Blessed By A Yandere Goddess

The rooftop stood between two worlds, the city behind them still burning with helicopter spotlights and sirens, and the sky ahead stretching wide, bathed in the orange glow of dusk.

Ashfall didn’t move. His hands were still raised from the moment his own shadows had turned against him, fingers twitching like he was trying to call them back.

Nothing answered.

"You’re him."

His voice came out hoarse, nearly lost under the chop of a passing helicopter. The violet eyes above his mask had lost their earlier smugness.

"The Shadow Porter. The real one."

He looked at Ronan as if he were the devil made flesh.

And honestly? Ronan couldn’t blame him.

Sarael’s influence had long since bled into his appearance. Piercing violet eyes, raven-dark hair, a face that could rival any idol hunter’s. The dusk lighting didn’t help; it made him look even more like something out of a myth.

Ashfall knew the stories. He operated in the underground, and the underground talked. The real Shadow Porter was efficient, untouchable, and connected to people no one wanted to cross.

Zero made sure of that. The fixer was the loudest sanctioned voice in the spiderweb, and he’d been feeding the rumor mill for months.

"No," Ronan said quietly. "You’re the real Shadow Porter."

Ashfall understood immediately. A wanted hunter stopping another hunter mid-chase, both of them with the same skill set? It didn’t take a genius to see where this was heading.

He was going to be framed.

And from the look in Ronan’s eyes, there was nothing he could do about it.

"Screw you!"

Ashfall forced his shadows back under control through sheer will. The bindings on his feet shattered, and two dark spikes erupted from the rooftop beneath Ronan’s feet.

Ronan didn’t dodge. He didn’t need to.

Dusk had already settled, and the disc in his chest was responding.

He caught the spikes with his bare palms. They cracked on impact, shattering against his skin like cheap glass.

Then Ronan flicked his finger.

The dragon’s inheritance, his base stats, his class modifier, his passives from the dark, all of it compressed into that single, casual motion. The result was terrifying.

And according to the fixer, it was necessary. Ronan needed to make a show. His fighting style had to be so overwhelmingly physical, so absurdly dominant, that investigators would doubt he’d ever bother teleporting out of an interrogation room when he could simply walk through a wall.

BOOM!

The air detonated at the point of impact. The vibration traveled through Ashfall’s body like a shockwave through water, and for a split second, the rogue hunter felt his organs shift inside him.

He escaped before they could rearrange permanently.

FWOOSH!

A pool of sludge formed beneath his feet, and Ashfall dropped into it, burrowing through the rooftop like a mole before reemerging several meters away. Blood dripped from his nose, staining the edge of his mask.

He had just experienced what it felt like to face a natural disaster.

"I’ve got you!"

Anastasia’s voice cut through the chaos. A staircase of ice erupted from the building’s edge, and she vaulted onto the rooftop with her rifle already raised. But the moment she landed, she froze.

Ronan.

Ashfall.

The two of them squared off like predators deciding who got the first bite.

"Ronan...?"

"Vouch for me, will you?"

Ronan didn’t wait for an answer. He teleported behind Ashfall, the S-Rank sword already in his grip, and swung for the rogue hunter’s head.

Ashfall dodged, barely, but the shockwave alone caught him like a physical blow. His body went airborne, tumbling across the rooftop like a scrap of paper caught in a storm, before he crashed to a stop near the far edge.

An S-Rank rogue hunter, reduced to litter by the wind from a single swing.

"What is this...?"

Anastasia’s voice was barely a whisper.

"Here’s the plan."

Ronan said, already walking toward where Ashfall had landed.

"I’m going to frame him. You being here makes it easier. I’ll make a show of it, and once the reporters swarm you after the fight, you tell them I was trying to clear my name by taking out the one who framed me."

He shot her a glance over his shoulder.

"Think you can handle that?"

Anastasia swallowed hard, her rifle lowering a fraction. She’d trained under Ronan for months, she’d watched him spar with Sarael, and had seen glimpses of Ronan’s full power.

But this was different.

This was power.

Real, overwhelming, world-bending power. The kind of power that the old Ronan would probably need to go all-out to even achieve.

"Y-Yeah," she managed, steadying her rifle. "I can handle it."

Ronan turned back to Ashfall, who was already forcing himself upright, one arm hanging at a bad angle.

The violet glow in Ronan’s eyes flickered, just once.

And Anastasia couldn’t help but remember Tartarus-B. The way she’d mostly been a spectator during everything with the Third Prince, watching from the sidelines while Ronan and Sarael handled the impossible.

Even now that she was an S-Rank, that hadn’t changed.

And she was done letting it.

"Let me help."

Ronan actually looked surprised by the offer.

"Help?"

"Yeah. I might not be as strong as you, but I can cut off his escape."

She fell into step beside him, swapping her rifle for twin pistols through a system skill. The weapons gleamed in the dusk light, sleek and custom-made. Her gear had clearly been upgraded since they’d last fought together.

And from somewhere just beyond her ear, she could’ve sworn she heard a familiar voice whisper.

[You’ve grown.]

Anastasia didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or just accept the compliment.

It was strange, hearing that from Sarael of all people, the same goddess she’d once tried to teach how to be human. The same one who’d asked her, dead serious, what "Netflix and chill" meant.

That felt like a lifetime ago.

"Just don’t get in my way," Ronan said, though there was no heat behind it.

Anastasia flipped one pistol in her palm, catching it with practiced ease.

"Wouldn’t dream of it."

Ahead of them, Ashfall finally straightened, his good hand pressed against his ribs. The blood from his nose had dripped down over his mask, and his violet eyes were wide with something between fear and defiance.

"You think this changes anything?" he rasped. "You think framing me will stick?"

Then he reached beneath his tattered coat and pulled out a small glass bottle.

They both recognized it instantly.

Infinity water.

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