Becoming A God In Another World With My Crush

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The snowstorm howled like a wounded wolf, wind tore across the frozen cliffs, dragging flurries of white through the jagged peaks. At the edge of the world, carved into the side of a mountain blackened by dark magic and evil of all sorts stood a castle...and not a beautiful one to be honest.

Not the kind sung about in old songs.

This one was made of obsidian and bone. Its towers were crooked, its gates rusted and tall, and its windows glowed faintly red and orange, anyone who stepped never came out or came out a shell of themselves.

But a rider approached.

Cloaked in black, face hidden beneath a hood, he rode a massive dark horse with eyes like dying embers. The beast's hooves crunched over the snow with steam curling from its nostrils.

The guards at the gate didn't halt him or ask the man to state his business in this area, because they didn't need to.

They recognized him.

The gates groaned open immediately he arrived, chains rattling as the rider passed through without a word. The wind followed him in, shrieking through the iron bars before the gates slammed shut behind him.

He dismounted in one fluid motion.

The scythe strapped to his back clinked softly as he moved, he just walked slow and sure toward the castle doors, his boots echoing against the stone like a countdown.

The doors opened before he touched them and the darkness within seemed swallowed him whole.

T

he throne room was massive and...cold, it was carved from black stone that seemed to absorb the light and chains hung from the ceiling, some broken, some still swaying. Somewhere in the dark, something growled low and guttural, like it hadn't eaten in years.

The man already knew what waited at the end of the hall.

The throne.

It sat on a raised pedestal of bone and obsidian, twisted into sharp angles. And on it, half-shrouded in shadow, was a massive, still figure.

"Your Majesty," he said, voice low and smooth. "You summoned me."

The figure didn't move at first, then it leaned forward, just slightly and the air grew colder. "How was your journey from the East?"

"Smooth, Your Majesty."

"And your army?" The figure asked.

"Thousands of them stronger than before, Your Majesty."

"...I felt it," the Beast King said, his voice like gravel dragged across steel. "The Veylith Crystal it was awoken."

The man's head lifted a fraction. "That's not possible."

The Beast King's eyes glowed faintly beneath the mask—two burning coals in the dark.

"Do you doubt what I feel, Dargan?"

The man...Dargan lowered his gaze again. "Never, You Majesty."

The figure on the throne leaned forward.

The shadows clung to him like armor, but even in the dim light, his size was monstrous. Horns curled from beneath his hooded crown, and his voice, when it came was deep, distorted. Like it wasn't just one voice, but many. Growls layered over whispers. Echoes of something ancient and wrong.

"Know your place, rat." the Beast King snarled. "I know what I felt."

He rose slightly from the throne, and the chains above rattled, the chains where he would hang his victims and watch them squirm for entertainment.

"I spared their useless lives," he growled. "I should have salted the earth with their corpses."

Dargan's eyes flicked up. "The Sisters of Iasora?"

"I broke them," the Beast King hissed. "I left them crawling in the ruins of their gods. And now they dare to touch what was never meant for mortal hands?"

He stepped down from the throne, each footfall shaking dust from the ceiling. "They are up to something."

Dargan's voice was careful. "Then give the order."

The Beast King's mask tilted toward him, and for a moment, the room felt colder than the storm outside.

"I just did. You will go south," he said. "To the ruins of Iasora."

Dargan's eyes narrowed as The Beast King's voice dropped to a whisper that still echoed like thunder.

"Then you will kill them, I have left them alive for long enough now they have the guts to play with the power of the gods."

He turned away, the folds of his cloak dragging ash across the floor.

"Retrieve the Veylith Crystal. Retrieve the Aurex Blade."

He paused.

"Burn whatever is left."

Dargan bowed his head again, but this time, there was a flicker of something else in his expression.

A smile.

He rose to his feet slowly, the scythe on his back catching the red glow of the walls. His fingers flexed at his sides like they were already itching to draw blood.

"Finally," he murmured. "Something worth killing."

The Beast King didn't respond.

Dargan turned and walked toward the doors, his cloak trailing behind him like smoke. As he passed beneath the last archway, the shadows peeled back just enough to reveal him fully:

A long scar carved down the left side of his face, jagged and deep and crimson eyes that glowed faintly, like embers that never died.

White hair, tousled and wild, falling just past his jaw and black armor. He paused at the threshold, glancing back once.

"South, then," he said softly.

The great doors groaned shut behind Dargan, sealing the throne room in silence once more.

The Beast King stood at the edge of the pedestal, staring into the dark where his assassin had vanished.

The red veins in the walls pulsed slower now. Calmer. Like the castle itself was holding its breath.

A long pause.

Then, softly, too soft for any mortal ear, but loud enough to make the shadows flinch he spoke.

Somewhere far from the throne, Xander gasped awake.

His chest rose sharply as he sucked in air like he hadn't breathed in days. Sweat clung to his skin. His heart thundered in his ears.

He blinked.

The room was dim, but warm. Quiet. The walls were carved with soft runes that glowed faintly gold. Incense burned in a bowl near the door, curling smoke into the air like a prayer.

He was lying on a bed of silk and fur, shirtless, bandaged across his ribs and shoulder. Someone had cleaned the blood from his skin. Someone had kept him alive.

He sat up slowly and wincing, his body ached like it had been struck by lightning.

Because it literally had. His eyes scanned the chamber—and then he saw it.

That damn sword.

It rested on a low table across the room, sheathed in crimson cloth, its hilt glowing faintly in the candlelight.

Xander stared at it for a long time, then he whispered, his voice hoarse and dry like he hadn't drank water in days.

"…How the fuck am I not dead?"