A true mastermind must have a heart of steel and be ruthlessly cold-blooded. In this vast world, perhaps only by using an iron fist to seize everything for himself can he fill the ever-growing void of desire within.
Under the cover of night, a lone figure soared through the air, riding the wind, his gaze as sharp and cold as a blade.
He was born into poverty, which only made his ambition greater, more direct, more unrestrained. He cast aside all flowery words—what he wanted was simple: to rise from the lowest of the low to the very top. Growing up in a world ruled by faith and religious orders, he looked to the sky with burning longing, always knowing exactly what he desired most.
This unwavering desire drove him to break through that mysterious barrier, making him ever more certain of his own thoughts. Before him stretched a golden road to divinity—the path from mortal to god was now so clear, all he had to do was walk it, step by step, to reach the heavens. Compared to the masses lost and struggling in the mundane world, he believed that he, who had already glimpsed the dazzling light of heaven, was the one closest to the supreme throne.
And so, he completely abandoned his old name. From the moment he entered the top eight of the Heavenly Ranking, he allowed others to call him by only one word—God.
Soaring high above, endless gales answered his will, becoming his allies. The rolling sand dunes that once struck fear into desert travelers, the looming shadows of distant mountains that reminded people of their own insignificance—now, all these once-mighty things seemed to kneel at his feet. In this moment, he truly felt as if he wielded the authority of a god.
But deep down, he knew this road to godhood was even harder than he’d imagined.
Because this one-way road to being 'higher than anyone,' this creed that powered his soul and strength, was a path paved with blood and fire. The Almighty never allows another to stand beside Him, and 'God' is the same. If not even equals are permitted, then challengers and usurpers are out of the question. So, consciously or not, he always compared himself to the Black Death Emperor.
He knew that the Black Death Emperor was the target he had to eliminate. His path forward had to be clear, with nothing and no one in the way—only then could he become a god, only then could he truly fill the emptiness inside.
But now, besides the Black Death Emperor, other figures had appeared on his path.
The wild wind whipped his messy hair as he sensed that bold, brazen aura in the distance. 'God' narrowed his eyes. Days had passed, but every time he closed his eyes, he still saw flashes of that fateful skirmish. With just a single blow, that woman had injured him.
Though he’d quickly salvaged the situation and retreated, making it look like a calm, calculated move, he knew the truth: he’d been chased off with his tail between his legs…
Let’s repeat that: a guy who calls himself 'God,' who claims the heavenly throne as his own, got his butt kicked and chased off by some random woman! And she actually injured him! Now he had to hide out and nurse his wounds in secret, terrified that the spoiled rich kid he looked down on might notice something was wrong!
Could anything be more humiliating than this?
This isn’t about rivals or challengers anymore—this is pure mortal enmity! While he was striding toward godhood, that woman stomped right on his foot and twisted for good measure!
A foe like this must be destroyed.
If I don’t kill her, I’ll never be at peace.
If I’m not at peace, the road to godhood is blocked.
On the road to becoming a god, there can only be one.
It’s either you die, or I do!!
Born in Baghdad, with his base in the Arab world, the UAE was his home turf—tracking these people down wasn’t hard. But no matter how fierce his anger burned, it could never consume his reason. He knew that a fight between masters of this level was like a clash between nations; no one knew what cards the other was hiding, and victory wouldn’t come easy. Whoever could uncover the other’s secrets fastest, preserve their own strength, and break through to a new level first would gain the upper hand and ultimately claim victory in one decisive blow.
What gave him confidence now was his deepening partnership with that spoiled rich kid—his arsenal of trump cards and abilities was growing more complex and diverse. Each bottle of rainbow-colored solution vastly enriched his foundation, and combining them produced remarkable effects, like piecing together something that had been broken. With every new addition, he felt himself becoming more complete.
Last time, he’d been injured by a single punch. But after acquiring the yellow test tube, everything changed. When he unleashed the power of the yellow test tube, his whole body became tougher than steel. Small-caliber pistols and rifles felt like tickles; heavy machine guns stung, and only anti-materiel sniper rifles made him cautious. His defense was now on par with main battle tank armor.
