Under the immense pressure of the apostolization, I watch my own life unfolding.

Everything that I did, everything that I am. To this moment.

I hope.

Right now I'm at Chapter One: Gray Infant.

An infant as pale as a ghost, weak already, fated for nothing in this wretched world, was born seven days ago. I was born at deathbed.

Born at Deathbed, huh? Now that's a cool name.

Scratch Gray Infant, who even made that shitty name? Born at Deathbed—that is the name of the first chapter of my autobiography.

***

Well, fuck.

I am still here, three years in, and a baby that receives a transfusion of holy power on a daily basis.

It hurts to know how much my mother did for me, more than she bothered telling me. She gave me her blood and prayed for me inside this godforsaken place I call home.

There is no need for food or sleep. I can't touch others or even interfere using killing intent or intimidation. The apostolization is constantly pressuring my soul, and I can't leave my baby self too far, so there's little I do.

I send my phantom and examine every nook and cranny, trying to find more information on my weird home. Even though I do not wish to go back, there are still plenty of things I am missing, unfortunately, so this is a good opportunity.

I also watch my father swinging his sword. His movements are beautiful, merciless, and radiating mature and thoughtful killing intent. They are sharp, focused on slashing more than thrusting. Dad holds a longsword a tad longer than mine, even though I have always seen him with a katana.

His eyes are black like mine, his hair is black like mine, his skin a rich color from staying under the sun for so long. He is very handsome and tall; even his movements are graceful and natural.

My father is a powerful man, extremely talented and hardworking. He is weaker than me at this point, but I think the him of the present is stronger. From reading his intent as he trained, I know what he aimed for, and I have to say: when he succeeds, he will become one of the strongest on the continent.

After me, of course.

I observe carefully, pushing aside the pain, as he manifests palpable energy and controls it, strengthening his body in a way that is unlike using spirit or a spell.

Spirit increases the body's specs evenly inside its field, but this energy moves and circulates, needing to be distributed and constantly maintained with a greater effort. The efficiency is better, and you can decide whether to increase strength, agility, or endurance. That's ki, an energy widely used by warriors on the eastern continent.

Spirit is more of an automatic, while ki is manual, or something like along these lines.

Dad was born on this continent just like me, but he's inherited our clan's full blood and the talents of those from Longzhao. His physical enhancement made him fearsome in close combat and even a great scouter.

I stay for a few more minutes until he activates his spirit. The application is different, influenced by his skill, Ignition. Then I leave, having nothing to learn, as his fire spirit is pretty normal.

I go to where my mother is, cooking a meal that is actually just charcoal. There is something weird about it I need to observe.

***

Five years in, and the pain intensifies.

For the most part, I just observe my baby sister in her cradle. There is nothing too interesting; just seeing her brings me solace.

I do not eat or drink, nor do I sleep or even breathe. That is also my chance to relax, but I'll be damned if I miss the opportunities I lost again.

But it's tough, mentally. Anyone else would've lost their mind already.

***

My spirit unfolds, and like every other time I tried, instead of a transparent field, it comes in fragments.

The power of spirit fluctuates with emotions, greatly affected by the heart, so I've associated it with the heart for a long time. Not just me, but every spirit user I've met thus far is the same. Oddly enough, we were wrong. It's not born from the heart but merely manifests from there—it originates from the soul itself; that's the conclusion, seeing how the burden on my soul disables me from using my spirit.

Phantom works somewhat fine depending on the use. Manipulating my phantom is possible, probably easier in this strange place, but amplifying it makes it... unstable. I can use it properly if I consume mana like a normal person, but the potency and output are terrible.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I really don't know how people manage fueling skills using mana alone. It's such an inefficient energy source.

I practice manipulating my phantom every second.

By the time this apostolization is over, Phantom will have undergone a massive upgrade.

Just you wait, black-mask-future-me... screw it, I am calling him Blackie. Just you wait, Blackie!

***

I'm eight now.

Life is so fucking terrible.

***

9 years.

Shitty as fuck, but there are a few good things about it.

Unfortunately, I'm not one of them.

***

11 years.

I enter the divine realm of another Original God alongside my bratty self.

We wander deserts and oceans and forests, encountering countless beings which he opts to kill or ignore.

Decades flash by, my other self unaware of the flow of time, unlike me.

I am all too aware of how time actually flows, down to the second.

***

Now actual enemies appear, not just malevolent beings.

They are the ghosts of perished Heroes and Demon Kings, their souls too strong to dissolve, yet it lacks their actual power.

I remember them all, every single one. They were the fucking strongest empty shells I ever fought.

Phantom grants me an edge; the me in that realm is the strongest, my every attack potent.

It's here that I learned to recognize the soul, to store mana infinitely in my soul, and so many more.

***

I disregard everything and focus on improving my phantom manipulation further.

***

I feel a foreign energy attempting to influence me.

