Transmigrated as the Villainess Princess - Chapter 144

Chapter 144: A Lonely God
In the ancient records of the Book of Forsaken Gods, buried within the forgotten histories of the Andromeda galaxy, there lay a legend about a god who had no temple, no worshippers, and no place among the celestial pantheon.

He was known only by a name whispered in dread, The God of Misery.

It was said that he had once been like any other deity, a being of immense power and divine presence.

But unlike the gods of light who bathed in the prayers of their devoted followers, or the gods of darkness who ruled with fear and dominion, the God of Misery had no followers at all.

He did not grant blessings, nor did he curse mortals. He did not demand sacrifice, nor did he answer prayers.

He simply existed, watching over the tragedies of the universe with an unreadable gaze.

The Birth of Misery.

Before he was a god, he was a mortal, a warrior of great renown, whose name had long since been erased from history.

He fought in wars that shaped galaxies, standing at the forefront of battles that determined the fate of empires.

Some claimed he was the greatest general who had ever lived, undefeated in battle, a man blessed by fate itself.

But fate was cruel.

His victories were not without cost. Every war he won came with the blood of those he swore to protect.

His soldiers, his brothers, fell in droves, and he carried their deaths upon his shoulders.

The weight of each life lost, each kingdom destroyed, each innocent life taken in the name of peace, chipped away at his soul.

Then came the final war, the war that shattered him.

The woman he loved, a being of celestial purity, stood against him. She was the last hope of a dying people, the final bastion of a fading kingdom.

He begged her to surrender, to flee, to abandon the war before it took everything from them. But she refused. And so, he struck her down.

As she fell in his arms, her blood staining his hands, she whispered a curse, not out of hatred, but of sorrow.

“May you never find peace, nor joy, nor solace in this life or any other. May you carry the weight of all suffering, and may the universe remember your name only in sorrow.”

And the universe listened.

At that moment, the warrior ceased to be. His body crumbled into stardust, and his soul was reshaped by the heavens themselves.

No longer a man, no longer a soldier, he became something else. A god.

A god with no worshippers, no temples, no offerings.

A god who was known only through the suffering of others.

The Curse of Misery.

Wherever he walked, tragedy followed. Planets fell into ruin at his passing. Lovers were torn apart. Kingdoms crumbled into dust.

Not because he willed it, no, he did nothing but exist. His presence alone was enough to bring despair, as if the universe itself wept in his name.

The other gods feared him. Some pitied him. But none could change his fate.

His name was stripped from the records of the divine, erased from celestial memory, but the echoes of his existence could never truly disappear.

It was said that those who dreamed of him, who saw his face in visions, were souls bound to him by fate.

Reincarnations of those he had once known, those he had once loved, or those who were meant to bear the burden of his story.

Unlike other gods, he did not dwell in a heavenly realm. He wandered the mortal world, unseen and unheard, a shadow in the corners of history.

Legends tell of a man who appears before great tragedies, standing silently at the edges of battlefields, watching as blood soaks the earth.

A figure seen in the ruins of fallen cities, walking alone among the ashes. Some believed he was a warning, an omen of disaster. Others thought he was the cause of misfortune itself.

But there were whispers, rare and fleeting, of those who met him and lived to tell the tale. A young woman, blind from birth, claimed she once spoke with a man who radiated sorrow.

He told her stories of the stars, of a time before gods and kings, of love lost and wars unending.

When she awoke, she could see for the first time in her life. But the first thing she saw was the man fading into the morning mist, leaving her with only the weight of his sadness.

A dying soldier, left alone on the battlefield, swore that a man knelt beside him, holding his hand as his final breath left his lips.

His wounds did not heal, his life was not saved, but for the first time, he did not die afraid. These stories were dismissed as myths, the ramblings of the desperate.

But those who heard them could not shake the feeling that they were more than just tales.

That somewhere, out there, in the infinite vastness of the cosmos, a god still walked among them, alone, unseen, and forever carrying the weight of misery itself.

But the legend did not end with sorrow.

Hidden in the deepest records of the Book of Forsaken Gods, there was a prophecy, a final whisper of hope buried beneath centuries of despair.

“The God of Misery shall wander until the stars themselves fade, bound by a fate that none can undo. But should the one who sees through sorrow, who walks through darkness unbroken, stand before him and call his name, he shall finally be freed.”

No one knew what this meant.

Was there truly a way to break his curse?

Could the God of Misery be saved from his endless suffering?

Or was this prophecy nothing more than a cruel jest, a lie told by time to grant false hope?

Richmond closed the book, his hands trembling. This wasn’t just some ancient legend. It felt too real, too familiar.

The man in his dream. The blurred woman beside him. The weight in his chest, as if he had lived a hundred lifetimes carrying an unbearable sorrow.

He suddenly felt cold. Because for the first time, he wasn’t just afraid of the story. He was afraid that he was a part of it.