But he knew he hadn’t reached the limits of these abilities. Though he’d collected quite a few test tubes, he could only use two types at once, and neither had been fully tapped. In other words, he still had plenty of potential to unlock—he was nowhere near his peak yet.
Still, he was sure that today, he finally had enough strength to take his revenge.
Besides, through a special channel, he’d learned that this woman definitely wasn’t one of the top eight on the Heavenly Ranking.
If she’s not in the top eight, there must be a reason—her overall strength must fall short of that level. Her punch was powerful, sure, but he was convinced she had her own weaknesses.
Maybe she’s slow, or has poor reflexes.
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Maybe she lacks stamina, or can’t keep fighting for long.
Maybe that day she just used some explosive secret technique, unleashing maximum damage in the shortest time. Among the Chosen, there are all kinds of special powers—too many and too complex to count. But no matter how things change, one thing remains the same: I, 'God,' am, for now, the second strongest in the world.
Before me, all enemies lose their heads.
Let me see—where is your weakness?
Let me see—where does your road to ruin begin?
Dragging a living person, and lacking true flight ability, Yang Qi’s high-speed glide couldn’t last long. 'God' was the master of the wind, an expert at flying, and he could easily estimate when Yang Qi would land. Though she’d left him far behind for now, 'God' wasn’t the least bit anxious, calmly following after her. His orange magic eye was locked firmly onto Yang Qi, never letting her out of sight for even a moment.
Fifteen minutes later, deep in the endless desert, Yang Qi landed. On this desolate land stood a small, long-abandoned wooden hut. Yang Qi dragged Santiago inside, disappearing behind the door.
Meanwhile, 'God' floated three hundred meters above, carried by the wind.
With magic eyes wide open, 'God’s' gaze grew even colder.
First, he looked at the sky—clear and bright, with little energy stored in the clouds, making it hard to draw a steady supply. His floating flight depended on absorbing energy from the wind, and with so little available, he couldn’t stay airborne for long. His altitude was steadily dropping—a definite disadvantage.
Next, he surveyed the ground—silent and vast, with nothing in the desert to block his view. Scanning with his magic eye, he found no buried explosives or concentrated high-energy sources, meaning it was unlikely any traps were set nearby. If that woman tried to escape, she’d have nowhere to hide—definitely an advantage.
He reached out and summoned a breeze, carrying sounds from the hut to him. His ears glowed faint orange, letting him hear everything happening inside, crystal clear.
“Money! Money, money, money! Whatever you want, take it all—just spare me!” That was Santiago, having just survived a trip to heaven and hell, now groveling without a shred of dignity.
“Money? You think I care about your pocket change? Listen, old man, spill everything you know and maybe I’ll let you live. If not, well, I’ll give you another taste of flying—though next time, who knows if I’ll catch you or let you splat.” That was the woman, clearly interrogating him.
“Say it! Say, say, say—I’ll tell you everything, whatever you want! No, wait, just tell me what you want to know first?”
‘God’ narrowed his eyes. He wanted to know the answer too. By learning what information the woman sought, he could deduce her intentions and current progress.
“Tell me everything about Old Zade. Yes, the very Zade you’re thinking of. Judging by your reluctance, do I need to give you a little motivation? Start from 1979—spill it!”
“1979... Fine, fine, I’ll talk, I’ll tell you everything.” Faced with death, Santiago still hesitated—clearly, Old Zade’s influence weighed heavy on him. But recalling past glories didn’t really count as betrayal, so Santiago decided to stall with some useless stories: “Old Zade fell on hard times, his family’s status plummeted, almost to ruin. Everyone thought the Zade kid was finished, but I saw potential and became his sponsor.”
—He couldn’t let him keep talking.
Intel gathered, situation assessed, pros and cons weighed—no special issues.
Now, it was time to kill.
The orange glow faded from 'God’s' eyes, replaced by a cold, piercing light. He stretched out his right hand, palm down, descending as he drew, gathered, and compressed the wild energy of the wind, aiming straight at the hut below.
Pressure Cannon—
Boom!