Far away from Simon.
Beneath a nondescript building, behind a five-ton iron door that sealed off sound and light there lay a room –too lavish for the horrors it concealed.
It had polished wooden floors, elegant furniture, and expensive painting on the walls— artwork that didn't belong anywhere near what was happening at it center.
In the middle of the room sat a man, bound tightly to a steel chair, his head was covered with black bag, and his entire body was bend forward, barely conscious. Blood dripped steadily from his hands, pooling on the floor beneath him. Every fingernail on his hand had been ripped out— slowly, mercilessly. His breathing was shallow, each inhale made his body twist in pain.
Beside him stood two men in plastic aprons, the kind worn in slaughterhouses. Their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, their hands socked in dried blood.
One of them casually leaned against the wall wiping a blade clean with stained cloth. The other adjusted his gloves, flecks of red still clinging to the rubber.
Nether of spoke, nor did they need to.
Because soon enough, heavy footsteps echoed from the hallway beyond the door.
And then—
The iron door screamed open.
A tall man entered. Dressed in suit. Calm. Collected. Cruel.
He walked to the chair and stood before the barely conscious figure.
"Mathew…" he said, his voice smooth and venomous.
He crouched down, lifting the black bag just see the broken man's face.
"Mathew, you do know…" he whispered, smiling faintly, "I hate it when I get debt late."
Mathew— Simon's father— looked barely human.
His face was swollen and disfigured, covered in blood and deep bruises. The torture he had endured was written across every inch of his body— flesh torn, muscles trembling, breath shallow. Yet… in his unfocused eyes, there burned a quiet, defiant fire.
It wasn't the look of a broken man
The man in the suit— polished shoes gleaming against the floor— paused as he stared into those eyes. Then, he sighed. Not in pity but in irritation.
"Mathew you and your stupid determination…"
He stood up and walked to the side, pulling over a leather chair and sitting down with deliberate calm. Crossing one leg over the other, he motioned to the guard beside Mathew.
"Now let, talk on equal ground…" he said coldly
The guard nodded, stepped forward, and without a word, untied the bloodied ropes.
Then—WHAM!
He kicked Mathew hard in the back, sending him crashing to the floor.
Mathew coughed, blood spilling from his lips as he was forced into a kneeling position. His arms hung limp, too weak to lift himself properly.
The man leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knees, voice almost casual.
"There… Now that's equal ground"
With disdain in his eyes. He leaned back in the chair.
"You know what I hate most, Mathew?" he asked, voice smooth but laced with venom. "It's not the late payments. That's expected in the business."
He stood slowly, walking across the polished floor, shoes clicking sharply with each step.
"What I hate," he continued, turning to face Mathew again, "is watching people who owe me… thrive."
He spat the word like it was poison.
"Seeing someone I loaned money to suddenly smiling again, buying better clothes, eating better food, living like they don't own me a single damn thing—" he stopped his expression hardening.
"That makes me sick."
Mathew said nothing. His breathing was shallow, but his jaw tightened, holding back whatever words were building inside him.
The man smirked at his silence.
"I have a deal for you." he said finally raising his hand slightly. His men—still in bloodstained aprons—turned and walked out of the room, heading to fetch something.
The man in the suit didn't wait for him to return as he continued speaking, his eyes narrowing.
"I heard about your son… Simon, right?" he said with a grin that show his intention. "Awakened as an Astral Lord. Impressive. Very impressive. Everyone's talking about him nowadays"
At the mention of his son's name something shifted in Mathew.
His unfocused eyes slowly regained its clarity through the haze of pain. Blood dripped from his lips as he struggled to lift his head.
"Don't…" he spoke, his voice hoarse but firm "Don't touch my son"
The man raised an eyebrow, amused.
"This is between you and me." Mathew growled, the strength behind his words surprising even the guards. "Leave Simon out of this."
The smirk on the man's face faded slightly as he studied the fire that still burned in Mathew's eyes—bloodied, broken and barely breathing, yet still defiant.
He chuckled and straightened up, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve.
"Still got fight in you, huh?" he said.
"Alright then, lets see how far that resolve goes…"
The door creaked open.
The guard returned carrying a metal briefcase. He placed it on the table beside the man in the suit, who opened it with deliberate care.
Inside, cushioned in foam, was a sleek black injector filled with glowing green serum.
The man lifted it, admiring the sinister shimmer of the liquid as it caught the light.
"This," he said turning to Mathew with grin, "is called Annihilator."
Mathew's bloodied eyes narrowed.
The man continued, his tone casual, almost conversational. "A little marvel cooked up in some black site lab—courtesy of people who don't like Astral Lords getting too full of themselves. One dose of this and poof…"
He mimed an explosion with his fingers.
