The Mortal

The sound of pens scratching against paper filled the classroom, a steady hum of effort and focus. But for Arcelus, the atmosphere wasn't enough. His own pen moved with a precise rhythm, his handwriting flawless, every letter a testament to hours of disciplined practice. He had memorized the material weeks ago, but perfection required repetition.

His desk was immaculate, his textbooks marked with careful annotations. He had spent the previous night revising, going over the lesson again and again until his vision blurred. Sleep was secondary to ambition.

"Arcelus, would you like to answer?" the teacher asked, her tone expectant.

He nodded, setting down his pen and rising. As he approached the board, he could feel the weight of the room's attention, but he didn't falter. Each step carried purpose, a reflection of countless hours spent refining not just his mind but his very presence.

The equation on the board was complex, the kind of problem designed to stump even the brightest students. But Arcelus didn't hesitate. He worked through it with methodical precision, explaining each step as he wrote. When he finished, he stepped back, his breathing steady, his mind already analyzing potential improvements to his process.

The class erupted into murmurs of approval, but Arcelus didn't acknowledge them. Praise wasn't the goal.

From a young age, Arcelus had known what he wanted to be: a god. Not in the metaphorical sense, not as a mere symbol of excellence. He wanted divinity itself, to stand above all others. And unlike most children's dreams, his never faded.

At eight years old, he had written his first "plan" in a leather-bound notebook, pages filled with meticulous goals and strategies. His first entry read: "To become a god, I must master everything."

He had started with academics, waking up at dawn to study beyond what the school required. At night, he pored over advanced textbooks meant for students twice his age. When he encountered something he didn't understand, he didn't stop. He found teachers, read articles, even begged his parents to buy him materials he could barely afford.

By ten, his efforts extended to the physical realm. He'd wake up hours before school to run laps around his neighborhood. At first, his lungs burned, and his legs screamed for rest, but he pushed through. Sweat and exhaustion became familiar companions.

"Arcelus, do you ever take a break?" his mother had asked once, standing in the doorway of his room as he practiced a speech in front of the mirror.

He had turned to her, his expression solemn. "A god doesn't rest."

She had laughed then, but he wasn't joking.

Back in the classroom, Arcelus returned to his seat, his mind already reviewing his performance. I could have been faster, he thought. Next time, I'll finish in less time.

It wasn't perfection that he sought—perfection was static, unchanging. What he wanted was transcendence, the ability to rise above all human limits.

During lunch, while his classmates chattered and relaxed, Arcelus sat alone, reading. The book in his hands wasn't part of the syllabus; it was an advanced treatise on philosophy. Understanding the human mind, he believed, was just as important as mastering the body.

One of his earliest memories was of standing in a small garden, watching ants scurry in their endless, tireless march. He was five, curious, and unshaped by discipline, but even then, something stirred in him.

"They never stop," he had said to his father, pointing at the ants.

"No, they don't," his father replied. "That's how they survive."

That night, as other children slept, Arcelus stayed awake, thinking. If ants can work so tirelessly to survive, why can't I work to become something greater?

It wasn't about survival for him. It was about creation, about ascending beyond the constraints of the ordinary.

"Arcelus, you're pushing too hard," his classmate Elias said after school one day. "You're already top of the class. No one expects more from you."

"I don't care about their expectations," Arcelus replied, his tone firm. "I have my own."

Elias frowned. "And those are?"

Arcelus met his gaze, his eyes unflinching. "To become a god."

Elias laughed, but it was a hollow sound. Arcelus didn't join in. He simply turned away, heading toward the library.

...

..

.

Each day was a step closer. Every hour spent studying, every drop of sweat spilled during training, every sleepless night—it all built toward the same goal. He wasn't naturally talented; he didn't rely on gifts bestowed by luck or genetics. Everything he had achieved was the result of effort.

Even now, as the school day ended, Arcelus didn't head home to relax. He walked to the nearby field, where he would train his body. After that, it would be back to his desk, where he would study until the early hours of the morning.

Because divinity, he believed, wasn't something granted. It was something earned.

...

..

.

The sun was setting when Arcelus finally arrived home. His small apartment was immaculate, every item in its place, every surface spotless. Chaos, he believed, was the enemy of progress. He set his bag down, changed into a fresh set of clothes, and moved to his desk.

The room was silent except for the faint hum of his laptop as he powered it on. Arcelus settled into his chair, his fingers moving quickly across the keyboard. This was his real training ground—a battlefield of ideas, a crucible for his mind.

The screen lit up with a series of encrypted logins. Arcelus entered them without hesitation, navigating through layers of security before reaching the forums. These weren't ordinary communities. They were the dark underbelly of the internet, places where the most extreme ideologies thrived.

One tab brought up a message board filled with posts debating supremacist ideologies. Another opened to a live stream of a cult ritual, complete with chanting and obscure symbols. A third tab, which he closed almost immediately, hosted explicit content he had no interest in.

He leaned back, his gaze flicking over the discussions. It wasn't the content that fascinated him but the psychology behind it. Each post was a window into a fractured mind, each argument a test of his ability to analyze, counter, and remain unaffected.

One post caught his attention.

"The only way to achieve power is through dominance. Those who submit are nothing but cattle."

Arcelus clicked on the reply button. His fingers flew over the keys as he typed a response.

"Dominance born of ignorance is fragile. True power lies in understanding—of yourself, of others, and of the systems you seek to control. Your argument lacks depth."

He hit send and watched as replies flooded in, some agreeing, most attacking his stance. He responded to each one, carefully dismantling their arguments, exposing logical flaws, and presenting counterpoints.

Another tab brought him to a cultish forum where users shared their visions of divinity. Arcelus read the posts with mild interest, comparing their views to his own. They spoke of gods as distant beings, unreachable and unknowable.

Fools, he thought. A god must be present, active, and supreme—not an abstraction to be worshipped blindly.

One user described a dream of ascending to godhood through sacrifice. Arcelus typed out a brief response.

"Sacrifice is meaningless without purpose. A god does not waste. A god builds."

The discussion spiraled into chaos as users debated his words, but Arcelus had already moved on.

Hours passed, and the world outside grew dark. Arcelus remained at his desk, navigating from one community to the next. Racist ideologies, conspiracy theories, underground marketplaces—he delved into each one with the same detached curiosity.

It wasn't about agreeing or disagreeing. It wasn't about moral judgment. Arcelus saw these spaces as laboratories, places to observe the extremes of human thought and to challenge his own. If he was to become a god, he needed to understand every facet of humanity—the good, the vile, the irrational.

Occasionally, he paused to jot down notes in his journal, his handwriting neat and deliberate.

"Emotion clouds logic. Observe without attachment."

"A god must understand chaos but never succumb to it."

---

As the clock struck midnight, Arcelus closed the final tab and leaned back in his chair. His mind felt sharper, his understanding deeper. The forums were cesspools of ignorance, but they served their purpose.

He stood, stretching briefly before turning off the laptop. The apartment was silent once more, save for the faint rustle of his movements. He walked to the window and gazed out at the city below, the lights twinkling like stars.

"They live in shadows," he murmured to himself. "Blind to their own flaws. But I see everything. I will rise above it all."

The moonlight reflected off his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. His lips curled into a faint smile.

Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new opportunities to refine himself. The path to godhood was long, but he would walk it without faltering.

Because Arcelus didn't just aspire to be a god. In his mind, he already was one.