The chainsaw vibrated violently in the hands of the Spirit miner.

  For these hands accustomed to holding mining picks and wrenches, this weapon was too heavy, too violent. The Tiger Soul inside let out a low roar of dissatisfaction, seemingly protesting being touched by anyone other than the Slayer.

  But the miner didn't let go.

  He gripped the handle deathly tight, nails digging deep into his palms.

  He raised his head. In those black eyes that had just regained clarity, reflected the tall figure of the Slayer, and also the Thousand-Eyed Tyrant in mid-air, bleeding and still trying to re-establish a psychic connection.

  For thousands of years, they had been told: The Tyrant is God, an irresistible destiny. Their lives were just fuel, their souls just consumables.

  But now, that "God" was screaming.

  That "Destiny" was oozing pus.

  And this green giant, this destroyer from beyond hell, had just handed the knife of "God-Slaying" into his hand.

  What was this?

  This wasn't a gift.

  This was "Authorization."

  An authorization that needed no words, no contract, not even faith.

  —*If you hate, then kill.*

  A low roar, like that of a beast, came from the miner's throat.

  "AHHH!!!"

  He raised the chainsaw.

  Not for work, but for vengeance.

  He charged.

  Although his steps were stumbling, although he knew nothing of combat techniques, his reckless momentum actually allowed him to swing the chainsaw weighing several tons.

  *VROOOOM—!*

  The chainsaw sliced into a tentacle hanging down from the Thousand-Eyed Tyrant.

  Blood sprayed.

  This splash of bright red was like a spark falling into a haystack.

  The thousands of stunned Spirits around were instantly ignited.

  "KILL!!!"

  "GIVE US BACK OUR LIVES!!!"

  No tactics, no formation.

  Only the most primal riot.

  Countless Spirits picked up mining picks, wrenches, and even used their teeth, pouncing like madmen onto the Tyrant they used to fear to their bones.

  The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  They climbed onto the Tyrant's body, frantically chiseling at those disgusting eyeballs with the tools in their hands.

  They tore at the Tyrant's tentacles, refusing to let go even as the barbs cut them until they were bloody.

  The Thousand-Eyed Tyrant panicked.

  It tried to fight back, tried to suppress them with psychic power again.

  But the damned "Tao Te Ching" still echoed in its psychic network, and its logic core remained deadlocked. Every command it issued was smashed to pieces by the torrent of anger.

  "Get away! You filthy worms!"

  The Tyrant flung its body wildly, throwing dozens of Spirits away.

  But a second later, hundreds more pounced.

  The Slayer stood outside the crowd.

  He stood with his hands behind his back, like a silent supervising officer.

  He didn't act. Because this battle didn't belong to him.

  This was the awakening of the weak. It was the slaves' first grasp of their own destiny.

  In his tactical visor, the white dots originally representing [Neutral/Civilian] were turning one by one into green dots representing [Fanatic/Friendly].

  And above these dots, blurry red Marks of Doom began to emerge.

  That was the Slayer's Mark.

  They didn't see the Slayer as a new master.

  They saw him as a "Faith."

  A faith named "Rage."

  A doctrine named "Vengeance."

  As long as there is anger in the heart, as long as one dares to swing a blade at the oppressor, everyone can be a Slayer.

  This was the embryonic form of the [Cult of Doom].

  Not worshiping the mercy of a deity.

  But worshiping the power of destruction.

  The miner who charged first had now been pierced through the chest by one of the Tyrant's tentacles. But he didn't fall. He hugged the tentacle tight, using his last bit of strength to jam the chainsaw viciously into one of the Tyrant's main eyes.

  *SPLAT!*

  The eyeball burst.

  The miner died laughing.

  His blood sprayed onto the faces of his companions behind him. It didn't make them fear; instead, it made them even crazier.

  "FOR THE DESTROYER!"

  "FOR FREEDOM!"

  The Thousand-Eyed Tyrant finally couldn't hold on.

  Its massive body had been torn to shreds. Its proud eyes were gouged out, leaving only bloody holes.

  It let out a final wail of despair and crashed heavily to the ground.

  Then, it was drowned by the endless tide of people.

  ...

  Netherworld, Control Center.

  Singularity watched the bloody and spectacular scene on the screen and remained silent for a long time.

  "Is this... the will of the people?"

  Singularity recorded in his notebook:

  "The Slayer isn't just a warrior. He is... a 'Spark'."

  "He doesn't need to preach. His existence itself is the most inflammatory doctrine."

  On the screen, the Tyrant's corpse had been dismantled into fragments. Standing in pools of blood, the Spirits raised their tools and cheered thunderously at the green figure.

  But the Slayer didn't respond.

  He simply walked forward and retrieved his chainsaw from the dead miner's hand.

  He flicked off the blood.

  Then, he looked at the pile of rotten meat on the ground.

  His brow (under the faceplate) furrowed slightly.

  Something was wrong.

  The texture felt off.

  Although this Tyrant looked miserable and screamed loud, it died too... easily.

  And, it didn't drop the signature [High-Energy Soul Core] representing a Lord-level Demon.

  Only a pile of worthless rotten meat.

  The Slayer lifted his foot and stomped on the meat pile.

  *Squelch.*

  Only pus, no energy.

  This was an... Empty Shell?

  Or rather, a Double?

  In the headset, Singularity's voice also became grave:

  "Slayer, I noticed it too."

  "The energy readings are wrong. The energy decay after this thing died is too fast; it doesn't fit the characteristics of a Lord-level Demon at all."

  "It's like... someone cobbled together a puppet with a pile of rotten meat and eyeballs, poured a little psychic power into it, and put it here as a target."

  "The real Thousand-Eyed Tyrant... isn't here at all."

  The Slayer raised his head.

  His gaze pierced through the cheering crowd, through the shattered dome, looking into the deeper, darker void.

  There, a pair of *real* eyes were watching all of this coldly from the darkness.

  The Slayer gripped the chainsaw tight.

  Good.

  If this was just a fake body.

  That meant... I can kill it again.

  *Next Chapter: The Slayer's Charge. Since the real boss is hiding, drag it out. The Slayer decides not to wait anymore and directly initiates 'Global Search' mode.*