The revived Immortal

[TheGodof ThronesAboundant]

The gods seemed to delight in tormenting him today, as they had throughout his existence. Their laughter must have thundered in the heavens, as they schemed to strip him of his dignity and hope.

He felt the weight of their mockery with every step, like a relentless ache deep within his chest. Haunting memories of his Past replayed in his mind, each a dagger that twisted deeper. Making shadows of his past successes had long been overshadowed by the looming presence of despair, making his constant suffering unbearable.

The decades he had committed, all that he had endured—the scorn, the ridicule, the pain, the starvation, the humiliations—all for a goal that a boy fresh out of school cracked within three hours in a public interview about dogs. It had to be a joke.

Forty-seven years of skipping meals, stealing, fighting, robbing, and being unrepentant in other immoral ways. He would order from the restaurant, then skip out on the bill, taking and robbing elderly ladies, the mentally ill, young women, and even children. He had sacrificed everything, every shred of his humanity, for the elusive promise of a breakthrough. He'd lived on the fringes, a ghost in the shadows, his hands forever stained by the desperate acts he'd committed to fuel his obsession. He'd alienated everyone who cared, leaving a trail of broken trust and shattered relationships.

Staring at the news article, his vision blurred. The headline screamed about a young prodigy, barely out of his teens, who had solved the problem that had consumed his entire adult life, not through sacrifice, not through suffering, but through sheer, effortless luck. The injustice of it all was a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. All those years, all those desperate acts, all that self-inflicted misery—for nothing. The gods weren't just laughing; they were openly mocking him, parading their new favoured in the dust of his desolate failure.

Needless to say he was pissed, truly and utterly. What he did next might be seen as an overreaction by most, but he knew he was justified. He didn't have any regret, and until he went before god he would continue to have none. It was the only appropriate action to commit, it couldn't be allowed to happen, so he took his gun, travelled to North Carolina then to the boy's house. It was Thanksgiving, so there was the boy with his whole family and friends, along with their parents and their friends. They had their dinner. Talk with themselves, the warm glow of laughter and celebration spilling through the windows like a cruel mockery of his own reality. He could hear the clinking of glasses, mingling with the fresh aroma of turkey and pie. Each sound felt like a knife digging deeper into his already raw wounds, a reminder of the life he had forfeited in pursuit of a dream that was now painfully out of reach.

With his heart racing and adrenaline coursing through him, he gripped the cold steel of the gun tightly. Each whisper was drowned out by the roaring tumult of his envy and rage.

He saw the boy sitting at the table, oblivious to the storm brewing outside, blissfully unaware of the years of torment that filled the emptiness in his own heart. It was a life he had sacrificed everything for, only to watch it slip away into the hands of someone who hadn't even broken a sweat.

He stood, walked in their backyard where they ate. They didn't see it coming.

He raised the gun, unleashing the turmoil that had festered within him for decades. He could see the picture of the innocent joy on the faces of the boy's family, all blissfully ignorant of the destruction.

Storming through the bushes, he fired, shooting the boy's mother first. Shot after shot began to unleash, the weight of his despair released with every bullet. Father, the mother of the other kids, a man, a woman, bullets flew as he emptied his clip after clip, firing indiscriminately.

They ran, bullets flying as they dove for cover. Gunshots enter their backs, sides, or anywhere they catch them. For a second, pellets flew into most. Most survivors had run off and were walking after them, pointing and shooting at them. They ran, hid in cobwebs, behind sofas, cubby boards, bedboards, nothing save them though. Blasting them. Everybody, everyone got a shot, bullet holes filled them, everyone.

Then the boy's girlfriends lay on the ground and held his arm, suffering from a gunshot wound to the chest. Walking up to the boy was cradling the girl, he remembered pointing the gun, emptying the chamber in the boy's head.

The God champion died that day, he felt nothing as he round after round penetrated the child's head, the animosity, the anger, the self-tormenting emotion wasn't present, he felt nothing.

The family death had been absolute or had to be with them how many bullets entered them from all angles or head, he'd repeatedly shot them again those without gunshot wounds to the head and spine, just in case they survived they'll be cripples, sociaply useless and scorn, pitted, rediculed, misguged, or mocked, handle like crap, no use to anyone, a siosoly out class, joke of comedy. A speculation. No more. Now he would laugh. He made a comedy. A divine spectacle.

