This Hyperreal God Is An Overkill

With no care in the world, Surreal yanked his hand free and let Sancha collapse to the ground. But he wasn't done. 

Kneeling beside his assistant, Surreal calmly began prying off his arms along with the fabric covering the skin.

The sickening crack of bone echoing through the office.

Sancha screamed. Or tried to. His voice was little more than a strangled rasp as he writhed in agony. "Why... why am I not dying?"

"Oh, that," Surreal said, inspecting the severed arm with mild interest. "Beforehand, I've tinkered with the department's revival privileges. Nobody here can die normally anymore." He chuckled, casting a wide and sinister smile. "You'll remain conscious, of course, but regeneration? Not happening until you finally rots. Fascinating, isn't it? For a mere manager like me to hold so much power, yet not at the same time~"

He stood, examining his handiwork. Sancha's arms dangled from his gloved hands, crimson dripping onto the polished floor.

"These will do nicely," Surreal mused. "But I'll need more. Your spine, perhaps?"

Sancha's protests were cut short as Surreal reached into his back, tearing the spine free in one swift motion. 

As he began weaving the arms and spine into something dark and arcane, he added casually, "Oh, don't look at me like that, Sancha. This is your future self's fault, really. You betrayed me in one of my previous lives. I trusted you greatly. Tsk, tsk. Oh, about the thing I'm doing? Don't fret. It's merely something simple called, black magic.

"An interesting fact about me, I've come from a lineage of an indigenous tribe consisting of powerful yet reserved dark shamans.

"We lived in peace with our tribalistic traditions and all, but that was the case before World Peace Corp. invaded our land to build some stupid geometric building—right on the center of the island and along the shores.

"Heh, and now I'm a manager for one of their major departments! Fate can be really amusing, don't you think?"

Sancha's consciousness faded in and out as Surreal molded the grisly components into a grotesque piece of attachment. 

The shamanic manager then strapped it to his back, adjusting the two extra arms now extending from his suit. He flexed his new extra limbs experimentally before offering Sancha a final, almost affectionate smile.

"Well, this has been delightful. Do blame your currently non-existent future self for this inconvenience," Surreal shrugged with all four of his arms, donning a mocking smirk to the now pitiful and vulnerable Sancha. "If only that, out of all the possible realities there is, not a single one of you turned into a traitorous bastard…

"But that will be impossible, isn't it? I mentioned it as all-possible realities for a reason." Carefreely, he strode toward the door, his movements fluid, the slight sway of his long white hair almost hypnotic under the stark white office lights. "And I'm an awfully petty person."

Behind Surreal, the faint squelching sound of blood on the tiled floor was the only reminder of the grotesque scene he was leaving behind. His new pair of arms, extending from his back and twitching slightly as if testing their newfound autonomy, added an unsettling edge to his otherwise pristine figure.

As he stepped into the corridor, a young employee rounded the corner, nearly colliding with him. She froze mid-step, her eyes wide as they met his closed ones.

"Ah, Manager Surreal!" she said, clutching a stack of translucent reports to her chest. "I was just coming to check on—"

Surreal raised a gloved hand, silencing her with a gentle, almost playful wave. "Stop right there," he said, his tone light but commanding. "I need you to drop whatever it is you're doing and make an urgent appointment with Director Oswald. There's a matter of utmost importance that simply cannot wait."

The woman blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. "But… isn't that Sancha's job?" she asked, glancing over his shoulder as if expecting the assistant to materialize behind him.

"Sancha?" Surreal repeated, tilting his head as if pondering the name. His serene smile returned, soft and unassuming. "Oh, yes. Sancha. He's a little… overencumbered at the moment. Too much on his plate, you see."

A sympathetic sigh escaped her. "Poor Sancha. He's so loyal to the corporation—and to you, Manager. Always working so hard."

