God of Vengeance

Junvaris City, Zanvaris Province — International Building Materials & Home Furnishings Center. The office of Orwen Furniture was cramped, dusty, and smelled faintly of sawdust and old polish. Vaelin stood there, a strip of cloth wrapped around his head like a makeshift bandage. His eyes were distant at first, unfocused—then snapped into clarity as Manager Wren Kai’s sharp voice cut through the stale air. “Vaelin!" Your injury is your fault! "Fell off the shelf because you were careless,” Wren barked, each word icy enough to frost glass. I drove you to the hospital, paid the bills myself. The company won’t give you a single coin.” He leaned forward, sneering. “Gas money, medical fees? I’ll deduct them from your next paycheck.” “Vaelin! Are you even listening?” Wren’s eyes narrowed, slicing through the room like a knife. Blinking slowly, Vaelin finally spoke. “Oh.” “Good. Now get out of my office. Send Lyra Soren in.” As he stepped toward the door, Wren muttered, just loud enough for Vaelin to hear, “Useless piece of trash. Once I dock his pay, he’s fired.” Vaelin’s eyes darkened. He heard every word. Because he was not just Vaelin anymore. In another life—long, long ago—he had been heir to wealth, power, a family whose halls gleamed with gold and silk. Until one night, blood painted those halls red. His parents were slaughtered, his sister vanished like a shadow, and he plunged to his death from a ladder. Death, however, had not been the end. His soul had crossed into a distant alien realm, training for centuries, mastering cultivation until his strength brushed against godhood… only to be betrayed and cut down again. Now, inexplicably, he was back on Earth—weak, mortal, stripped of nearly all his power. Yet his mind remembered everything. And his rage burned hotter than ever. I will rise again. I will find the ones with dagger tattoos—the ones who destroyed my family. I swear it. In the hallway, Lyra, the receptionist, approached, hesitating. “Vaelin… are you okay?” He gave a faint, practiced smile. “I’m fine. The manager wants to see you.” She lingered a moment, frowning, then nodded and went in. Vaelin’s instincts stirred. Wren thrived on exploiting the weak, and Lyra’s kindness made her an easy target. Moments later, a sharp cry rang out. “What are you doing?! Let go of me!” Vaelin shoved the door open. Wren froze, mid-assault. His lip curled. “Get out.” Vaelin stepped back, then closed the door behind him. Wren smirked. “No one cares. My sister’s a shareholder. You’ll regret crossing me.” Lyra’s voice trembled, defiant. “I’ll call the City Guard!” “Who’d believe you?” Wren sneered. “Besides… I just credited 5,000 Myric Coins to your account. This month’s payment for ‘services rendered.’” “You’re lying!” she spat. Vaelin re-entered, calm, phone in hand. “Oh? My recording’s been running the whole time.” Wren lunged, but Vaelin’s hand flicked like a striking serpent. Wren went sprawling. “Private settlement or public exposure?” Vaelin’s voice was low, dangerous. Wren paled. “P-private.” “Good. Then the 5,000 becomes a bonus, my salary remains untouched, and you’ll add proper compensation. Officially, you fired me. I expect a glowing evaluation.” The wren ground his teeth. He had no choice. “I quit,” Vaelin added. “But remember—you’ll speak well of me.” Outside, he ripped the bandage from his head and tossed it into a bin. The wound had already healed. Lyra held up, cheeks flushed. “Thank you… for what you did there.” “Don’t mention it,” he said lightly. “Any plans now?” “One step at a time,” Vaelin replied, eyes glinting. He did not explain. His real mission was one he could tell no one: uncover the truth behind his family’s destruction, discover whether cultivators existed in this world, and claw his way back to the peak. Only then could he claim this realm and take his revenge. A thought struck him. “Are there cultivators here?” Lyra frowned. “Cultivators?” “People who harness spiritual power… and live forever.” Her blank expression was answer enough. Vaelin smiled faintly, dismissing it outwardly, though a small ember of hope smoldered inside. A loud argument broke the quiet. A well-dressed woman loomed over an old stall owner. Shards of ceramic jars littered the street. Thick, glowing liquid seeped into cracks—the label read Spirit Essence Tonic. Vaelin inhaled sharply. He felt it—faint, but unmistakable—a surge of spiritual energy. Drawn forward, he stopped before the stall. The middle-aged owner looked at him, eyes weathered, sharp. “You have the look of someone extraordinary,” the man said slowly. “Care for a reading of your fate?” Vaelin gave the birth date from his previous life. The man’s eyes widened in horror. “You… should be dead.” “Explain.” His fingers trembled as they traced Vaelin’s palm. “In this hand… the rise and fall of worlds,” he whispered. “How old are you, truly?” Vaelin’s lips curved into a shadow of a smile. “Older than I look.” The man gasped, stumbled back, spat blood, and collapsed onto a stool. “Heaven itself… cannot see his true age,” he murmured, shaking. By the time anyone looked, Vaelin was gone—vanishing into the city, one step closer to reclaiming what was stolen from him.