The Godless Apostle

"I believe that heroes don't exist.

We may have truly remarkable people, such as spiritual or religious figures who serve as great role models for humanity, but in reality, everyone is the same.

I don't believe I possess any greater truth. And especially the youth.

If young people fall into the mistake of believing otherwise, they will inevitably end up discovering that their idol has feet of clay."

=================================

Name? He had none at the beginning. His existence was a void, an empty shell without meaning, until a being that called itself a Pseudo-God granted him something beyond mere identity: a title. [Godless Apostle], or simply Apostle.

The concept was enigmatic. An apostle, by definition, should be a messenger of a deity, yet he served no one. An apostle without a God? What kind of absurd contradiction was that? He pondered over it countless times, trying to find meaning behind the name imposed upon him. But the answers never came. Over time, however, the unease faded. The doubt became irrelevant. The name didn't matter. Only what came next.

The day he received his [Identity] was also the day he received power. Without warning, without explanation. And before he could understand what it truly meant, he was cast into an unknown world. The Pseudo-God laughed, a cold, contemptuous laughter, as he watched his creation plummet into the abyss between realities. His voice, colossal like a crumbling mountain, echoed through the depths of the void.

"Do not fail me. I do not accept flawed creations."

Then, darkness consumed him. His body, his consciousness—everything faded. He sank into a deep slumber as he fell.

When he regained consciousness, there was no grandeur, no glory, only the frailty of a small, helpless body. He found himself as a baby, with hair as white as the pale moon and golden eyes that glowed like embers in the darkness. However, unlike the legends of heroes reborn into noble families, surrounded by gold and power, his new life began in misery.

He was born in a place forgotten by the world, where the air was heavy with despair and the walls bore the scars of a bitter past. A rot that consumed everything around it, and yet, a single light persisted.

His father was an alcoholic, a man broken by his own fate. A renowned hero, once celebrated, now just a shadow of his former glory. In another time, he had been admired, praised for his great deeds—until his wife discovered his betrayal. She, with the fury of a truth that could no longer be ignored, exposed his downfall, burning his wax wings like Icarus before the sun. His fame crumbled, his name was stained, and he fell. Fell hard, like those who believe themselves untouchable until the moment the world turns against them.

He blamed his wife for everything. Blamed her for his ruin, for his shame, for every failure he himself had sown. When he drowned in drink, his rage turned against her. Clenched fists. Stifled screams. Pain that repeated itself night after night.

She could have left. She wanted to. But she had nowhere to run. Her womb carried a life, and that life was the only thing keeping her there. Fear spoke louder than hope. The terror that her child would not survive outside that house made her stay.

And so, the Apostle grew up between his mother's love and his father's hatred.

"BRAT, GET OVER HERE!"

The father's voice roared like thunder, heavy with rage and drunkenness. His words echoed against the filthy walls of that house, carrying the weight of the violence that was about to come.

The Apostle, still nameless, felt the familiar shiver run through his small body. His mother had once tried to name him, but the attempt had cost her a face bruised by punches.

Trash doesn't need a name.

That was what the man said. That was what he believed. To him, the boy was nothing more than a burden, something unworthy of an identity, something that existed only to obey.

And so, he grew up without a name. To his father, he was just "Boy" or "Useless." Words spat like venom, laden with contempt. But to his mother, he was "Child," "Little Sun"—words whispered through pain, like small prayers of affection in a world where love was scarce.

The Apostle, now in the body of a frail child, walked toward the man. His steps were controlled, rigid. His body, though small, remained upright like that of a soldier before his superior.

The man looked down at him, the strong stench of alcohol thick in the air.

"Go to work."

Work, in that house, was not something honorable. It was not learning, nor honest effort. To his father, "work" meant stealing. Small shops, local markets—any place where nimble hands could take what was needed to survive—and, most importantly, to secure the drink that fueled that man's ruin.

The mother did not protest. She couldn't. Every word against her husband was paid for with pain, with bones that nearly broke under the force of his blows. She merely lowered her head, her eyes brimming with tears, swallowing her despair in silence.

The Apostle already knew what would happen if he failed. If he forgot something, if he brought less than what was needed, his father did not hesitate to punish him. The blows fell mercilessly, repeatedly, until his face swelled and turned purple, or until the man grew tired and returned to his bottle.