"Isn't he just?" Surreal replied, his smile widening slightly. "Truly, my favorite assistant. I'd be lost without him. But alas, even the most dedicated among us need a break, wouldn't you agree?" He waved his hand dismissively. "Now hurry along, won't you? The Director won't always have a free time, and you really don't want to be tasked to sort the death list of chlorophylls~"

"Yes, sir!" The employee nodded, rushing off down the corridor, her heels clicking against the polished floor.

The moment she disappeared, Surreal's smile twisted into something far more mischievous. 

He chuckled softly, his shoulders shaking with amusement. "Ah, the wonders of illusion spells," he murmured to himself, flexing the fingers of one of his extra arms, which had been tracing intricate evocation sigils in the air behind him the whole time. The faint glow of disrupted security wards flickered momentarily, unnoticed by the oblivious employees inside the department. "Not bad. Not bad at all for the current stage. Cameras blinded, layouts altered… and no one even questions the bloodstains. Truly, I am a master of discretion~"

As he continued down the corridor, his mind drifted back to the grander scheme of his plans. 

The logistics of exterminating all of humanity while preserving himself as the sole representative were straightforward enough—he'd already accounted for resistance, countermeasures, and even the vile action that the higher ups of the WPC were going to commence, which would undoubtedly find his approach… creative. 

But there was a snag, a small crack in the otherwise perfect plan.

Loneliness.

"Hm, did I compromise too hastily?" Surreal mused aloud, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. "Now that I think about it, if I kill everyone… who's going to fetch my coffee? Or laugh at my jokes? And worse, who's going to praise me for my unparalleled brilliance?" He stopped mid-step, a look of mock horror spreading across his face. "No, no. This won't do. Not at all."

Presumably, Surreal planned to replace the near-extinct human race with an artificial creation with a certain method that would act as a subservient worker, also doubling as humanity's sole military might.

But he remembered that he was still not at the proficiency to be capable of replacing an intelligence with the same behavior complexity similar to that of a single human being.

And by nature, and critical self-reflection—Surreal was a social creature, like the c600an man of Earth.

He realized that he might die of social boredom if he stayed true to the plan where he off-ed everyone on Earth except for himself. But his trust on any living human being except for himself had been reduced to zero…

He glanced down at his hand, still stained with Sancha's blood. 

"Ah, why should I even fret about that?"

Another idea—a truly ingenious one—sparked in his mind. 

With a flourish, he plucked a single strand of his own silver hair and held it up to the light. It shimmered faintly, almost alive. 

He dipped it into the blood on his palm, then stuck out his tongue, letting a single drop of saliva fall onto the crimson-streaked strand. 

The hair writhed and twisted, black flames licking at its edges.

"Let's see what I can find," he murmured, throwing the strand against the nearest wall.

The air rippled and warped as the hair ignited fully, forming a swirling portal of shadow and fire with an entirely different reality on the other side.

Through the flickering haze, a figure began to take shape—similar in build to Surreal but with notable differences. The figure stepped forward, revealing the same silver hair and closed eyes, the same elegant features… but clad in a corporate skirt suit instead of trousers. The figure's delicate hands clutched a stack of documents, her expression frozen in confusion as she noticed something amiss in her vicinity.

Surreal's smile grew wide with amusement. "Ah," he drawled, taking in her appearance. "A skirt. How delightful. So, in this alternate reality, I'm an unfortunate female who was barely climbing the social ladder. Fascinating. I suppose there really are infinite variations of perfection."

The female Surreal freaked out seeing a random dimensional portal appeared out of nowhere, and she was about to open her mouth to speak.

But before she could get a word out, Surreal grabbed her by the arm and yanked her fully through the portal, causing her to stumble forward. 

She landed on her knees with an undignified yelp, her papers scattering across the floor.

"Welcome to your new workplace!" Surreal declared with a grandiose sweep of his arm. He then used his excess arms to adjust his bloodied gloves and tie, his serene smile never faltering. "Your reemployment starts now."