I Was Born With A Bloodline That Ended The World-Chapter 123: A weapon

The man sat, frozen on the floor, his blood staining the polished surface beneath him.

He couldn’t tear his eyes from the two ravens, their dark eyes locked on him with unyielding focus.

Then the voice spoke again, deep, ancient, and heavy, like thunder rolling across a barren battlefield.

"Do you not want strength?" it asked, its tone dripping with disdain. "Strength to stand above, to clean your city of the filth that has plagued it? To rise above the weak, the useless, the worms that crawl beneath your feet?"

The voice boomed in his head, sending shivers through his spine. It was not a voice for mere mortals.

It was a voice that spoke of ancient wars, of gods who had witnessed the fall of empires and the rise of kingdoms.

It was the voice of someone who had no patience for weakness.

"The weak are the ones who bow, the ones who fall," the voice continued, growing colder, harder. "You, human, were born to cower under the weight of those who rule you. The filth of the world has infected your city, your streets, your very blood. And you sit here, shackled by your own fear. Pathetic."

The raven closest to him spread its wings wide, its dark feathers glistening like the shadows of a dying storm.

"You are nothing," the voice spat, contempt clear in every syllable. "No better than the Vanir or the Jotnar, rotting away in their pathetic worlds. Weak, incapable of standing alone, begging for scraps from others. But you... you have a chance. A chance to become more than they ever were."

The man swallowed hard, his throat dry as dust. He tried to stand, his limbs shaking, but the weight of the voice, of the ravens, held him in place.

"Take what is yours," the voice commanded. "Eat the apple. Become what you are meant to be. A force above the petty squabbles of mortals. A god, not a pitiful excuse of one. You’ll stand above them all, and you’ll burn the filth out of your city. Let the gods of old look upon you in awe."

The man stared at the raven, his pulse pounding. He felt a cold sweat trickle down his spine. The apple. The same apple that had destroyed men far stronger than him.

"Why me?" he croaked. "Why do you want me to do this?"

The raven’s eyes glinted.

"Because you have a choice. You, who were born too weak to even defend your own family. You will either die in that weakness or take what is offered. You will become something far greater, or you will fade. The choice is yours."

He looked at the raven, his breath shallow. The words weighed down on him, heavy as mountains.

But as he stared into those cold, merciless eyes, he knew, there was no choice.

Alistair moved through the hallway, his steps slow and deliberate.

The silence of the mansion was suffocating, broken only by the sound of his footsteps echoing off the polished floors.

His family’s vault was down here, buried beneath layers of secrecy and history.

It was a place where only those truly worthy of their legacy were allowed to enter.

The elevator’s hum faded as he descended deeper, the cold metal walls closing in around him.

When the doors finally opened, he walked straight ahead, his gaze fixed on the glass-walled room in front of him.

The apple rested in the center of the display, bathed in a soft, unnatural light surrounded by treasures.

It had been a few hours since he last seen it, a day did not pass with him not coming here, it was his and his family’s deepest secret

Not even the closest of his allies knew about its existence.

Alistair stopped just in front of the glass case, his breath shallow.

The apple sat there, a symbol of untold potential. He had always been curious about it.

He had always wanted to know why it was so special. Why it had been kept so carefully hidden, away from the eyes of the world.

He stood there for a moment, staring at the apple. His family had always been strong, second only to the president in influence.

But as time passed, their power was slipping. His connections, once unshakable, were now starting to show cracks. His influence was fading. The city, once firmly under their control, was beginning to escape their grasp.

And then there was his son.

Alistair’s thoughts shifted. His son, his pride, his future, was a walking contradiction.

While he walked the halls of the academy, unaware of the dangers around him.

And now, his son was associating with the very people who could bring everything crashing down.

Cursed.

Alistair’s grip tightened on the glass.

He had reached his limit on ranking. He had used every advantage he had to extend his family’s reach, but he could feel the end approaching.

This apple could change everything, maybe the fact that it had killed a A rank by its aura meant it could make you surpass it.

He had always wanted to know what it could do. Now, it seemed like the only choice.

The apple could give him the strength he needed to maintain his position. He could rise above the decaying influence, outpace his enemies, and crush the threats that lurked in the shadows.

He stepped forward, the decision already made for him. His hand reached for the glass case.

The moment his fingers brushed against it, Alistair hesitated for a split second, his breath catching in his throat.

As he hesitated, a voice echoed from behind him, the same voice from before.

"EAT IT."

Alistair’s heart skipped a beat. He spun around, but the ravens were nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t noticed them follow him into the elevator.

"I am everywhere," the voice said again, the words vibrating through the air like a force of nature.

Alistair’s hand hovered over the glass case, his fingers trembling.

He carefully slid the case open.

As soon as the lid lifted, the air shifted.

A surge of energy rushed out of the apple. It was a blast. The force hit him square in the chest, knocking him backward.

His body slammed against the cold glass wall, the shock of it freezing him for a second.

The room seemed to collapse around him as the energy spread. He gasped, feeling his skin tighten, the muscles in his body constricting painfully.

But it wasn’t just the physical sensation. It was something deeper, something inside him, in his very bones.

His vision blurred as the world around him warped. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, but the force of the blast didn’t stop. It ripped through him.

And then he felt it.

The passage of time.

It wasn’t gradual. It was instantaneous.

His hands shook uncontrollably as he looked down at them. His fingers were wrinkling. His skin was aging, rapidly.

His hair, once dark, was streaked with gray, his face drawn, his body weakening with every passing second.

Alistair gasped in horror as the years seemed to pull at him all at once. He could feel the decades slip away from him, dragging his strength with them.

His back hunched, his joints stiffened. His muscles felt like they were being sucked dry, replaced by the brittle, frail limbs of someone far older.

The force of the blast didn’t stop. It continued to course through him, tearing at the very essence of his being.

"No!" he shouted, reaching for the apple, but his voice was weak, trembling. His vision blurred again, the room spinning. "What is this? What have you done to me?"

The voice was gone.

Alistair lay on the floor, still breathing hard. Then he heard footsteps.

They were slow and heavy.

He looked up. A man in a dark robe was walking toward him. One of his eyes glowed faintly. The other was covered by an eye patch. Alistair couldn’t see his face clearly.

The man stopped and looked at the apple lying on the ground.

"What I’ve done," the man said, "is create a savior for this world... wouldn’t you agree?"

Alistair couldn’t answer. He couldn’t even move.

The man picked up the apple.

Then he crouched in front of him.

Alistair could finally see his face. He had one cold blue eye, and strange black veins under the skin.

They ran down his cheek and toward his neck. His smile twitched like he was barely holding himself together.

Alistair stared at him.

He had spent his life hating the cursed. He knew his obsession was dangerous, but this man was different.

This man was fine with being insane. He liked it.

And that made him even more dangerous.

The man looked down at Alistair, calm and steady.

"You know," he said, "I once had a son like you."

He turned the apple slowly in his hand, fingers running along its surface.

"He hated giants. Hated them with his whole being. Every time he saw one, he wanted to crush it. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t care about reasons. To him, they were a threat, and that was enough."

He paused, glancing at Alistair.

"His name was Thor."

The words were said plainly, like a fact that didn’t need to be explained.

"He was strong. Loud. Always eager to fight. And he didn’t hide it. He let the world see his anger. He was honest about what he was."

He crouched again, his voice quieter now.

"You’re like him in one way, you hate something you don’t understand. You want it gone."

He leaned in slightly.

"But Thor didn’t lie to himself. You do."

He stood again.

"Thor’s flaw was that he acted too fast. He broke things without thinking. That’s why he was a weapon, not a king."