Blessed By A Yandere Goddess

Ronan didn't give the Consort time to recover.

The moment the notification confirmed his boost was gone, he was already moving. Abyssal Breath spilled from his mouth in a controlled stream, pooling at his feet, spreading outward in a dark tide that clung to the stone.

The Consort's hollow eyes tracked the movement. It understood what Ronan was doing now. Its jagged blade was gone, shattered against the pillar, but its hands were still weapons. Shadows coiled around its arms, reforming into jagged claws.

It lunged.

Ronan met it head-on.

CLANG!

The impact sent cracks spiderwebbing through the floor. Ronan's boots skidded back, but he didn't fall. The boost wasn't active yet, but the wyvern's inheritance was still humming in his bones, and he'd learned the Consort's rhythm now.

He could hold for a few seconds.

CLANG!

CLANG!

The Consort's claws came faster now, each strike aimed at Ronan's throat, his eyes, his heart. But Ronan had spent months learning to read opponents faster and stronger than him.

Anastasia's training hadn't been one-sided; he'd learned just as much from teaching her as she had from him.

He ducked under a wild slash and drove his shoulder into the Consort's chest, then used the contact to leap backward, creating just enough distance to breathe.

[Shadow Merge]

His body dissolved, merging with the pool of abyssal breath still spreading beneath them.

[Complete Darkness Achieved]

[Night's Caress Boost: 500%]

The power returned instantly. Ronan erupted from the darkness behind the Consort, sword already mid-swing, and this time the Consort didn't block in time.

CRACK!

The blade carved through the back of the Consort's knee, severing muscle and sinew. The figure collapsed to one knee, its hollow eyes widening with something that might have been rage.

"You're not the only one who can use the environment."

Ronan didn't let up. The sword came around again, this time aimed at the Consort's other leg. The blow connected with a sound like shattering glass, and the Consort pitched forward, its claws scraping uselessly against the stone.

The jagged crown of darkness above its head flickered, pulsing erratically. Ronan felt the shadows in the room shift, felt them straining toward their fallen master like loyal hounds trying to answer a call.

The Consort raised one clawed hand, perhaps to summon another blade, perhaps to try and drag itself upright. Ronan stepped forward and drove his boot down onto the armored wrist, pinning it to the floor.

"You were rejected."

Ronan said, his voice cold.

"That's your tragedy. Not mine."

And he meant it. Whatever sympathy he might have felt for this failed suitor had died somewhere in the middle of the fight, buried under every near-miss, every shattered pillar, every second he'd spent running for his life through this throne room.

The Consort had completed his trials, sure. Ninety-nine stages of proving his strength and devotion. Ronan could acknowledge that much.

But the man had also spent this entire fight toying with him, dragging it out like a cat playing with wounded prey. Smug and superior and so goddamn confident that Ronan was just another unworthy pretender to be crushed at his leisure.

And for what? To prove himself better after already being rejected?

No. Ronan wasn't about to feel sorry for someone who'd turned his own bitterness into an excuse to torment the next poor bastard who walked in.

Ronan had already survived his own trial anyway, now that he thought about it.

Tartarus-B.

Forty-seven days of watching his comrades die, crawling through a dead city with his side split open, living off scraps and fear and the desperate hope that something out there might let him live just one more hour.

He'd been a D-Rank porter. A nobody. The kind of hunter that died first in every gate and was forgotten by lunchtime.

And he'd made it through anyway.

So no, they weren't equal. The Consort had likely trained for his trial. He'd been a warrior, strong enough to challenge for a goddess's hand.

Ronan had been luggage with legs, thrown into hell with no preparation, no power, and no reason to believe he'd survive.

And he'd still earned what this man never did.

"Now, let's end this and let me move on to the next trial."

SLASH!

Ronan decapitated the Consort just before his boost faded again. The Dragon's Flame along his blade, combined with the 500% stat spike, made the cut almost effortless.

The armor offered no resistance. The jagged crown dissolved into smoke before the head even hit the ground.

[Soul Absorbed: 50,000 EXP]

[Level Up: 21 → 28]

[Shadow Stored: The Rejected Consort (??? - Rank Unknown)]

"Will you look at that..."

Seven levels.

The Consort had been worth more than everything else in the trial combined. Ronan rolled his shoulders, feeling the new power settle into his bones.

The wyvern's inheritance was still humming in his chest, and the shadow storage now held something with three question marks for a rank.

He'd have to figure out what that meant later.

BOOM!

The wall behind the throne exploded open, revealing a path that hadn't existed before. Beyond it, a garden stretched into the distance, silver flowers blooming under the impossible moon.

The air that drifted through was warm and sweet, carrying the faint scent of night-blooming jasmine.

[Your achievement has been recognized.]

[You may skip ahead to the final trials.]

Ronan stared at the notification, then at the garden beyond. The Consort had fought through ninety-nine stages and still ended up rejected. But Ronan had just been handed a shortcut.

Either the trial was impressed by his performance...

...or it was about to throw something far worse at him.

But Ronan was already preparing for whatever came next. The Consort's shadow had slotted into his storage, and he'd made the call without hesitation.

The Flesh Golem was gone, discarded to make room. A necessary sacrifice. The golem had served him well since Tartarus-B, but the Rejected Consort was on another level entirely.

[Ronan Night]

[Class: God-Bound (???)]

[Level: 28]

[STR: 43 +50 +250]

[AGI: 41 +50 +200]

[CON: 39 +50 +180]

[MAG: 33 +50 +220]

Ronan stared at the numbers until his eyes burned. He'd never seen stats like these outside of old forum threads speculating about what S-Ranks were hiding. And now they were his.

The bad feeling in his chest faded, replaced by something warmer. Something almost like excitement.

Ronan was a numbers guy, after all.

And these numbers were beautiful.

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