But he never screamed. Never cried.

He just endured.

The Apostle lived this way until he was nine years old, when everything changed.

It was the first recorded case where a hero was killed by his own son.

...

That night began like so many others—a house drowned in fear and pain, where the stench of alcohol permeated every inch of the small space. The same cycle as always: screams, blows, forced silence.

That night, the son and the mother took a beating while the father sprawled on the couch, drinking and watching TV, his heavy, flabby body sinking into the worn-out cushions.

"Woman, bring me another one!"

His rough, alcohol-soaked voice echoed through the house, followed by the dry sound of glass being hurled against the wall. The empty bottle shattered, scattering shards across the floor.

Yuki trembled. Her frail, life-worn hands hesitated for a moment before moving. She knew what would happen if she took too long. She knew what would happen if he had to repeat the order.

She hurried to the fridge, her bare feet carefully avoiding the glass fragments. With each step, her heart pounded in her chest. She grabbed the beer with trembling hands and returned to the monster she called a husband.

As she approached, she extended the bottle to him, hoping the night would end there.

But he let it fall.

The bottle hit the floor and shattered—a sharp crack piercing the heavy silence.

The father, Ashina, raised his red eyes, half-closed with rage and drunkenness. A heavy silence fell over the room, and then—

"You worthless wretch!"

The Apostle saw everything.

He saw when his father stood up, saw the hatred in his eyes, saw his muscles tensing for the next blow.

He saw the inevitable happening once again.

The Apostle saw everything.

He saw his mother being thrown to the ground like a worthless object, the man's fists crashing down on her without mercy. Each blow sank into her skin with a sickening, hollow sound. Her face turned purple, blood dripped from her mouth, and her eyes lost their light with every punch.

He should have been used to it. But something about that night was different.

His father, Ashina, looked down at the woman's fallen body—panting, sweaty, drunk. But not satisfied.

Then he lunged at her again.

The Apostle's eyes widened. His body froze. Something inside him screamed, but his mouth couldn't produce a sound. He wanted to act, wanted to save his mother, but fear held him back—like invisible chains crushing his limbs.

His golden eyes shone in the darkness. They saw the worst side of humanity. His father's gaze—full of hatred, lust, and contempt.

The boy's body trembled. His mind refused to comprehend what was before his eyes.

His mother, even weak, even with tears streaming down her bloodstained face, turned her head and met her son's gaze.

She whispered without a sound:

"Don't look."

She made a soft gesture, telling him to close his eyes.

But he couldn't.

He saw everything.

And that was when something broke inside him.

For a brief moment, his mind stopped.

The world around him dissolved into absolute silence—the crack of glass, the muffled sound of his mother's body falling to the ground, the labored breathing of the monster he called father.

And then, something ignited within him.

A violent heat, a fire that had never burned before, exploded inside his gut. Anger? Hatred? No. It was something deeper. Something primal, instinctive—the awakening of absolute power.

Suddenly, Ashina's pleasure was interrupted.

A shrill, deafening scream filled the air.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

The air around him trembled, and a golden aura erupted from the boy's body.

The ground cracked beneath his feet, the walls vibrated, and the pressure emanating from him was so overwhelming that the shards of glass floated momentarily before disintegrating into dust.

Apostle's Power: Status Amplification (Superhuman)

Before anyone could react, the Apostle moved.

Too fast.

Faster than any living being on the planet.

In the blink of an eye, he was before Ashina.

The man didn't even see it.

Didn't have time to realize it.

The boy's small fist, now charged with an absurd strength, moved forward with an overwhelming impact.

CRACK.

Ashina's head was crushed instantly.

The bones cracked, the skull imploded, and what remained of his drunken expression disappeared in the blink of an eye.

But the force was so great that the house couldn't withstand it.

The impact opened a hole from the floor to the ceiling, shattering beams and wood, causing everything to collapse around the boy.

Dust rose, covering everything in a veil of destruction.

And in the midst of it all, the Apostle remained standing, breathing heavily, his gaze empty.

The Apostle stood still for a few seconds, his body still trembling with the energy pulsing inside him. The air around him was hot, charged with suffocating pressure, as if the world had folded around him during that moment of absolute fury.

But then, his gaze fell upon his mother.

