Pryce's grin faded. Not gone—just dialed down to something sharper, colder.
The endless green field suddenly felt less like paradise and more like a very expensive cage with really good lighting.
He dragged a hand through his hair, exhaling hard enough to ripple the grass in front of him.
"Look here, dude," he said, voice dropping the sarcasm just enough that the angel actually leaned in a fraction. "Out of every breathing soul left on Veyra's Fringe—hell, probably the whole damn world—nobody hates heroes more than I do.
"And that's saying something, because villains literally jerk off to the idea of beating them.
"Everyone else? They love the show. Heroes swoop in, cape fluttering like they rehearsed it in front of a mirror, save the damsel, flash the million-cred smile, and suddenly the girl who was screaming thirty seconds ago is ready to drop her panties and call him 'my savior' for the rest of her life.
"Heroes are the best thing that happened to the world after the Fall. Official narrative. Printed on every damn propaganda poster."
He paced a slow circle, barefoot in the perfect grass, arms crossed tight over his chest like he was holding in something explosive.
"I got nothing against the theatrics. Nothing against the powers. Shit, I'd killfor those powers. Lightning? Void? Earth-shattering stomps? Sign me the fuck up yesterday. And yeah—fine, I'll admit it out loud—the harems. The absolute harems. Every top-tier male hero with a fan club of beauties and fellow heroines trailing him like perfume.
"Heroines pulling the same move with their own squads of pretty boys and girls. That part? That part I respect. That part I envy so hard it hurts. What's wrong with wanting a harem of gorgeous, powerful women throwing themselves at you before you even think about saving the world?Nothing. Nothing at all."
Pryce stopped pacing. Turned. Locked eyes with the six-winged being who still radiated that gentle, unbearable divinity. "But here's the math nobody wants to do," he continued, voice low and vicious.
"Out of every swinging dick and perfect tits in the hero roster—male, female, whatever—only maybe zero-point-zero-zero-zero-zero-one percent actually get the full harem fantasy and do whatever the fuck they want.
"The rest?
"They're out there doing charity patrols, kissing babies, smiling for the guild cameras, and jerking off alone in their subsidized penthouses because the higher-ups won't let them touch the merchandise and enjoy the freedom that should come with their powers."
He barked a short, bitter laugh. "Think about it. You've got guys who can punch mountains flat. Girls who can rewrite gravity with a thought. Literal walking apocalypses. And what do they do? They follow rules. Moral guidelines. 'No fraternization with civilians.''No excessive displays of affection in uniform.''No using powers for personal gratification.'
"Bullshit. Absolute, steaming bullshit."
"One would wonder... How do you leash a city-leveler and tell him he can't spread his seed across half the continent and build a dynasty of mini-gods? How do you tell a lightning reincarnate of Zeus he can't have orgies where beauties line up begging to worship his cock? You don't.
"Not unless the blessing comes with chains."
Pryce jabbed a finger toward the angel. "And that's the real problem, glow-boy. The restrictions don't come from governments. They don't come from morality clauses in the Heroes Guild charter. They come from above. From you lot. The ones handing out the power packages with more fine print than a loan shark's contract. You bless them, you own them. You want paragons. You want self-sacrificing choir boys and girls who smile while bleeding out for strangers. You want control."
He took a step closer—close enough that the soft radiance brushed his skin like warm static. "So let me get this straight. I die shielding my sister from the same arrogant prick who used to shove my face in the locker room toilet back in elementary and high school.[1]
"Sylas fucking Stormveil. The Thunder Saint. The Guild of the Seven's golden boy. The heavens—your heavens—let that walking murderous scam live, thrive, get worshipped, probably has a fan club newsletter. And now you're offering me the exact same deal? Become a 'hero.' Save lives I don't give two shits about. Get ordered around like a kid again. All so I can play by your rules, never touch the harem buffet, never truly enjoy the freedom of my powers and die nobly for people who'd spit on me yesterday?"
Pryce's lip curled. "No. Fuck no. I'd rather stay dead."
The angel didn't flinch. Didn't glow brighter in righteous indignation. He simply regarded Pryce with those ancient amber eyes—patient, unreadable, eternal.
"You believe I would forbid pleasure?" the angel asked quietly. "Forbid connection? Forbid the very human desires that make mortality beautiful?"
