The sky cracked open like splintering glass, divine light spilling through the rents in reality. Ashen Verrick stood in the heart of the ruined capital, soaked in blood not all his own. Around him, the corpses of angels and monsters mingled. The final battle was over.
And he had won.
He should've felt something. Relief. Triumph. Rage. But the only thing left was silence—a deadened hush that pressed on his eardrums like cotton soaked in frost.
The Demon God's corpse smoldered at his feet, still twitching with residual divine energy. Ashen's body was barely standing, every muscle shredded, bones like cracked stone columns. He'd used everything—his blade, his life, his very soul—to strike that final blow.
And yet…
From behind the walls of the sanctified cathedral, cheers began to rise.
They were not for him.
He turned slowly. Limped. Stumbled into the plaza where the people gathered like sheep. At the top of the marble staircase, flanked by the holy banners of the Hero Church, stood a golden-haired man dressed in immaculate white and gold armor.
Kaleid D'Mirian.
The Chosen Hero.
Ashen watched as Kaleid lifted a gleaming sword toward the sky, the crowd erupting in worship.
"I vanquished the Demon God," Kaleid proclaimed, his voice bolstered by divine amplification magic. "Glory to the Heavens. Peace to the world!"
Lies.
Ashen's throat tightened. He opened his mouth, tried to speak, but no sound came. His vision blurred. Not from injury—but from something worse.
System Notification:"Victory has been logged. Credits assigned: Kaleid D'Mirian (Primary), Party of Light (Secondary).""Ashen Verrick: Status – Anomalous Participant. Entry redacted."
Redacted.
They were erasing him.
Ashen dropped to one knee. The System had always been a cruel overseer, but this was different. This was surgical.
As if he'd never been.
The darkness came for him slowly. No drama. No sound. Just a creeping numbness that swallowed his limbs, his breath, his name.
Then… a voice. Unfamiliar. Neither divine nor demonic.
"Do you regret saving a world that forgot you?"
He didn't answer. Didn't need to.
"A curse, then. A second chance—to walk the path again, but shackled. You may not change fate without accepting its burden."
A thread of light pierced the black. A window—not through space, but time.
"This is your Anathema."
Ashen reached for it. His fingers brushed the edge of something burning.
The world shattered.
The Past: Year 0 of the Hero Summoning
Pain.
Worse than death. Worse than divine retribution. It felt like being dragged backward through glass and fire, every memory clawing to stay behind.
Ashen gasped awake.
He lay sprawled on warm stone, sunlight bleeding through high windows. Around him, dozens of other figures groaned and stirred—newly summoned candidates, disoriented and confused. Teenagers. Mercenaries. A few nobles.
Just like before.
The Summoning Chamber.
Ashen sat up slowly, the pain fading like smoke. He felt… different. Weaker. Younger.
He looked down at his hands. Smooth. No scars. No calluses. The hands of a man who hadn't fought a hundred battles. But the memories were intact. Every betrayal. Every kill. Every silent, aching sacrifice.
System Alert:"Welcome to the Hero's Trial. You have been selected as a Candidate for Salvation."
A dozen people reacted with confusion and awe. Some gasped. Others cheered.
Ashen's screen didn't match theirs.
System Alert:"Candidate: Ashen Verrick – Rejected.""Reason: No divine affinity. System classification: Anomalous.""Anathema Trait active."
He exhaled slowly. So, this was how it would be.
The System couldn't see him anymore. Not fully. He was outside its grid. That meant no Hero Blessing. No stat boosts. No divine protection. But also—no leash.
Good.
He stood, joints stiff but functional. Already, the first tests would begin: the dungeon gates would open within the hour, sending terrified candidates into a controlled simulation meant to weed out the weak. A few would die. Most would bond with their Blessings. One would be chosen.
Kaleid.
He was here too—Ashen's eyes scanned the crowd, finding him toward the back. Smiling. Playing the role of the humble warrior, hands folded as if in prayer. Behind that mask was a schemer. A coward. A liar who would let others bleed and then steal the credit.
Ashen turned away before the rage could swallow him.
He wasn't here for revenge. Not yet.
He needed to survive the Tutorial World again.
And this time, make damn sure they couldn't bury the truth.
The Trial Dungeon was the same.
A repurposed realm meant to simulate low-tier demon incursions. Slime monsters, goblin scouts, mana leeches. But the traps were real. The fear was real.
Ashen's group—randomly assigned—was mostly young nobles. Ill-prepared. Arrogant. One girl wept openly the moment the stone door sealed behind them.
He ignored them.
They didn't matter. Not yet.
Instead, he moved ahead quietly, noting every inch of the terrain. The first ambush came within five minutes—a corridor of shadow-fused goblins.
Screams.
Two people died immediately. Blood sprayed the walls. The nobles froze.
Ashen moved without thought. His blade—rusted and low-grade—sang in his hands. Precision. Brutality. Control.
He killed five goblins in six seconds.
The others watched, stunned. Someone whispered, "What level is he…?"
Ashen didn't answer. The System wouldn't show his stats. Wouldn't reward him with Hero Points. He was a ghost.
And for now, that was a good thing.
The dungeon dragged on for hours. Death took four more. By the end, only Ashen and three survivors remained. One girl with burn marks on her hands—she'd awakened a Fire Blessing mid-fight. Another boy with bloodstained armor who hadn't said a word.
And a half-elf healer, shaking but alive.
They reached the exit. The survivors' screens flashed.
"Trial Complete. Blessing Registered. Rank: C+"
Ashen's screen remained blank. Instead, a different message appeared.
System Alert:"Anathema Trigger: Event Averted. Massacre Prevented.""Burden Transferred: Physical cost – 4% muscle degradation."
He staggered as a burning sensation ran down his leg. A cost. A warning.
If he interfered too much, the System would extract payment from his body.
He could save lives. But not without bleeding for it.
Outside the gate, waiting priests greeted the survivors with cheers and holy light.
Except for Ashen.
The moment he stepped through, he felt the change. People looked past him. His name wasn't called. No one clapped. The light didn't touch him.
He wasn't part of the record.
But a man in grey robes noticed. Eyes sharp behind a weathered face.
"An outlier," the man murmured. "Interesting…"
Ashen didn't react. He didn't need friends. Not yet. He needed time.
Time to plan.
Time to remember what came next.
The capital.
The fake hero.
The Church.
The lies.
That night, he sat alone at the edge of the summoned barracks, sharpening his blade under a dead sky. Stars twinkled, unaware of the pain below.
A faint breeze carried laughter from the courtyard—newly blessed candidates celebrating their survival.
Ashen stared at the blade.
"You won't remember me," he whispered. "But I will never forget any of you."
He wasn't a hero.
Not to them.
But in the end, they would know the truth.
Even if it killed him again.