CHAPTER 32: TAMARA.

The air was molten with heat—lava, decay, and a guilt so thick it clung to his skin.

Allen stood before Dolonides, not just with a furious gaze, but with a furious stance. His heart felt like it had been pierced by a thousand blades—blades forged by his own actions. Bitterness swelled in him, like a memory that had long been erased finally clawing its way back.

His limbs shivered—not from fear or cold, for the heat here could even boil egg—but from something far deeper: self-loathing. A despair that whispered he should simply surrender, end it all right here. But no. Immortality had already touched his soul. Death would no longer be so merciful.

"Get out of my way," Allen roared, the words escaping like a strained whisper, laced with the last flickers of resolve.

Dolonides didn’t move. His fingers twitched, hungry for violence, but it was his patience that frightened more than any threat.

"That would be no fun," Dolonides sneered. "Not as fun as the pain you put Natasha through."

"Don’t you dare say her name...!" Allen launched forward, fist clenched, but the attack died mid-air under Dolonides’s cold, inquisitive gaze thst did flinch

"And you think you’re qualified to?" Dolonides purred, turning his face skyward as if the solid ceiling above were some divine altar. Then came the demonic laughter—mad, echoing.

’What have I done?’ Allen thought, collapsing to his knees. ’What did they go through because of my selfishness? Natasha could’ve been frightened to... or even forced to commit...

He couldn’t complete the thought.

"And mom..." he whispered. "How many messages would she have sent, panicking, begging... Would she have collapsed from worry? Slipped into a coma?"

"Oh... it was even worse," Dolonides purred, circling Allen like a professor teaching cruelty. His grin never left, and his boot tapped lightly against the molten ground.

"Shall I tell you exactly what happened to them?" he teased. "Or would you prefer I save it for bedtime horror stories?"

’He knows?’ Allen realized. But it was a story he wasn’t ready to hear. A story laced with burdens and scars he hadn’t earned the right to carry.

"Natasha—" Dolonides began, but Allen’s voice exploded like thunder.

"SHUT UP!"

Allen’s eyes widened as his arms clenched over his face in anguish. But from the core of his despair, something stirred. Something ancient. Something angry.

His golden aura spiraled into a chaotic vortex, an exploding tornado of divine rage. Even the lava responded, erupting through the cracked dungeon floor as if repulsed by his pain.

Dolonides stepped back—once, twice. Not out of fear, but with reverence. What he saw before him was not Allen. It was something reborn in pain. Cloaked in divine fury. Something closer to a god than a man.

And it was perfect.

This was all Dolonides wanted. All he planned. Even if it cost him his own life he was going to turn allen into walking anger.

"What is it, Allen?" he purred mockingly, now just a few paces from the obsidian temple where Pyraegon stood, motionless, watching like a coiled serpent.

"Ohh, I see... you want me to tell you your mother’s part of the story. That’s fine—"

"I SAID SHUT UP!" Allen screamed, charging like a solar flare unleashed. His eyes glowed red, cracks of lightning dancing through them, the very earth splitting beneath him as lava burst like blood from a broken heart.

This wasn’t a fight between Allen and Dolonides anymore.

This was Allen versus his guilt.

He struck—a fist cloaked in light and vengeance.

Dolonides ducked by a hair, but the force of the strike still scorched his skin.

"Pyraegon," Dolonides called calmly, stepping back toward the wall.

The dark figure moved without being told Dolonides needed backup.

"We meet again, Allen," Pyraegon said, stepping between them like a black monolith. "Twice in one day."

"Silence..." Allen rasped—and then charged.

BOOM.

His fist collided with Pyraegon’s chest, tearing through the dark temple behind him like collapsing towers of glass. But Pyraegon didn’t flinch. Not even a grunt. The wind of the strike howled—and yet he remained.

Then—

"ARGH!"

Allen gasped. A searing pain shot through his body as Dolonides delivered a low, brutal kick high between his legs, striking from between Pyraegon’s spread stance.

"Pathetic," Pyraegon muttered. One punch, black aura cloaked, and Allen went flying.

