Ascension of the strongest God

"Miss Jane, you were given full responsibility for that boy."

The Dean's voice was sharp, laced with frustration and suspicion. His fingers tapped impatiently against the aged mahogany desk.

"Hell, you were the one who insisted on bringing him here, vouching for his potential, demanding that he be taken under our wing. You've stood by his side for so long that I was beginning to think you were related. And now you sit here and expect me to believe that you have no idea where he is?"

Jena sat on the couch by the old wooden bookshelf, her posture relaxed but unreadable. She tucked a loose strand of black hair behind her ear and crossed one leg over the other. Her black leather jeans hugged her form, and the slightly open coat revealed the fitted black singlet beneath.

With a slow, deliberate motion, she brought the cigarette to her lips, inhaled deeply, then let out a long, steady stream of smoke.

The Dean's eye twitched. "And what's with this ridiculous attitude today?"

He had known about her smoking habits but never once had she dared to do it in front of him.

Jena exhaled another breath of smoke, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him with an impassive stare. "Sir Dean," she began, voice devoid of emotion. "I came to apply for resignation."

Silence.

The room grew tense, the air thick with something unspoken. The Dean's expression darkened, his rage bubbling to the surface before it erupted like a broken dam.

"Miss Jena, what is the meaning of this?!" He slammed his hands onto the desk, the impact rattling the glassware nearby. "Do you have any idea who you are talking to?! How dare you ignore my question!"

His breath came in heavy bursts, his patience now threadbare. She was lying. He was sure of it. There was no way she didn't know where the boy was.

Without hesitation, he rolled the ring on his middle finger. The bright red gemstone embedded within flared, and in an instant, a long silver sword with a golden hilt materialized in his grasp.

The air shifted.

Before Jena could react, the Dean closed the distance between them in mere seconds. The cold steel of his blade pressed against her throat. His eyes burned with accusation, demanding the truth.

"Answer my question this instant!"

Jena remained still. She didn't flinch, didn't even acknowledge the blade threatening to slice her open. Her dark eyes peered into his with an unsettling calm, as if he were no more than an insect buzzing in her ear.

The Dean could feel his frustration mounting, his grip on the sword tightening.

"You should mind the way you point your weapons at people," Jena said coolly.

And then, she moved.

BOOM.

The Dean barely registered what happened before he was sent flying. His body slammed into the bookshelf with an ear-splitting crash, wooden planks splintering on impact. Books and artifacts rained down as he crumpled to the floor, the wind knocked clean out of him.

"H-how?" he choked, his body wracked with pain. He clutched his stomach, trying to make sense of what just transpired.

'That hit... She's fast. When did she move? How did she—?'

Being the Dean was no easy task. He had been chosen for his strength, his unwavering control. He wasn't just anyone—he was a B-rank sword-class talent user, stronger than most in the academy. His stats were nothing to scoff at, and he was equipped with enchanted gear at all times.

Yet, he had been hurled aside like a ragdoll.

Jena took slow, deliberate steps toward him, her boots clicking against the wooden floor. Each step was heavy, like the tolling of a death knell.

The Dean struggled to push himself up, his body trembling.

"Dean..." Jena's voice was soft, almost a whisper. "A lot of things are about to happen—things you won't understand. This is only the beginning."

She squatted before him, meeting his gaze. Her once warm eyes were now void of emotion, as if she were gazing through him rather than at him. A primal fear crawled up the Dean's spine. He tried to inch backward, his body moving instinctively away from whatever she had become.

"How\...?" He swallowed, his throat dry. "Aren't you a C-rank healer? How do you have this strength?"

Jena exhaled another breath of smoke, her lips curling into a smirk. "You ask a lot of questions," she murmured. "Fine. I'll answer them. Let's start with the most important one—the boy? I don't care about him. I thought he would be the one, but he isn't. Probably some random idiot who got lucky."

She sighed, almost as if disappointed.

"And as for your second question..." Her gaze darkened. "Healer? Of course, I am. In fact, I'll heal you right now."

The Dean's eyes widened in horror. Every fiber of his being screamed danger. His instincts took over, and he slashed with his blade once more.

{Death's Blade!}

The attack carried a terrifying aura, the sheer force enough to cut through steel. It was aimed directly at her head.

Swoosh!

Ding!

Jena caught the blade between her fingers. Effortlessly.

The Dean's breath hitched. He pulled with all his strength, but the weapon refused to budge from her grip.

"You're in such a rush to get healed," she said mockingly, her voice dripping with amusement.

Sweat pooled on the Dean's brow as his mind raced. He was outmatched.

"Wait!" he gasped. "I'll allow you to resign! Calm down, you'll regret this!"

Jena tilted her head, her smirk widening. "Will I? Really?"

The Dean's desperation grew. The person before him wasn't the Jena he once knew. Her smile—it was different now. Dark. Sinister. Deadly.

"There will be no god in this world again," she whispered.

Crack.

"AAARGHH!"

The Dean's scream echoed through the halls, a wretched, agonized sound.

Down the corridor, two teachers flinched at the sudden noise.

"Wasn't that from the Dean's office?" one whispered, eyes wide.

"What the hell is going on?" the other muttered, glancing nervously at his colleague.

Without another word, they sprinted toward the source of the disturbance.

As they burst into the office, they halted, their breaths catching in their throats.

The office was in ruins. The glass wall behind the desk was shattered, its jagged edges gleaming menacingly. Books and relics lay strewn across the floor. The once-pristine space now looked like a warzone.

But none of that compared to what lay before them.

The Dean's body was broken—his arms and legs twisted at unnatural angles. His eye sockets were hollow, his eyeballs missing.

One of the teachers covered his mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit.

The other whispered, his voice barely audible.

"What. The. Hell. Happened. Here?"