Pryce snorted. "You look exactly like the type who thinks 'beautiful' means celibate marble statues and solemn vows. Upright. Pure. The kind of guy who'd smite someone for thinking about tits during prayer. No offense, but I'm not signing up to be your choirboy."
The Angel understood perfectly well what Pryce meant that was hidden in the talk about pursue of pleasure. And yes, he was right.
Almost no heroes had freedom just like how he was saying.
He spread his arms again, mocking surrender. "So yeah. Offer appreciated. Power sounds great. The harem potential? Chef's kiss. But if the price is turning into another puppet who can't even fuck without filing a permission slip with the celestial HR department? Keep it. I'll take the void. At least darkness doesn't come with a morality clause."
Pryce's grin had already faded into something harder, more jagged.
The endless emerald field, the perfect air, the soft grass under his bare feet—it all started feeling less like paradise and more like a velvet-lined trap designed by someone who'd never walked Veyra's Fringe's broken streets.
He dragged a hand through his hair again, exhaling through his teeth.
Out of every soul still drawing breath on the shattered world below—probably every soul who'd ever lived since the Fall—Pryce hated heroes more than anyone. Villains at least had the decency to be honest about wanting power, territory, revenge.
Everyone else? They worshipped the caped clowns.
Heroes arrived in dramatic swoops, saved the day with choreographed flair, rescued damsels who then gazed up at them with hearts in their eyes and thighs already parting. The saved became devotees.
Official story: heroes were the greatest gift humanity received after everything went to hell.
Pryce had no quarrel with the spectacle. None with the raw, city-leveling power.
He'd have sold his left kidney for lightning in his veins or void at his fingertips.
And the harems? Gods, the harems.
Top-tier male heroes trailed by squads of beauties and heroines who looked at them like they hung the moons.
Heroines with their own rotating casts of pretty boys and fierce girls.
That part he didn't just respect—he coveted it with every fiber of his street-rat soul.
What sane man wouldn't want armies of gorgeous, powerful womenbegging to share his bed before he even considered playing savior?
Nothing wrong with prioritizing pleasure before world-saving.
Nothing at all.
But the math never added up. Of every male hero and every heroine strutting the Guild ranks, maybe one of a hundred (100) actually lived the full fantasy. The rest got propaganda smiles, supervised patrols, morality clauses, and lonely nights in guild-subsidized apartments.
They could level mountains with a flick of the wrist, rewrite physics with a thought—and still had to file paperwork to kiss someone. How? How did you leash gods? Not unless the power came chained from the start.
The restrictions never came from governments too scared to enforce them. Never from ethics boards that couldn't survive five seconds in the same room as a real hero. They came from above from the ones handing out the blessings like corporate sponsorship packages—
Pryce's lip curled as he stared at the six-winged being.
So here he stood—freshly barbecued collateral from Sylas Stormveil's latest tantrum—being offered the exact same poisoned deal. Become a "hero." Save strangers he didn't know and wouldn't piss on if they were on fire.
Follow orders like a good little soldier. Die nobly for people who'd have stepped over his corpse yesterday.
All while some celestial overseer policedhis dick and told him which women were "approved" company. And the Thunder Saint?
That same smug bastard who'd dunked his head in toilet water in elementary, slammed him into lockers in high school and just killed him, then grew up to become the Guild's poster child? That walking scam got to keep breathing, keep smiling, while the heavens looked the other way and have Pryce fight side by side with him.
Pryce's voice came out low, almost conversational, but edged with acid. "No," he said.
Not to the angel. But to the whole damn proposition.
"I'm not signing up to be another Guild puppet. I'm not here to save lives I don't give a shit about while you hover over my shoulder like overprotective hall monitor. If I get powers, I'm building my harem first—real women, real desire, no divine permission slips required, asking questions never. World-saving can wait its turn behind getting laid by people who actually want me, not because some divine-contract says they have to smile and nod."
He met the angel's gaze without flinching.
He really looks like the upright type. The 'purity above all' type. The kind who'd smite someone for thinking about sex during a sermon.
"No offense, feather-boy, but I'm not interested in living a soulless second life where I rescue the ungrateful and jerk off in secret because the boss upstairs disapproves of orgies."
[1] Oh, guys just a reminder... this is not your usual bully story, there is the fun part.