Knowing what it is, I resist, and after expending a great deal of effort, I barely succeed in repelling it.

They let me win.

***

I accompany my small self into his dreams, its quality different after the decades in a divine realm.

I've heard about those that can experience lucid dreams at will and enter mental landscapes, whether their own or others, freely through their dreams. Those who have this quality are called Dreamers, and I guess I am one too, which makes me wonder if there is a connection between Dreamers and Nyx.

Maybe that's why I experience Demon Slayer Dreams every time I kill a demon, even though the odds should be extremely low.

***

Phantom activates normally now.

***

14 years old, and I take a detour, watching the life I led in the previous timeline.

It's enlightening.

***

Present time.

I can unfold my spirit normally. That's it.

***

“Welcome back,” Kronos greets me as I open my eyes.

Iris hugs me tightly.

I rise to my feet and carry her. She looks at me with apprehension; her eyes radiate a divine golden glow. Otherwise, she looks the same, but I can sense how differently this space reacts to her.

Her emotions are transmitted to me; my emotions are transmitted to her.

Oops.

“It seems the two of you formed a bond, albeit temporary,” Kronos observes, mentioning it only now that it's irreversible. “Protect my daughter well, Ark.”

Feeling brave, I raise my middle finger at him.

He should know what it means, and now Iris knows too.

This bond thing is annoying.

“Don't feel insulted,” I say before she can complain out loud. “I am reacting normally to this. Why are you accepting it so easily?”

“Because... you keep saving me. Back then, and even now.” I feel her sincerity, her gratitude.

How long is this gonna last?

“Whatever,” I say, “just send us back already.”

Kronos smiles, looking at his daughter one last time before snapping his fingers, and we reappear in the room we were before, not a second has passed.

I disconnect from my emotions, weakening the bond.

Like a string, I snap the connection and reconnect to my emotions. Doing so this way won't erase the bond we formed, but I can decide if I want to use it or not.

The bond suddenly forms, Iris synchronized with me on her own accord. I can sense her playfulness. “I guess I can do that too, now.”

“Go to sleep now. I have something to do.”

She nods. “Ark, it's today. The day the city burned.” She whispers, almost talking to herself. “Things are different, an attack started way earlier, and that startled me. I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry, when you wake up, the city will be just as you left it.”

I leave, Silvia waiting at the door. Seeing her after all this time has made me realize many things, but I still think Primordial Wind is an extraordinary power that isn't any worse than divinity.

Also...

Well, self-reflection is bullshit.

I got to the same conclusions, mostly.

“Everything is good. There is no residue of the foreign presence in her system.” I start explaining everything, doing so bluntly and shortly, yet Silvia understand and doesn't tell me to elaborate.

Her reply?

“Welcome back.” She smiles softly and welcomes me, as if the bomb of gods and apostles are nothing.

This is kinda cool, I admit.

“We'll talk later. There is something I gotta take care of.”

“Need help?”

“Nope.”

Silvia nods, and I leave her behind, leaving the palace, sitting on the grass on the sidewalk to the front door.

I feel a familiar killing intent, one supposed to be dead. It ignites my crimson aura, bringing forth unbridled power.

A black orb in the shape of my fist falls down from above, containing a scary amount of concentrated black flames as thousands of wraiths emerge and encircle the city, ready to fly in and cause mayhem.

My crimson aura expands over the entire capital. I send pulses of destructive intent at both the army of wraiths and a tiny orb of black flames.

Both vanish, dusting into nothingness.

Returning the aura closer to me, I locate the main culprit of this attack, moving towards him in a superhuman display of speed.

I grab Darky by the head and launch him to the ground, pummeling his head on the soil.

“Wow, I managed to catch a big insect this time,” I say, pulling his head up and down several times.

He resists, enhances himself, and attempts to rise, but my strength exceeds his, and he is unable to move.

I slowly crush his skull, then I get up, placing my foot atop his head.

And I wait. For the people rushing to the source of the noise—the knights, the guards, the commanders, the king, and any more—all getting a front seat to me stomping on Darky's pride and dignity.

He roars, so I insert Silverstar in his throat so he won't be able to speak.

“Hey guys,” I say, knowing my casual attitude is driving the demon crazy. “Turns out, this guy is really immortal; like some roach, he will continue to revive even if I disintegrate every piece of flesh.”

That's information I got while watching the replay of our battle. After it was over, he simply reappeared. On the other side of the continent, his strength not declining one bit, Darky has made a complete resurrection.

“That means I just have to keep killing him, though. He is super weak.”

My tone is playful, accentuating the last word to maximize the humiliation.

They understand how strong Darky is. His threatening bearing and the darkness surging through his body compose a terrifying aura, cracking the earth as I bury him deeper.

See me as I trample this strong demon, as I do so effortlessly, and learn to never mess with me.

Otherwise, you will share his fate.

I crush Darky's pride along with his skull, erasing the corpse with the intent of destruction.