Cursed Devourer

Darkness.

The small, decaying apartment reeked of alcohol, blood, and old cigarette smoke that stung the nostrils. The peeling wallpaper had stains all over it– most of them Malik knew were his own blood.

The air was thick with tension. A silence before the inevitable storm.

He sat hunched in the corner of the stone-slab kitchen, his small, frail frame trembling, his body battered from the last beating. He could barely breathe. His ribs were cracked- he could feel the jagged edges grinding against each other when he inhaled too deep.

His left eye was swollen shut. Dried blood caked his lips. His arms were mottled with deep bruises, some yellowing from old wounds, others fresh from tonight.

He had tried.

Gods, he had tried.

He had studied harder than anyone, trained harder, obeyed their every word, hoping–praying– that they would see him.

See how desperately he wanted their love.

He couldn't forget the begging.

'Please. Please. PLEASE! I-I'm sorry! I'll do better I promise!'

But it was never enough.

Tonight was his 16th birthday.

And instead of celebration, instead of warmth, instead of a single shred of kindness, a single caring word—

The had beaten him bloody for not being enough. Not meeting their ridiculous standards.

For being a waste of time. A failure.

For existing.

His father's words still rang in his ears:

"You should've never been born, you worthless little cunt."

Malik's fingers trembled as he pressed them against the cold, cracked tile floor, pushing himself upright.

His vision swam. His head pounded.

And then—

The door creaked open.

Heavy footsteps. The stench of cheap liquor flooded the room.

He didn't need to look to know who it was.

His father.

Behind him, his mother.

They always came together when it was time to 'fix' him.

Malik let his body tense, his broken ribs screaming as he clenched his fists.

'No.'

Not tonight.

Not again.

His fingers brushed against the handle of a kitchen knife, discarded on the floor from when his mother had thrown it at him earlier during the previous beating.

The moment his father took another step, beginning to unbuckle the belt he loved to use as a 'discipline' tool- something snapped.

A deep, primal rage erupted inside him, hotter than any pain, stronger than any fear.

The will to no longer allow himself to be stepped on flared.

Malik moved before he could think.

The knife slashed upward, carving through his father's throat before the man could react.

Blood sprayed across the kitchen counter and painted Malik's face crimson.

His father choked, staggering, his hands flying to his throat, gurgling as he tried to scream. His eyes widened, filled with terror.

Malik didn't stop.

Didn't hesitate.

Didn't even breathe.

He lunged forward, slamming the knife into his father's chest again– again– and again.

By the third stab, he was dead.

By the fifth, he was unrecognisable.

His mother screamed, her voice piercing, but Malik didn't hear it.

He turned toward her, emotionless.

Her blue eyes were wide and trembling, her body frozen in fear.

Malik's grip tightened on the knife.

She had always watched.

She had always smiled when his father beat him black and blue.

She had even joined in.

And now she was afraid?

No.

No, she didn't get to be afraid.

Malik launched himself at her, driving the knife into her stomach, twisting it slowly, savouring the feeling of he flesh tearing, her body convulsing beneath him.

She clawed at his face, screaming his name— "Malik! Malik, stop! Please!"

But he wasn't listening. He didn't care for her cries.

His fingers found her eyes, and with a vicious snarl, he gouged them out, tearing them from her skull with raw, unfiltered rage.

Her screams became gurgles.

Her gurgles became silence.

Malik was left in that silence, surrounded by a scene of gore and blood.

And then—

A black screen with gold writing appeared before his eyes.

...

Malik's eyes widened slightly.

It was true.

He had always had suspicions, but to hear it confirmed…

He swallowed hard, his mind whirling.

Leviathan was watching him closely, his smile never fading.

"It was never a coincidence," the King continued. "You were always meant to become this. You were favoured."

Malik took a slow breath, regaining his composure. "…And who decided that?"

Leviathan leaned forward. "He has no name. He is Nameless."

Malik's brows furrowed. "Nameless?"