Blood spilled from Allen’s mouth. He crashed and skidded across the stone like a discarded ragdoll, every impact reminding him of the sins he bore. Flashes of his past life stormed through his mind, each one fanned by guilt and grief.

"Your mother, Allen," Dolonides continued, his voice sick with satisfaction. "She couldn’t speak on the first day you disappeared—"

"STOP! STOP! STOP!" Allen howled, curling on the molten floor like a wounded beast, his skin hissing with burns. Then, suddenly, he surged again.

Pyraegon met him halfway.

’Emotion is a liability,’ Pyraegon thought. ’The same strategist who fought me earlier today is now just a blind berserker.’

BOOM.

The clash shook the entire dungeon. Lava jumped like cursed tears from the fractured ground

"GET OUT OF MY WAY!" Allen shouted, his soul fraying. Every word Dolonides uttered twisted the image of his mother allen could visualise into a vision of disdain and disgust. Her face darkened. Her eyes narrowed. She looked upon him like he was filth.

"No... no, Mum..." Allen whispered.

But the battle never stopped.

Dolonides sprang from behind Pyraegon like an eclipse lifting—and his kick struck Allen’s face with surgical cruelty.

BOOM.

Allen hit the ground hard. Bones cracked. Blood sprayed. But it wasn’t the impact that shattered him.

It was the hallucination he saw.

His breath halted—not from pain, but from what he saw hovering above.

His mother.

Isabelle.

Dead.

Bloodied.

Cold.

Her hair splayed like broken feathers. Her arms stiff. A blade buried in her own chest, guarded by her own hands.

"What... what have I done..." Allen whispered. And his heart broke all over again.

Pyraegon struck. A kick to the ribs. Another. Then another. Allen flew through the air like a cursed offering—blood spraying like confetti, each impact dragging him closer to the edge of something darker than death.

But through it all—he didn’t resist.

He didn’t flinch.

He didn’t cry.

He was gone.

Somewhere far away.

His fingers clutched his face as tears streamed like molten silver. He sobbed—not like a warrior, but like a lost child.

And then—

A voice.

Ancient.

Soothing.

"Why do you weep, my child?"

"Mum—?" Allen croaked, but it wasn’t her voice.

This voice held power.

And peace.

Allen opened his eyes.

He was no longer in the dungeon.

He stood in a vast white void. A sacred place where guilt melted like snow and fear was the only thing that remained.

"Who are you?... Where am I?" he asked, his voice echoing endlessly.

"Forgive me..." said the voice.

And then she appeared behind him.

Allen turned.

And what he saw...

...was a beauty that shook the very foundation of reality.

She had long, flowing white hair and two large angelic wings behind his back. Her skin was a rich, regal shade of chocolate—more divine and tempting than anything Allen had ever seen. Her eyes were humanoid, as was the rest of her godlike form. Two lightning-shaped horns pulsed like twin blades from her head, and she wore a short black gown that hugged her frame that could only be described as the father to perfect.

"I am the curse of your pain," the figure whispered, her lips forming words that felt more like a temptation than a confession.

"Who... who are you?" Allen rasped, taking a defensive stance, though emotion cracked through his body. Yet, deep within, an eerie calm had begun to settle.

"I am the beauty goddess... Tamara," she said gently. "The one responsible for your transmigration."

Allen’s eyes widened in shock. His heart threatened to explode.

"Why... why did you do this to me?" he whispered, collapsing to his knees. Tears streamed down his cheeks. His limbs trembled as though he lay naked in the heart of winter.

"Life isn’t always fair, Allen," Tamara replied softly. "But destiny had to be fulfilled."

"What are you saying..." Allen roared, voice straining with the weight of his pain. "What fucking destiny would cost me so much?!"

"I’m sorry," she replied, still composed, her voice like soothing ice over flame. "But with your destiny... you can mend all of this. Even with mere words."

"But.. but I never asked for any of this," Allen muttered, his fingers sinking into the white floor—solid, yet otherworldly.

