Becoming A God In Another World With My Crush
Chapter 42: Prove That Fucker Wrong

Chapter 42: Prove That Fucker Wrong

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘❦✾❦∘∙⊱⋅•

Xander stayed on the floor, palms pressed to the carpet like it might anchor him. His arms shook from more than pain now and cold sweat beaded along his spine as he couldn’t do more than stare at this monstrousity.

On the bright side, he can boldly state that he’d seen a zombie and a haunted house in real life, so that was a plus...right?

Who was he kidding? No one would believe him in his original world.

The thing that looked like his father stood a few feet away, blood still dripping from the knife clutched in his crusty grey hand and the knife caught the light of the flickering lamp and cast streaks of red reflections across the wall.

"You’ve been lying to yourself all these years," it said—his father’s voice, but wrong somehow too calm. Too slow. Like someone pressing play on a recording with sticky fingers. "Saying that you did it for your mother...but I’m reality, you just wanted me gone."

"You think you’re a hero now? You think these can actually trust you to protect them?"

Xander forced his breathing to slow, fingers curling tighter against the floor. He didn’t answer, he couldn’t...not with the way his chest clenched around the words he didn’t want to admit might still live in the corners of his mind.

"They see it, Xander," the ghost said, stepping closer. "Everyone sees your incompetence."

Its boots dragged along the carpet, one toe snagging slightly like the corpse was learning how to walk in its own skin.

"You should stay here...where no one will have to deal with how disappointing you are."

"Shut up," Xander said quietly.

"You don’t belong with them. Not with Iris. Not with that pink-haired girl. Not with anyone."

"Shut up."

"You are nothing, Xander. You always have been."

The thing stepped even closer now, towering over him, the knife gleaming like it was savoring the moment.

"Your mother knows it. I knew it. Hell, even those kids at school, those idiots who shoved your face in the dirt for fun—they were right. They saw you for what you were."

Xander’s hands trembled. His throat burned. Something inside him wanted to scream...wanted to believe it, even now, after everything.

"They all knew you’d end up alone. Or dead. Or both." The corpse crouched low, staring into his eyes. "And I swear, the world would be better for it."

It raised the knife.

And for a second, Xander didn’t move.

Because maybe just maybe—this was what he deserved.

Maybe this was the punishment for not being strong enough, brave enough, good enough. Maybe....

No.

’Nah, fuck that.’

Xander’s eyes snapped into focus.

He saw the corpse clearly now, the blood, the sunken eyes and the twisted mouth trying to spit words that no longer belonged to a human voice. And underneath it all... it wasn’t even his so called father.

This was the house. The ghost, the pain lying underneath his quiet exterior, it was a mask made of old wounds and years of guilt.

And Xander wasn’t ten anymore, just as the knife came down, Xander moved, he twisted, grabbing a fallen piece of the picture frame off the floor and jamming it upward, knocking the blow just wide enough to scrape past his shoulder instead of his chest.

Pain exploded down his side, but he didn’t stop.

He rolled, kicked off the floor, and slammed his shoulder into the corpse’s ribs, knocking it backward with a sickening crack of old immensely gross bones.

The knife clattered against the wall as Xander staggered to his feet, chest heaving, his glasses were gone and his vision was blurry and his side burned like hell.

"Fucking ghost." he said through gritted teeth. "You wanna kill me? Fine. But you picked the wrong fucking memory to weaponize."

The thing snarled and lunged as Xander grabbed his sword, Xander’s fingers closed around the hilt of his blade like it had always belonged there. His grip was tight enough to turn his knuckles pale, but he didn’t care. He can bleed more later.

The corpse charged, its movements fast and jagged and and Its mouth twisted open in a shriek that didn’t quite sound like his dad anymore...it was something else now.

Xander sidestepped the first swing, barely avoiding claws that were fingers minutes ago and the second blow came faster, he brought the sword up in time to block it, but the sheer force of it knocked him back two full steps. His boots slipped slightly on the carpet as the ghost kept coming relentlessly.