"All the divine energy, all that power— gone. Just like that. No more Star core, no more magical powers. It doesn't kill them. It humiliates them."
He leaned closer to Mathew, his voice dropping.
"They don't become weak… they become ordinary"
He slowing placed the injector on the floor in front of Mathew.
"Now," he said, voice calm and venom-laced, "here's the deal."
He leaned in, his gleaning with cruel amusement.
"You make your son inject this himself—and I'll wipe every last debt you owe. Clean slate. No more collectors, no more threats. You and your family can start over. Quiet life, no shadows chasing you. sounds fair, doesn't it?
Mathew didn't answer, his eyes burning holes through the man, but his body trembled.
"There!" he said pointing at the injector, stepping back, hands in his pockets. "Hope, in a vial. One little push, and your boy gets to live. You get breathe again."
He smirked, watching Mathew stare down at the glowing green serum.
"I'm giving you a chance," he added. "Not many people get that. Be smart, Mathew. Start everything over… while you still can"
His back was turned to Mathew, but he didn't need to look at him directly.
Thane –clad in his pristine suit—watched Mathew's reflection in the glossy surface of a framed painting on the wall, its glass acting like a cruel mirror.
He could see everything: the blood, the pain, the defiance barely holding on in Mathew's eyes.
Thane knew, he had known from the start.
About the assassins.
About the plan to kill Simon.
About the case of Mathew's company going bankrupt
Because the man behind every misfortune that had befallen of Mathew's family… was now pulling strings to erase Simon entirely— dead or alive.
Thane was merely the messenger.
A hand with a task. And he would carry it out, precisely as instructed.
A twisted smile crept onto his face.
The thought alone—of Mathew, broken and bleeding, staring at his son's dismembered corpse… with that injector still in his hand—was enough to make him tremble with anticipation.
Not from fear.
But from pure, unfiltered pleasure.
He could already see it. the look of horror. Of guilt. The kind of guilt that rots the soul—knowing he had tried to sacrifice his son's future, only to see that future torn apart before his eyes.
Thane's lips curled wider.
For Thane, watching someone Despair like that was more intoxicating than any drug.
And Mathew's Pain?
It was just the final chapter in the tragedy of a man crushed under his own misfortune.
Mathew looked down at the black injector.
Thane imagined chaos in his mind—panic, guilt, spiraling thoughts. But the truth was far simpler.
Mathew had only one thought:
"How do I keep my family safe?"
And in the silence of that room, only one path formed in his mind: suicide.
Not out of despair. Not to escape.
But to end it all before it could reach Simon or his daughter.
He didn't hesitate out of fear—he had faced enough pain to numb to death. Nor did he hesitate for his daughter—Simon, as an Astral Lord, could protect her.
No… what made him hesitate was the serum.
That cursed, glowing vial sitting before him.
The Annihilator.
Because if it ever touched Simon, it wouldn't not kill him –but strip him of his dream and destroy everything he was. Everything he had become.
And Mathew knew…
A dead Simon was still better than a broken one.
Without an ounce of hesitated, Mathew grabbed the injector with both hands—swift and resolute.
In one motion, he turned it toward his cheat, aiming for his heart.
Thane's eyes widened.
Panic flared across his face.
The Annihilator.
That serum alone was worth more than most men would earn in a lifetime. And without it, neutralizing Simon would be far messier—
far more dangerous.
"Wait—!" Thane stepped forward; voice sharp with alarm.
But then he met Mathew's gaze.
Eyes no longer dazed.
No longer broken.
Focused. Fierce. Alive.
"Fuck You! Thane" Mathew growled through bloodied lips
And with that—
BOOM!
The iron door blasted inward with a deafening crash, catching the nearest guard completely off guard.
SLAM!
The heavy steel crushed him against the wall—bones cracking under the sheer force— as he died before even letting out a scream.
A thunderous roar echoed through the underground clamber.
Smoke burst outward, swallowing the room in a thick cloud of dust and ash.
In that chaos, the injector shattered, flung from Mathew's hand mid-motion. Shards of black glass scattered across the blood-stained floor.
Mathew coughed, head low, eyes stringing- but through the thinning smoke… he saw it.
A silhouette.
Standing in the breach.
Broad shoulders. Black clothes.
A sword gripped in one hand, still dripping red.
Simon.
His son.
Eyes glowing with fury. Jaw clenched.
Ignis fang burning faintly in his grip, its edge humming with restrained violence.
Blood—none of it his— slicked across his arms and chest.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
As he was here for his father.