Leviathan nodded. "My entire life, my family's entire bloodline, has been devoted to him. When I learned that he favoured you, even as an infant, I knew I had only one duty."

He spread his arms, a fanatical smile stretching from ear to ear.

"To craft the perfect stage for your ascension."

Something popped into his head, another traumatic memory, the thing that started this third quest.

Malik's fists clenched. "Then… Orlan?"

Leviathan chuckled. "Unfortunate, but useful. You needed a trigger. But if it wasn't him, something else would have come along eventually."

Malik felt something wet on his cheek.

A tear.

He let it fall, saying nothing.

The silence was palpable.

"What's the point of all this?" Malik finally asked, leaving the tear to dry.

Leviathan's smile darkened, but his eyes held nothing but respect.

"This world," he said, "was only a prologue. A mere foundation for you."

He stroked the arm of his throne with his fingertips.

"Now, you must ascend to the next stage. Leave behind your mortality. Become more."

Malik's breath was steady, his flames calm.

"…And what if I don't want to?"

Leviathan's smile never wavered. "Then after our fight, you will simply fade from existence."

No rebirth. No next stage.

Just nothing.

Malik was silent for a long time.

Then—

His demeanour shifted. He smirked.

"I'm not the type to fade away."

Leviathan grinned.

"Then prove it."

He raised a single hand.

And with a whisper in a language he couldn't comprehend, Malik's body collapsed to his knees.

His vision blurred.

The sheer pressure of the command was beyond anything he had felt before—as if the world itself had ordered him to kneel.

The pressure Leviathan exuded wasn't just powerful- it was absolute. It suffocated existence itself.

'I can't move.'

Malik's divine flames flickered violently, struggling to resist, but it was like trying to hold back the ocean with bare hands.

He gritted his teeth, every muscle straining.

"I will fight you as you are," Leviathan said. "But be warned, Malik." His golden eyes glowed dangerously.

"You're not ready."

Then, as suddenly as it came, the pressure vanished.

Leviathan sighed, shaking his head. "Ah, my apologies. I suppose that was a bit unfair." He flicked his wrist, as if waving away a trivial matter.

Malik lurched forward, his lungs dragging in a breath he didn't realise he needed. His hands twitched as strength slowly returned.

The King's golden gaze was fixed on him, calm, patient, intrigued.

Malik wiped the sweat from his brow. His instincts still screamed, but he forced himself to stand.

'I'm not dying here. Not when I've come so far.'

Leviathan smiled wider.

"Come then, Malik Thana," he said gently. "Show me."

Without sparing another word, Malik's helmet re-materialised and he moved.

Flames erupted from his feet as he shot forward like a comet, his sword raised high, divine energy surging through his body and thrumming with an intense power.

The moment he closed the gap, he swung downward, a crescent-shaped inferno extending from the blade, threatening to cleave Leviathan in half.

Leviathan... did not move.

He simply raised his hand.

And the flames disappeared.

"What-?"

Malik had no time to react before a force slammed into his chest, sending him hurtling backwards, his body smashing through the obsidian pillars lining the throne room.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

Each impact sent shockwaves through the city, but Malik twisted mid-air, slamming his palm down, using water manipulation to freeze the air beneath him, forming a platform to stop his flight.

'That wasn't telekinesis. That was space itself bendng.'

He clenched his jaw, blood swirling at his fingertips as he pulled the pool of crimson left by his injury into a three-meter-long spear, encasing it in divine fire before hurling it at the King. Multiple sonic booms shattered the sound barrier.

Leviathan smiled.

Then with a flick of his fingers—

The spear spun mid-air, reversing its path back toward Malik, moving with a speed beyond Malik's own throw.

His eyes widened. He barely had time to twist his body, the spear grazing his ribs, cutting deep as it shot past and blasted a gigantic hole in the palace walls. Natural light began to leak through, eating away at the shadows of the throne room.

Blood splattered onto the marble floor.

'He's not just bending space, he's altering movement entirely.'

