Nitish stood alone in the dim, oppressive chamber of the demon king Sura, his breath shallow, his mind racing. The air was thick with the scent of sulfur and decay, a fitting aura for a place where darkness reigned. Sura, the towering figure before him, sat motionless on his throne—a grotesque, gargantuan minotaur whose very presence radiated a suffocating power. But something was wrong. Sura's eyes were closed, his colossal form unnaturally still, and a strange, purplish sheen glimmered faintly across his hide.
Nitish glanced at his own status window, blinking in confusion at what he saw. His level was a paltry 1, with no skills, no attributes, and no powers to speak of. But there was something odd—a small, glimmering star next to his level, an anomaly that didn't fit with the rest of the blank slate that was his existence. He furrowed his brow, trying to understand its significance, but the meaning eluded him. And yet, it was there, a faint glimmer of potential that hadn't yet been snuffed out.
He turned his attention back to Sura, studying the demon king's status with careful eyes. Nitish's breath hitched as he noticed something strange: Sura's health, once an imposing figure of endurance and strength, was rapidly declining. The red bar that should have been a solid wall of impenetrability was shrinking, bit by bit, and Nitish's eyes widened as he realized what he was seeing. Sura was dying—fast.
A sudden pop-up startled Nitish, making him step back. His heart pounded as he leaned in closer, squinting at the detailed status screen of Sura. Among the impressive figures of strength, stamina, and a staggering level that soared into the thousands, one thing stood out: a purple icon flickering ominously, indicating poison. Nitish's eyes darted to Sura's throat, where a faint trickle of dark fluid oozed from the corner of his mouth, staining his fur with a sickly sheen. Someone had poisoned the demon king, and the evidence of his slow, agonizing death was displayed right before Nitish's eyes.
Sura's status, however, showed no signs of detecting Nitish. In this world, every being had one of three core essences: aura veins, mana heart, or qi. These essences were the life force that defined and powered individuals, and they radiated energy that could be sensed by those around them. But Nitish had none of these—no aura, no mana, no qi. He was a void, an absence in a world where everyone was something. The assassins sent by the goddess had failed because their powerful auras and energies made them visible to Sura's senses, betraying their every move. But Nitish, with his utter lack of presence, was effectively invisible.
Nitish moved closer, his steps careful and deliberate. He watched, fascinated, as Sura's health continued to drop, digits ticking down at a relentless pace. Someone had clearly intended for Sura to die, but there was no sign of who, or why, or when they would return to finish the job. A million questions swirled in Nitish's mind, but one thing stood out among them all: Sura's life force was dwindling, and Nitish had the chance to claim it.
His eyes fell upon a dagger clutched loosely in Sura's massive hand, the blade ornate and wickedly sharp. Nitish reached out, his fingers brushing against the hilt. The metal was cold and familiar in his grip, a tool that promised power if wielded correctly. He recalled the anatomy lessons from his youth, the diagrams of oxen and their vulnerabilities. Sura, for all his fearsome presence, was nothing more than a grotesque, demonic bull—a creature with flesh, blood, and nerves like any other. Nitish knew where to strike, where the weak points lay beneath the tough hide.
For a moment, he hesitated, the weight of the blade in his hand suddenly feeling immense. What if Sura woke up? What if the poison wasn't enough? What if Nitish's gamble was nothing more than the desperate act of a boy in over his head? But then he remembered the disdain in the goddess's eyes, the mocking laughter of his classmates, the cold, indifferent world that had discarded him at every turn. If he was to be nothing, then he would carve out his own worth, even if it meant drenching his hands in the blood of a demon.
Nitish took a deep breath, steadying his resolve. He raised the dagger, aimed for the first weak point he could remember—a cluster of nerves near the throat, just under the thick hide. He drove the blade in with all the force he could muster. The dagger pierced Sura's flesh with a sickening squelch, and a small spray of dark blood splattered against Nitish's face. He recoiled at the initial resistance, but when Sura didn't stir, Nitish's confidence grew. He drove the blade in deeper, feeling the tendons and muscles give way under his relentless assault.
For two weeks, Nitish waged a silent, gruesome war against the paralyzed demon king. He didn't sleep, didn't rest, and the dagger never left his hand. He carved into Sura's massive form with a meticulousness that bordered on madness, targeting every vein, every nerve cluster, every vulnerable spot he could remember. His eyes grew sunken and bloodshot, his body weak from hunger and exhaustion, but still, he pressed on.
He ate Sura's flesh when the gnawing in his stomach became unbearable, tearing strips of meat from the demon's massive limbs. It was repulsive, yet necessary, and with each bite, Nitish felt a twisted sense of triumph. He drank Sura's blood when his throat ran dry, the bitter, metallic taste fueling his determination. He didn't feel shame—only a growing pride that swelled in his chest with every wound he inflicted. He was killing the demon king, the very being that had defied gods and armies alike.
Each passing hour saw Sura's health bar diminish, the once formidable figure reduced to a bloodied mass of shredded flesh and exposed bone. Nitish's own status screen showed the toll of his endeavor: his health had plummeted, his stamina depleted, but his determination was unyielding. The dagger, now coated in layers of congealed blood, had become an extension of his will.
The days blurred into a relentless cycle of stabbing, tearing, and consuming. Nitish's hands were slick with Sura's blood, his once hesitant movements now replaced by a ruthless efficiency. He felt the exhaustion creeping in, the pull of sleep whispering at the edges of his consciousness, but he couldn't stop. Not until Sura's heart, the core of his demonic strength, was pierced and destroyed.
On the final day, Nitish stood over Sura's chest, the blade poised above the demon king's colossal heart. It beat faintly, a slow, labored rhythm that signaled the end. Nitish drove the dagger down with a final, decisive thrust, the blade sinking into the dense muscle with a shuddering impact. Sura's body convulsed, a spasm that rattled the entire throne room, and then, with a long, drawn-out exhale, the demon king stilled. His health bar vanished, and the room fell into a deafening silence.
Nitish staggered back, dropping the dagger as his vision swam. His heart pounded erratically, a frantic, desperate beat that echoed the chaos in his mind. He had done it. He had killed the demon king. A flood of notifications burst across his vision, too many to comprehend, but Nitish saw the numbers—his level, skyrocketing from 1 to 10, 20, 30, and climbing higher. Each new level brought with it a rush of strength, a surge of vitality that coursed through his veins, washing away the fatigue and pain.
He collapsed beside Sura's massive corpse, his body too drained to stand, but his lips curled into a smile. A wild, triumphant grin that spoke of defiance and victory. He had defied the odds, shattered the expectations, and risen from nothing. The room was a blood-soaked testament to his will, the air thick with the scent of death and power.
As Nitish drifted into unconsciousness, the last thing he saw was his own status, glowing brightly in the darkness. The star next to his level had multiplied, now three, four, five, and still climbing. He had no bloodline, no inherent power, but he had something more—something that defied the very fabric of this world. He had taken down the undefeatable, consumed the unconquerable, and emerged stronger than ever.
With Sura's blood still warm on his lips, Nitish let the darkness take him, his mind at ease for the first time in what felt like forever. He had carved out his place in this world with the blade and his will, and now, as his consciousness slipped away, he knew that nothing would ever make him a nobody again.