She was motionless.

Her delicate body, already fragile from constant abuse, lay collapsed on the floor amid the ruins of the house. Strands of dark hair covered part of her pale face, and the light that once shone in her eyes had been extinguished forever.

The Apostle took a hesitant step toward her, as if he still couldn't believe what he saw. His chest tightened when he noticed his father's hands still gripping her neck, fingers stiff and lifeless, but still deeply marking the skin of the woman who had given him life.

He let out a trembling sigh, his knees buckled, and he fell beside his mother.

"Mother...?"

Her voice was small, hoarse, as if each syllable was difficult to pronounce. No response came.

With a delicate movement, he removed Ashina's lifeless hands from Yuki's neck. The deep, purple marks screamed the truth he still refused to accept.

She's dead… while that monster still smiled.

His body trembled. A wave of indescribable feelings collided inside his chest. Anger. Hatred. Guilt.

He held her.

Tightly.

Afraid to let her go and watch her disappear completely.

Her small body, still covered in dust and blood, curled around her, as if he could bring her back with nothing but the force of his desire.

And then, the tears came.

Hot. Painful. Silent.

He didn't sob, didn't scream. He just felt the hot drops slide from his eyes, falling on his mother's cold face.

How long did he stay there?

He didn't know. Time seemed irrelevant now.

But then…

Footsteps.

Footsteps echoing through the rubble.

The Apostle heard.

His sharp senses detected the approach of someone—perhaps more than one person.

The sound of boots crushing debris and glass made his heart race. His body reacted before his mind could process what was happening.

He couldn't be found there.

Not now.

He hesitated for a single second… then disappeared.

At first, it might seem like teleportation—a fleeting blur that vanished without a trace.

But, in reality…

It was a leap.

Fueled by the overwhelming power still burning within him, the Apostle shot off at a speed impossible for any ordinary human.

The ground broke beneath his feet with the force of the thrust, leaving only a crater amidst the debris.

...

Baam!

The impact was overwhelming.

The ground cracked beneath his feet, shattering like thin glass as a cloud of dust rose into the sky. The Apostle fell to his knees, his body trembling, muscles stiffened by the overwhelming tension that consumed his being.

Around him, only ruins forgotten by time—buildings corroded by neglect, pillars broken in half, remnants of a past no one remembered. A dead place. Just like he felt inside.

His eyes were empty.

The world around him seemed non-existent, as if it had been erased the moment his mother died. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense.

And then...

The pain hit him.

Not just physical pain—that was already insignificant. The pain within him. The pain of a shattered soul.

"AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!"

A scream of pure agony tore through the silence of the night.

The sound echoed like thunder, filled with suffering, hatred, and despair.

The golden aura exploded.

It was as if the very sun had risen there, in the heart of a broken boy. An incandescent glow, fierce, uncontrolled.

The flames of his fury spread.

The ground beneath him cracked. The wind roared like a beast, whipping the rubble. Everything around him was swallowed by the absolute power pouring from his body, unable to be contained.

He screamed until his throat burned.

He destroyed everything until nothing remained around him.

Hours passed.

The moon descended.

The sun began to rise.

And with it, the golden light of the Apostle finally extinguished.

Now... everything was silent.

The landscape around him had been wiped off the map—there were no walls left, no trees, not even the original ground. Just a scorched desert, marked by the devastation of his pain.

The Apostle was there, fallen, leaning against the rubble of a wall barely standing. His body was covered in sweat and dust, his breath heavy, his eyes still glowing with a faint golden light, but exhausted.

He was alone.

Completely alone.

=====================================

[Image of the Apostle (Child)]

Yo! Author here, as you can see I decided on a world like MHA, the reason? I wanted to use this world first because of its similarity to our own, things like corruption, falsehood, human evil, plus a bit of philosophy here and there if you don't mind. I hope you enjoy it, and thanks to some suggestions I've received, I might even have some ideas for the future, but only later.

Now about the chapter, I felt kind of gross writing that part about the "father" doing that to the mother. I apologize for writing something like that, but I wanted to create a strong impact for the protagonist and give him a harsh, real shock. As for the protagonist's name, it will be revealed in the next chapter, so he won't be called Apostle all the time.

That's it, until next time, ladies and gentlemen, take care.