"You’re weak, Xander," the voice hissed. "You always were."

Xander didn’t respond, he didn’t have time too, the ghost slashed again, and this time the claws caught his arm, just below the shoulder. A sharp sting tore through muscle and fabric, and he gasped as warmth of blood spread across his sleeve.

But he didn’t drop the sword, he pivoted low and slashed upward in return. It wasn’t perfect like those Chinese martial arts movies actors own was...but it hit. His blade tore across the corpse’s side, and something foul and black hissed out like smoke.

The thing staggered, its feet dragging sideways, body twisting awkwardly like it was learning how to feel pain again.

Xander used the moment to breathe one second.

That’s all he got to come up with a plan, then it lunged again faster than ever before and tackled him, they crashed into the wardrobe with a loud bang, the old wood splintering against his back. His sword dropped from his grip as he slammed into the floor, breath knocked clean from his lungs.

The ghost was on him in seconds.

It straddled his chest, cold fingers wrapping around his throat.

"I should have killed you that day," it hissed as Xander clawed at the ghost’s hands, his vision already starting to blur.

"You don’t... belong in any world," the voice said. "You’re Kaelhi? More like you’re a mistake."

Xander’s legs kicked, his lungs screaming, he reached out blindly, hand searching desperately for something until his fingers brushed the shattered remains of the picture frame again. The glass sliced into his skin but he didn’t let go.

He gritted his teeth and stabbed it upward, jamming the glass into the corpse’s throat.

The ghost shrieked and it’s grip loosened, Xander shoved it off him with everything he had and rolled to his knees, coughing violently as his lungs struggled to refill with air.

He could barely hear over the ringing in his ears. The ghost writhed a few feet away, clutching at its neck as dark smoke hissed from the wound.

Xander crawled toward his sword, his fingers dragging across the blood-soaked carpet. He grabbed the hilt.

"I’m not..." he gasped, wiping blood from his mouth. "I’m not what you say I am."

The ghost let out a guttural snarl and lunged one final time.

And Xander swung with his body moving on instinct, his blade met the neck of the corpse mid-charge with a clean, violent slice. The ghost’s head hit the floor with a sickening thud, rolling just far enough to land beside the broken picture frame.

The body stood for a breath longer swaying for a bit and then collapsed like its puppet strings had been cut.

Xander stood there watching in silence, blood dripping from his arm, his arm throbbing, and breath coming in short, sharp bursts, then he dropped the sword.

It hit the ground like it weighed a hundred pounds.

His knees buckled, and he hit the floor hard, palms smacking the carpet as he slumped forward.

For a while... he just stared at the floor. At the pieces of the picture frame still scattered across the room. At the empty space where the ghost had stood...where his father had stood or whatever the hell that thing was.

"I killed him," Xander said quietly, his voice hoarse. "Again."

He let out a slow breath, leaned his head back against the wall behind him as he curled his fingers.

’Shouldn’t I be crying or something?’ he thought, he had just through what therapists would call a traumatic event...so why did he feel nothing emotionally?

But his body?

God.

His body felt like it had been thrown off a building, set on fire, and stitched back together by spite, his arm throbbed, he was pretty sure the gash from the ghost’s knife had gone deep... He wondered if Alyhana could heal it, assuming she wasn’t dead by now.

"...I’m not nothing," he said, softer this time. "I’ll show you, I’ll prove you wrong, you son of a bitch."

Then he scoffed and stood up, watching as the room starting to...change? The blue walls transformed back to red, the familiar furniture vanished, and in a matter of minutes...Xander was standing in a room that didn’t look like his childhood home anymore.

Thank God, he couldn’t bare to look at it for another second. He grabbed his sword, his busted up glasses and left the room, he needed to find Iris and Alyhana... hopefully they were still alive, and get the hell out of here.