Starting Out As The God of Beasts

The atmosphere above the Glorious Mythical Sect did not merely change—it violently tore at the seams.

Even with Roy’s spatial barrier insulating the structure within a muted, pocket dimension, the sheer volume of divine essence overflowing from High Priest Arnold forced reality itself to strain.

The air turned heavy and viscous, tasting faintly of ozone and burning copper.

The space surrounding Arnold’s hovering form groaned like a dying beast, microscopic spatial hairline fractures spider-webbing across the void around his skin.

The physical plane was rejecting the unnatural intrusion of high-tier divine essence into a mortal shell.

Yet the true horror was unfolding deep within the labyrinth of High Priest Arnold’s mind.

Far beneath the crackling violet flames consuming his physical body, Arnold’s consciousness was drowning in a sea of blinding, suffocating light.

His soul felt as if it were being submerged in molten gold.

A terrifying, maddening chorus of mind-shattering whispers roared through his mind—voices that sounded like falling mountains, shifting tectonic plates, and rushing oceans all at once.

GIVE UP YOUR WILL… SURRENDER YOUR VESSEL… RECEIVE THE ETERNAL GRACE OF THE SKY GOD… BECOME THE CONDUIT… BECOME THE BLADE…

“No… NO!” Arnold’s soul screamed into the vast, blinding void of his inner world.

He fought back with every ounce of fanaticism and pride he possessed.

He had sacrificed his lifespan and invoked the forbidden miracle to gain the power to slaughter the heretics—not to be erased!

He desperately clawed at his own mind, trying to retain his identity, his memories, and his absolute command over his own body.

It was an utterly futile struggle.

A mortal soul, no matter how devout or powerful a Martial Lord might be, was nothing more than a glass cup trying to hold an entire ocean of divine authority.

Bit by bit, his thoughts were crushed.

His childhood memories, his rise through the ranks of the Holy Church, his hatred for the heretics—everything was methodically erased, consumed, and swallowed whole by the overwhelming divine presence overflowing into his brain.

Within seconds, more than half of Arnold’s soul had been devoured.

In the physical world, the floating, shirtless body of High Priest Arnold twitched violently.

His head snapped up. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered open, revealing a grotesque, unnatural sight that froze the air in the room.

His left eye burned with a brilliant, predatory orange radiance—an eye completely overtaken by the ruthless, alien intelligence of the divine essence.

But his right eye remained a dull, milky grey, flickering with the desperate, dying embers of the true High Priest Arnold’s fading soul.

The dual-colored eyes stared down at the four beast leaders standing in the wreckage below.

“Speak… mortals…” Arnold’s mouth opened, but the voice that spilled out was a hideous, distorted duet.

It was a terrifying overlap of Arnold’s raspy, dying voice and a grand, booming, inhuman echo that vibrated directly inside the skulls of everyone present.

“Are you… the followers… of the God of Beast?”

Grand Chancellor Manuses, Pope Croak, Duchess Eurenia, and Duchess Alisa all froze, slight frowns crossing their faces as they exchanged brief, subtle glances.

A deep confusion flickered in their eyes.

‘What kind of question is that?’ Manuses thought, his golden eyes narrowing into razor-thin slits as his claws twitched. ‘We have been fighting him for the past ten minutes. He dragged us here, cursed us, and unleashed his full power against us. Why is he asking if we are followers of the beast god now?’

Before any of them could voice their suspicion, Arnold’s right grey eye bulged with psychotic rage.

“AAAARRRRGGGHHHH!”

High Priest Arnold unleashed another ear-splitting shriek.

The dying mortal soul fought desperately against the divine parasite invading his brain, infuriated by his own loss of control.

He cussed and screamed, spewing a torrent of senseless, bloody curses at the world, at his god, and at the heretics below.

BOOM!

The violet divine essence flaring off his chest erupted outward in a wave of destructive pressure, shattering the remaining furniture into microscopic splinters and cracking the solid stone floor like an eggshell.

Yet, despite the apocalyptic force tearing the building apart, not a single vibration or sound escaped into the night sky.

The Glorious Mythical Sect remained dead silent, its disciples asleep, completely oblivious to the god-tier battle taking place inside the muted bubble.

Arnold’s body shuddered as the violent outburst subsided.

His form settled back into the air, hovering motionless once more.

His orange left eye flickered with cold, absolute light.

The divine intelligence within him ignored the dying soul’s screams, focusing its terrifying gaze once more upon the four commanders below.

“Answer… mortals…” the distorted voice repeated, flatter this time, completely devoid of emotion. “Are you… the Church of the God of Beast?”

Pope Croak stepped forward smoothly, his dark clerical robes trailing across the ruined floor.

He raised his chin, his narrow, reptilian eyes glinting with absolute pride and dark devotion as he looked up at the hovering, dual-eyed monstrosity.

“We are,” Pope Croak declared smoothly, his voice carrying an unyielding, arrogant weight.

“And Lord Varanus, the God of Beast and Men, is the greatest, most supreme god among all the realms! Your false god is nothing more than a pebble before his glory!”

The moment the declaration echoed through the chamber, Arnold’s left orange eye narrowed slightly.

A wave of pure, absolute, unadulterated murderous intent rolled off his body, so intense it turned the falling dust particles to ice in mid-air.

“Then… I shall destroy you…” the distorted voice droned, resonance echoing through the room.

“…as my creator has decreed.”

FLICKER.

In that exact millisecond, the dying grey color in Arnold’s right eye vanished completely.

The milky grey iris dissolved, replaced instantly by the exact same blinding, burning orange light as his left eye.

The final remnant of the true High Priest Arnold’s soul—his memories, his pride, his very existence—was completely devoured, erased from the world as if he had never existed at all.

The body hovering in the air was no longer a man, nor was it a mortal cultivator.

High Priest Arnold was dead, leaving his vessel entirely in the hands of an ancient, terrifying divine puppet that looked down at the world with cold, absolute destruction.