He walked out of the door heading toward his car, The neighbours mostly only heard the screaming, most were silent though, The sound was mostly silenced by the music attached to the Bluetooth boxes that the staff sometimes use to host parties or get-togethers, he provided the loudest music on his phone when he had connected, most of the music drown out the broken furniture noises, th the closes neighbours propaly heard screming thanksgiving ways a fun afternon for the family, and the mustic was so loud neighbours further down woun't hear anything but loud music, the boys' mothers favarate music after she then her husband were in a argument with another family over dog feises and ticks, infested furnisure, breedin of the family bitch by the boy's mothers dog. The gun silencer was further muffled by music played by the speakers.

Driving away, he didn't think to start anew, no, not the world would allow it. The act of vengeance planned was to end it, allow. His death was certain, that day was his last, he could feel it. Perhaps the gods had orchestrated this moment of revelation; he knew he knew he would die then, it was an assured, unavoidable

With each passing mile, he didn't feel the faintest bit bitter or regretful. Life was too rough for those emotions. They were weakness, from what he experience. Now he had none.

Those were the Last thoughts before he car skided off the road.

_______________

He thought he was going to hell at first. The Gods punishing him further, pushing their divine comedy more heavily on his soul, he already knew impending doom, he knew that they would judge him or one god would, he would stand before them in the hall of judgment, convinced his fate was sealed.

But he realised that his lungs took in oxygen and he exhaled, but such a thing was impossible, he conspired to himself. The discovery was another matter.

The scent of jasmine and unfamiliar wood filled his nostrils first. He blinked, the ornate canopy above him shimmering in a soft, golden light. This wasn't the sterile hell or hall of judgment, nor a hospital bed, the woods or the place where he'd drawn breath. He remembered the screech of tires, the searing pain, then… nothing.

Now, he felt a strange, vibrant energy thrumming beneath his skin, a sensation both alien and exhilarating. His body felt different too—younger, stronger, every muscle humming with an unfamiliar vitality. He tried to sit up, a groan escaping his lips, and that's when he saw her.

Lying beside him, her long, dark hair fanned across the silken pillow, was a woman of breathtaking beauty. Her features were delicate, her skin like polished jade, and her full lips were slightly parted in sleep. A whisper of silk draped her form, hinting at curves that stirred a primal warmth in her chest.

He froze, his mind a whirlwind of confusion. Who was she? Where was he? And most importantly, how was he still alive?

As if sensing his gaze, her eyelids fluttered open, revealing eyes the colour of deep emeralds. A soft, sleepy smile touched her lips, and she reached out a hand, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"Awake at last, my love," she murmured, her voice like wind chimes. "You worried me, falling into such a deep slumber after our… exertions."

Exertions? His memory was a blank slate before the accident. He had no recollection of this woman, this room, or any "exertions" whatsoever. Yet, the way she looked at him, with such tenderness and familiarity, spoke volumes.

"I apologise," he stammered, his voice rough and unfamiliar. "My head was killing me"

A delicate shift to place her hand on his head. "Of course, my dear, you hit your head on that stubborn spirit beast stone during your morning meditation, my dear. Not severely, but enough to rattle your senses, it seems." She chuckled, a melodic sound that sent shivers down his spine. "No matter. We have all the time in the world to evaluate true damage"

She sat up, the silk pooling around her, revealing glimpses of a figure that made him feel his breath catch. "But first," she said, her emerald eyes sparkling with mischief, "perhaps a reminder of our bond would hasten your healing process?"

His mind was reeling. Dead one moment, and now, by the looks of it, a man of some standing, married to a stunning woman, He could feel the energy radiating from her, a subtle warmth that felt akin to the thrumming in his own veins, but far more refined, more potent.

The beautiful stranger, who seemed to be his wife, seemed to have just begun, as she began to place the kiss down and down until she reached his covers the pulling the down.

His mind was still trying to understand as her wet mouth enveloped him.

It was a few minutes before he thought fully again.




Hell couldn't feel so good could it.