Leviathan chuckled. "You learn fast. How fun."

Malik gritted his teeth.

'I need to break his balance.'

He attacked again.

A flurry of blades, fire, and blood twisting together in a seamless, flowing assault.

Every attack blended into the next- a strike with his sword, an explosion of flames, water turning into razor-sharp tendrils, blood hardening into barbed projectiles. He was learning, improving his control and battle-sense faster than any training or battle he had fought previously.

And yet—

Not a single one landed.

Leviathan sat completely still, his hands never leaving the arms of his throne.

With each attack, Malik saw the same thing– reality itself shifting around the King, his abilities warping the battlefield, negating every attempt at damage.

'He's not even dodging. He's just erasing my attacks before they even reach him.' Malik felt an extreme displeasure, knowing that all his gained power was worth nothing when he couldn't even touch him.

"You're starting to understand." Leviathan said.

Malik panted, sweat rolling down his forehead. His body ached, his energy burning through him at a terrifying rate.

But Leviathan?

Untouched.

Unbothered.

Still seated, a smile of interest present, his golden eyes gleaming with joy.

Malik's mind spun as he tried to piece things together.

'He controls gravity. Space. The elements, through these. But it's more than just that.'

'He can rewrite the very laws of battle.'

Malik's eyes narrowed.

'This is how he killed the entire city in an instant.'

Leviathan smiled knowingly, as if reading Malik's thoughts.

"That's correct."

Malik's stomach tightened.

This wasn't just power.

It was authority over existence itself. He was a God in the domain of mortals.

'If a devotee of Nameless is this strong... then how powerful is Nameless?'

That thought terrified him.

Leviathan sighed, interrupting Malik's thoughts. "You've done well, Malik."

Then, for the first time since the fight began—

He stood.

Malik's body froze, his instincts crying, begging for him to escape. But he couldn't even if he wanted to.

The moment Leviathan rose from his throne, reality itself shuddered around him, trembling from his presence alone.

The throne room cracked, the air vibrating, space warping as if the world itself was struggling to contain his existence.

Malik's legs nearly buckled from the pressure.

'No— MOVE!' His mind screamed, and he acted.

Breaking from the pressure he lunged forward, pouring everything he had into a strike he hoped would turn the tides in his favour. His sword burned white-hot, wrapped in divine flames. Blood coiled around its edge like the serrated teeth of a chainsaw, the elements of water further pushing the pressure it contained. It was a strike made to cut space itself– more precise, more powerful and more refined than any attack he had ever been able to perform.

He slashed forward– the space rippled and a horrific tearing sound spread through the world.

And this time, he made contact.

A thin red line appeared on Leviathan's cheek. A single drop of blood dripped onto the floor.

Malik's breath hitched and his eyes widened. Only he truly knew how much he had put into that single attack, he expected to at least take an arm. But just a scratch?

For the first time, Leviathan touched his face.

Then, slowly–

He smiled. A wide, toothy grin.

"Ah..." His voice was thick with delight. "You made me bleed."

Malik took a step back, sweat dripping from his chin.

Then, before he could move—

The room collapsed.

Malik's body was ripped from the ground, his vision twisting, warping, as if space itself had turned inside out. His limbs felt like they were being stretched across eternity, his mind struggling to comprehend what was happening.

Then, a whisper:

"Kneel."

CRASH.

Malik hit the floor, his knees shattering the stone beneath him.

He couldn't breathe, the pressure was more suffocating than anything he'd ever felt, his bones were creaking as they struggled to withstand the immensity of the King's power. It was crushing him into the ground.

Leviathan stood before him, his golden eyes glowing.

"This," he said softly, "is why you are not ready."

Malik's vision blurred. But his will did not break.

Through gritted teeth, through the agony of absolute submission, he lifted his head and met the King's gaze.

And he smiled.

Leviathan's eyes widened slightly. 'He's wonderful.'

Malik's voice came out hoarse, but steady:

"... Then, make me ready."