Absolute Cheater

The man's eyes bulged, his voice cracking with shock between ragged gasps.

"Who… who are you? How can a newly ascended be this strong?"

Asher only shrugged, expression unchanging.

"You ask too many questions."

His grip tightened. The worshipper's throat strained under his hand, veins bulging as the pressure of the eldritch aura tried and failed to resist. Then, with one sharp twist, Asher bent the man's neck back—and bit.

Fangs pierced flesh.

Blood spilled, hot and bitter with corruption, flooding across his tongue. But Asher was not drinking for sustenance. His eyes burned crimson, and in the stream of lifeblood came fragments, shards of memory not his own.

He saw them in flashes: black altars lit by candles that burned with green fire, the twisting maws of beings peering through cracks in reality, contracts signed in flesh, the promise of power given to traitors who opened the way. He saw the network—faces, names, hidden passages beneath the city, the secret hand that stirred conflict between the tri-races while feeding everything back to the thing beyond the veil.

It was more than whispers now. It was truth, pressed directly into his mind.

The worshipper's body went limp in his grip, eyes glassy, the borrowed aura dissolving like mist. Asher let him hang for a moment longer, then tossed the corpse aside. It hit the stone with a dull, lifeless thud, as though nothing had ever marked him as chosen.

Wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, Asher turned without another glance. His cloak whispered against the stones as he left the square, footsteps steady and unhurried.

The streets thinned as Asher left the crowded markets behind, his steps measured and unhurried. Soon the looming structure of the Dimensional Association rose into view, its marble-gray walls humming faintly with protective sigils. Unlike the underworld haunts he sometimes walked, here he blended in—just another traveler with business to tend.

Inside, the hall bustled with activity—scribes, adventurers, and officials moving in practiced rhythm. Asher stepped to the reception desk where a young clerk in regulation robes looked up with a professional smile.

"How may I help you today?" she asked.

"I'm here to report," Asher said evenly, sliding a small blood-marked shard across the desk. "Eldritch worshipper. Eliminated."

Her eyes flicked to the shard, recognition dawning as she straightened her posture. "Understood. Would you like this processed as information only or for a bounty claim?"

"Bounty," Asher replied.

She nodded briskly and tapped at a slate before her. "One moment. The bounty officer will handle confirmation."

A middle-aged man approached shortly after, a ledger tucked under his arm. He studied Asher with the detached curiosity of someone who had seen too many reports like this already. "So," he said, taking the shard and weighing it in his palm, "you're claiming an eldritch slayer bounty. They're tricky ones. How can you be certain he was a worshipper?"

Asher's gaze stayed level. "No trace of standard spell signatures. His aura was hollow, warped. He spoke of things older than stars. And when pressed, he broke—weak. A true worshipper, just not a strong one."

The officer's brow arched. "Hmph. Sounds like the type. Poor bastard, probably thought the void would make him special." He scribbled a note in the ledger, then handed Asher a stamped receipt. "Credits will be transferred to your account within the hour."

"Good," Asher said simply, taking the slip and tucking it away.

The officer gave a wry half-smile. "You can always bring more tokens like this. The Association pays well for keeping those things from rooting too deep."

Asher stepped out of the association's main hall, the cool air of the city washing over him as the heavy doors shut behind. He adjusted his cloak, blending once more into the current of ordinary travelers that drifted through the street. His movements gave away nothing—just another figure moving on with purpose.

Back inside, the officer who had processed him leaned back in her seat, absently flipping through the stamped report he'd left. Her eyes lingered on the name, her lips tightening into a thin line.

"Eldritch worshipper," she muttered under her breath. The word carried a weight, even spoken softly. For a moment she hesitated, then pulled a small crystal from the drawer and etched a coded signal across it, sending the report down hidden channels.

When the flare of light died, she stared at the parchment again, fingers tapping its edge. "So… newly awakened, he says." Her eyes narrowed, replaying the way Asher had spoken—calm, certain, detached.

Another clerk nearby glanced over. "Something wrong?"

The officer shook her head faintly, though her voice carried a quiet edge. "No. Just… most likely, that man wasn't slain in some reckless duel. If he truly was touched by eldritch whispers, someone wanted him erased before he became dangerous. And that one—" she tilted her head toward the door Asher had walked out of, "—handled it too cleanly."

The other clerk frowned. "You're suggesting—?"

She cut him off with a look. "Just keep an eye on him. There's more to that man than he shows."

Outside, Asher moved through the crowd like a shadow, crimson eyes hidden beneath the hood, utterly unbothered by the whispers his trail was already leaving behind.

Asher slipped his hand into his cloak and drew out the thin, obsidian card he had been issued. Its surface shimmered faintly, runes shifting in layered patterns that only revealed themselves when tilted against the light. Dimensional Credits.

In this higher plane, coins and mundane currency meant nothing. Here, the flow of resources was regulated by a singular authority, and all trade—be it for cultivation materials, relics, knowledge, or even mercenaries—was conducted through this single, incorruptible medium. Every being, from wandering cultivators to great clans, acknowledged its value.

The moment his soul aura brushed the surface, faint red digits appeared, tallying the credits he'd received for the mission. Not much by his own standards, but enough to blend in, enough to buy his next step forward without drawing unnecessary attention.

He tucked the card away, stepping into the current of the city streets. Towering spires of crystal-metal shimmered on all sides, their surfaces reflecting the multiple suns that glowed faintly in this realm's distorted sky. Stalls lined the thoroughfare, vendors hawking wares—soul-imbued weapons, blood crystals, beast marrow refined into pills, and even fragments of law-etched scripture. The air smelled of incense, steel, and a faint charge of power that lingered no matter where one walked.