculating how long until this miracle curdles into catastrophe. How many accidents before the public demands oversight? Before someone looks for a culprit? And who better than Dr. Eric Vale?
“Edmund,” I say, warmth threading through my tone as I spot him scribbling with his ever-present enchanted pen. Always the witness who ensures that his name is written beneath every achievement. “Walk with me? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
He brightens instantly. In his mind, we are collaborators, perhaps even friends. “Of course, Alexander.” He turns to Eric. “If we’re finished here for tonight?”
He waves him off.
As we walk toward the private elevator, I broach the subject carefully. “The Board’s recent review of educational funding has raised concerns. With our newly streamlined initiatives emphasizing practical application over abstract theory—”
“Alexander.” Edmund’s voice sharpens with conviction. “You can’t seriously mean to cut academic access. Silva has always stood for comprehensive education, not state-sanctioned apprenticeship. These children deserve—”
“To survive,” I counter, concern coiled perfectly into my voice. “How many families in the Lower Rings can afford to send their offsprings to learn theory when they need labor or food?”
He falters, the historian in him warring with the realist. “But the Silva family . . . our legacy is the preservation of knowledge, of truth.”
“Exactly.” I smile, pressing my advantage. “Just as your family helped shape how history remembers the Blood War, the Collapse, and all those uncomfortable truths that needed careful interpretation. You understand better than anyone that information must be curated.”
His eyes gleam at that. Yes, he remembers how the Silva Archives selectively preserved certain versions of events. How they helped construct the narratives that kept power where it belonged.
“What we’re doing here, Edmund—these advances, these transformations—this is the dawn of a new era. Someone must chronicle it, and ensure future generations understand the purpose behind the sacrifice.”
The truth they all refuse to see: The God failed. He cursed us with blood magic, and shackled our potential, but I will not become him. I will become what he should have been.
Man, perfected. Civilization, unleashed. Legacy, immortal.
Let them call me monster and whisper tyrant. When I break Astrafel, when I unchain magic from blood, they will understand, and kneel not in fear, but in reverence. The city is already mine, the regions will follow. History will call it destiny.
“You want me to record this?” Edmund’s voice carries barely contained excitement.
“Who better?” I pause just long enough. “Your name etched beside the greatest minds in Veldrith’s history.”
“The education restructuring—”
“Is progress. Why invest in obsolete models when you could stand at the threshold of revolution?”
I watch my words feed his deepest desire to be remembered, to matter, to have his name etched in the annals of the history he so lovingly maintains.
He straightens, voice steadier now. “I believe there’s room to modernize our approach.”
“Excellent.” I smile, warm and final. “Then who better to document our rise, than the man who helped make it all possible?”