Zerofuku felt something vile curdling in his very essence—a deep, seething hatred that burned in his godlike bones. That Buddha. That insufferable man who seemed to draw love and adoration effortlessly, without lifting a single finger. How? How did he inspire such devotion, such unwavering faith, when he—Zerofuku—had suffered, had endured agony beyond comprehension, all for the sake of humanity’s happiness? And yet, they never looked at him the same way.

A lump formed in his throat, thick with frustration, with sorrow so raw it made his entire being tremble. He wanted to scream, to wail until his voice was hoarse, to rake his nails down his skin until crimson streaked his pale flesh. His hands were already tangled in his hair, pulling so hard it stung, but he didn’t care. He was too lost in the storm of his own emotions to notice the shift—the dark, festering change taking root inside him.

It wasn’t until he sensed another presence that he snapped from his turmoil, his breath still uneven. Someone was approaching.

His head whipped toward them, his expression a mess of distress and something darker lurking beneath. His bright eyes, usually so soft, were now sharp, narrowed with suspicion.

“…Who are you?” His voice was low, unfriendly—guarded.