Tamara walked up beside him, Her curves were neither exaggerated nor lacking—just... perfect. Each step she took radiated serenity. "Guilt and pain are never as strong as your acceptance of them. If you’re going to reclaim the ones you love, then you must embrace it all."

"But my mother..." Allen’s voice broke as he hesitated to even speak her name. "She hates me...does she even liv—"

"No, Allen," Tamara said instantly

She knelt in front of him, her divine presence overwhelming yet gentle. Allen raised his gaze to meet hers—eye to eye, as though before a Sovereign.

She pressed her fingers against his forehead.

And then—he saw.

Moments of happiness.

Reasons to fight.

To live.

It was Natasha—his first love—smiling, her crimson hair fluttering like a banner of hope. Her lips whispered a vow: "I’ll be waiting, Allen..."

But her divine touch gave more than memories.

Something foreign surged into Allen’s body. Something powerful. Something that changed him.

A radiant light erupted from both him and Tamara. Her voice echoed like a sacred vow:

"I gave you the Copy System as a weapon of growth, and so that one day... I would father a god. Don’t let it fall into the wrong hands. And in compensation for your pain... I also give you—"

Allen didn’t hear the rest.

Just then the light engulfed him completely.

---

Back in the dungeon.

Allen’s body was been tossed mid air, battered by Dolonides and Pyraegon’s relentless kicks. But then—

His eyes snapped open, glowing with brilliant white light.

An explosion of radiance burst from his body, like a divine egg cracking open. Light surged from within him, illuminating the entire vampire dungeon as though God Himself had descended into Hell.

"What the—?!" Pyraegon and Dolonides staggered back, instincts screaming.

But the light was faster.

It caught them like shadows fleeing the dawn. Their inner darkness clashed with the holy radiance. They fell to the floor, writhing and screaming, their corrupted bodies hissing like earthworms tossed into salt.

Then silence.

Allen stood midair.

Untouched.

Transformed.

Divine—but not holy. Sacred—but not bound by gods. The Essence within him pulsed with a sovereignty unlike anything ever known.

His glowing eyes slowly dimmed as if his rebirth had reached completion. Below him, Pyraegon and Dolonides lay bloodied, their forms torn by his very presence. Any longer and they would have been reduced to particles.

’Tamara... thank you for waking me up to reality,’ Allen thought, a newfound peace anchoring him. Not guilt. Not hate. But acceptance—of pain, of purpose, of power.

Then came the familiar green flicker he’d nearly forgotten in his spiral of rage and self-loathing.

[New System Notification]

Race has been updated: [Deity]

New Gene Ability: [Path Maker(God ranked)]

Bonus Item Granted: [Single-use Elixir]

Allen scanned the system, absorbing the updates—but his mind was already elsewhere.

"I’ll check what those mean later. For now..." he muttered, turning his gaze to the barely-standing figures of Pyraegon and Dolonides. They trembled under the weight of his presence alone backed up by the wounds itched deep into their bones.

"Activate System Ability: Black Tongue."

[Command Executed]

[Black Tongue Activated]

[System Notice]

Access granted to: Level 4 Cursed Words

A wicked grin curled Allen’s lips as he touched down, his footsteps silent, his intent deafening.

He walked past them—no words. Their bodies were paralyzed, unable to even beg for mercy.

His destination was clear: the Underworld Portal.

But just before stepping in, he whispered:

"Obey."

[Cursed Word: OBEY – Level 4] Activated

[Target: Pyraegon, Dolonides]

[Status: Subjects successfully converted to Puppets]

"Hmm..." Allen muttered, glancing back at their pale, horrified faces. "Puppets who serve no real purpose."

He raised a hand.

"Fight. To. Death."

Immediately, their bodies began to move—out of sync with their wills.

"F-Father..." they stuttered, panic tearing through them as their fists collided violently.

Clashes echoed behind him. The sounds of war. Of horror. Of agony.

Allen didn’t look back.

"Just like you said, Hadas..." he smirked as he approached the dark portal carved into the earth. His golden glow reflected across the stones.

"Forward ever. Backward never."