Angel Milk

Additional Tags: #Romance, #Evolution, #Antihero Power in Aethelgard does not come from prayer. It comes from Divine Marks, fragments of Authority carved into existence itself. A single Mark can lift a mortal beyond the limits of flesh. With enough Marks, a being may evolve into a Saint, a Demigod, an Angel, or even a True God. But every Divine Mark has a sequence, a stage, and a burden. Ilyan Morveth was killed for one. His heart was pierced in an abandoned ruin. His killer left him there, waiting for the Divine Mark inside his body to appear. It never did. Before the Mark could manifest, an ancient soul drifted into the corpse. Then the dead man opened his eyes. Now Ilyan wakes with a closed wound over his heart, broken memories that do not belong to him, and a power he does not understand. His first day alive only gets worse. A Beast attacks him in the ruin. A mysterious Divine Mark rises from its corpse. And when Ilyan reaches Blackstone, the city gate already has his name written in the death ledger. According to the records, Ilyan Morveth died before dawn. To survive, he must play the role of a dead man whose life he barely remembers while hiding the impossible power awakening inside him. Because Miracle is not luck. It is not fate. It is the quiet violation of reality itself. A falling stone at the right moment. A wound that should not heal. A question asked one breath too late. A coincidence too perfect to be coincidence. But miracles attract attention. Ilyan is not a chosen hero. He is a survivor wearing a stolen life. And if the world insists that Ilyan Morveth should have stayed dead, then his first miracle will be proving it wrong.

"Ma, Samson promises. Samson is going to repent; I won’t be a thug anymore. I'm going to find a real, honest job. So please, Ma, don't come back to haunt me, okay?" Samson knelt, tears streaming down his face, though his expression still looked like someone ready to pick a fight with the Angel of Death. Bejo held out an umbrella. "Boss, it’s almost sunset. We need to go collect the 'protection money' from the cafe owner," he said. "Hey, Bejo! I just promised Ma that I’ve repented. You little devil! Do you want my mother to rise from her grave because of what you just said, huh?!" Samson stood up. His towering height, nearly two meters, made Bejo instinctively jump back three steps. "But Boss, our stomachs aren't exactly followers of the repentance movement," Bejo squeaked, trembling. Samson wiped his fierce face. "From this second on, call me Samson the Protector. I’m going to find honest work. Anything! As long as I'm not shaking people down anymore." A wealthy woman looked Samson up and down, scrutinizing him. "Your body is quite large. It just so happens I need a new guard dog. I just fired the old one because he was afraid of cockroaches." Samson was ready to explode. "Hey, lady! You think I—" "Fifty million a month. Meals are provided, and you get an Italian suit for a uniform. Interested?" the woman interrupted, handing him a gold-plated business card. Samson fell silent. He then whispered under his breath, "Ma, this is honest work, right? Just being a guard dog for a billionaire."