Netori: Reborn as the Human Aphrodisiac

Chapter 164: Advent of the Devil!

Terror.

From the weakest of Destiny Beasts to Nabutu himself, all were scared witless, desperately trying to flee the scene. It wasn't about pressure. Mithras wasn't pressuring them. Yet every fiber of their being commanded them to bolt far and fast.

But they couldn't. They couldn't move one inch! Transfixed by Mithras' splendor, none could move without his permission.

His Majesty…no—his Authority dominated the scene, making the very notion of resistance, a profane and unforgivable offense.

"Kneel," Mithras ordered, prompting beasts and celestial beings to tumble to the ground, all prostrating themselves…at the Devil's feet! He ignored them, in a flash reaching Vel and stealing a casual kiss. Nagini and Honoria followed. Mithras didn't play favorite, moving to the nearest gal till his steps brought him to mom and Ishtar.

Here, he took a different approach—taking both in an airtight hug. And holding them so hard that their cheeks turned red. By the time Menaka had processed this shift, Mithras had returned to bad old habits. Taking Ishtar aside and holding her with the touch of an angel.

Mithras was back. The thought settled at last, and Ishtar broke down, holding on her brother's back with warm and trembling hands.

"How much do you remember?" Mithras asked as the rush subsided.

"About 15 to 20%..." Ishtar answered outright, and satisfied, Mithras gave her cheek a gentle stroke. Pulling away with a disarming smile.

"Leave the rest for now. Rushing can twist your heart. You can get them back at your leisure or let them go without a care. This time around, I will protect our peace…with the rumble of my hammer," Mithras said, and let go of Ishtar, closing in on Nabutu one leisurely step at a time.

On the way, he went past Hakim. The two didn't share a word, but their eyes spoke a common tongue.

I thought you were the young blood trying to take down the OG. But turns out that even pops calls you boss. Pops died for you. Why is pops always dying for others? Why is he in such a hurry…to flee from me? Am I really…that repulsive?

What did I tell you? I can't be human.

Hakim despaired. But in Mithras' presence, his World Smelting Flame couldn't operate—meaning that even if he wanted to…he couldn't lash out.

But as the disgraced hunter was starting to lose his mind…

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"You can't stand us. Understandable. I wouldn't be able to stand us either if I were you.

Hakim, perhaps the irreconcilable point between you and I…is that unlike Radu, you…are very much like me.

We just happened to follow a different script," Mithras broke the silence and went on his way. Entire regiments of demigods and destiny beasts melting alive as he neared the Fate Gods.

Heat. They were getting vaporized in body and soul by plain and simple heat. And how else could it be…when the whole of Springtime City…had become Mithras' Pyromantic Thesis?!

The Fate Gods looked left and right, watching in awe as the dead returned to life. For those who got destroyed by the Power of Fate, if the death was fresh, Mithras exhausted what remained of the Lord's tears to restore their Soul Script, helping them reincarnate or return. But the supply had run out, so for the early victims—including over 300 Blood Disciples—there was nothing he could do.

Absolutely none.

Nabutu's thoughts didn't wander. For too knowledgeable for his own good, the deity realized that for Mithras to accomplish half the things he did so fast, his Sid level had to be…astronomically high.

"Your Sid level…what exactly…is your current Sid level?" Nabutu couldn't figure it out. No one could! Not the father and son pair in Balmaria who spied on the clash from the Holy Continent. Not the Fylkir hidden in the Mausoleum of Evil. None—not even…the Weaver!

Throughout the universe, only the Lord could see through the current Mithras. No one else had the right.

Mithras didn't answer. Why the hell should he? The enemy is bending over to its inner demons. I should let them shake and marinate in terror. Not ease their fears or clarify their doubts.

Mithras' lips curled up. The gentle warmth in his eyes contrasting with his demented rage.

"The demon race doesn't exist in the proper sense. Demons are the corrupted versions of other races—mutations so to speak.

We Veridi represent the peak of this principle, the summit of infernalism:

The devil's tribe. My tribe. You are a demon Nabutu, a demon not a god. It just so happens that just like the Naifem, we Veridi can unlock both Divine Power and Dark Glory. So get off your high horse.

I find you insufferably arrogant...for a measly puppet." Mithras paused, Nabutu's organs rupturing as his voice trailed off.

The blood drained off the Veridi's face. Cold sweat raining down his cheeks as he shivered under Mithras' gaze.

"The Weaver made you pass as a Fate God so he could exploit your destiny. It is quite the impressive one. But now, that exceptional destiny belongs to me:

Your lord and master." Mithras declared, and with a simple grasping motion…stripped Nabutu's destiny—henceforth earning a lifelong claim…to the Throne of Fate.

Not even the Weaver could steal a Veridi's destiny. But Mithras could. Because Mithras is the Prince. With no greater power…than his Sovereign Authority!

The Devil's Authority crippled Nabutu's Mental, making the once proud and mighty Veridi devolve into a husk of dread and insecurities. Over 3.5 m tall. Even on his knees he should have towered above Mithras. Instead, Mithras' eyes made him feel insignificant. Like a worm dangling at a tyrant's feet.

A worm.

He was a worm?

"You are too tall. Your kind of waste should look at me from below.

Shrink," Mithras ordered, and to Nabutu's shock, he shrank on his own, reducing himself to worm size for Mithras. The other gods were no exception, humiliated beyond ethical limits.

"Too small. Upgrade to dwarf size. I don't like your face. Change it to reflect your inner pig." Mithras oppressed the gods, forcing the venerable Nabutu and his divine subordinates to morph into pig-clown hybrids.

Still, they kept those mouths shut tight. Like proper slaves surrendering to their sovereign while hoping for the best.

The worst followed instead.

"What's wrong? I thought the Veridi didn't have the imperfections of *inferior* beings? So why the hell are you so scared of me? When you were facing mortal men and women whose combined ages don't equal one-tenth of your time in office, you had a lot of things to say.

So why the silent treatment now? So meek and tender. Go ahead, and talk. Show me that smack. That awe! That majesty!

And let me beat it out of you…my fists are itching!" Mithras didn't mince his words, Nabutu growing faint as his soul cried for help.

"Oink!" The god said through his snout. Mithras clapped, and Nabutu oinked again, performing alongside his subordinates…for the Devil's mercy.

"Oh my, I thought you were a threat, but turns out you're made of trash. Another punk to line in chalk.

Disappointing…

There's a word for your kind of gal where I'm from. Starts with B and rhymes with stitches. If you can find it, you live." Mithras made a most generous offer.

"Mithras! Don't go too f—" But now way past his breaking point, Nabutu flew into a rage. Alas, before the Veridi had a chance to regain a fragment of pride…

"Bitches?" His subordinate gods said in tandem, answering Mithras' riddle with impeccable military discipline.

"Correct." Mithras approved. The light in his eyes flashing like a dying star and reducing the Fate Gods to ashes.

Now, of the illustrious Third Temple…only Nabutu remained—comfortably pinned under…Mithras' unforgiving boot.

The Devil showed no mercy, letting Nabutu's bones crack underneath his heel as he stomped him to death…one torturous second at a time.

Nabutu's scream spread to world edges, and by the time Mithras' foot had touched the ground…the mighty Veridi…had ended his life as a paste of meat and bones.