Vile Rabbit-Chapter 112: The last thoughts of a dying miracle. 2

A exercise that my people would have considered impossible, and just the mere notion of something like this would have led the person who mentioned it to be labeled a madman.

I started my strengthening exercise the very moment I created it: morning, midday, and even a good portion of the night, I exercised like I was possessed, day after day.

So much so, my family thought that I had gone mad and wanted to take me to see a doctor. But after explaining to them the hatred that burned within me, they decided not to take me to see a doctor—not because they understood me, no, but because they thought that I had truly gone mad, and that if they took me to the doctor, I would be locked away inside a dark underground facility where they imprison mad people.

They feared they would never see me again, their only precious, genius but mad child.

I still remember their tears laced with heartbreak the moment they thought that I had gone mad.

After that day, for some reason, they allowed me to do whatever I wanted, as long as I finished my daily studies and did not mention anything about my hatred again, which was easy.

Soon, ten years passed, and I was now seventeen years old, now a grown man. I had grown tall, sleek, and muscular, and I could easily defeat three grown men in hand-to-hand combat.

Disappointed.

I was extremely unsatisfied with my strength; I wanted more. I could still be killed by the very ground that I walked on. All my ten years of hard work were for nothing—'how hateful.' So I started training even harder, only taking two hours of rest. My goal: to break the body, rebuild the body.

Break! Break! Break!

Thirteen years later, I was now thirty. I had become the strongest fighter of my time, able to easily defeat twenty men in unarmed combat, but I wasn't happy, nor did my hatred lessen. No, my hatred had only grown even more endless, for I realized that I had reached the limit of how strong I could possibly become—the maximum potential of my body—and I could still be killed by a random pointy stick.

I cried, I wailed, and I cursed the world.

I decided to focus on something other than my body, such as science and art. I hoped for some form of inspiration. But before I could fully dive into those fields, my old and dying parents came to me and pleaded for me to get married and give them a grandchild, to continue their bloodline.

What nonsense! Could having a child make me stronger? At first, I refused and disregarded their plea, but after they cried for days and made me an offer, I agreed.

The offer was that I didn't have to get married or anything like that; I didn't even have to be a father—basically, just a sperm donor.

Well, it wasn't really an offer because I gained nothing in return, but I accepted it. After all, they were my parents, and they were great parents paying for all my research expenses.

They never abandoned me, even when they thought I was mad. Plus, I was their only child, and they were dying; the least I could do was fulfill their last wish before they died.

So I went out to find a woman who was up to my standards.

Not long after, I found her. She was tall, strong, smart, and dangerous. She was also beautiful, a quality that I really couldn't care for. I told her I wanted her to bear my offspring and everything that would come with that, and unsurprisingly, she accepted.

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And why wouldn't she? After all, I was the strongest and smartest man in the world. Is there a woman who would refuse such a man?

Time passed, and I had a baby son. My parents were so happy, but unfortunately, not long after, they passed away one by one.

It was the first time in my life I had felt something other than self-hatred in my heart: the pain of losing loved ones—a truly peculiar feeling.

My son and his mother moved into their estate while I continued my search for ways to get stronger.

Soon, nine years passed, and I was now forty years old. Unfortunately, I had still not found a way to get stronger.

Time passed once again twenty years and I was now sixty years old. I had traveled all over the world, studied every field, and mastered every single field there is.

I mastered every single language and even invented new ones, but still no progress. I saw no way forward; this was the limit of my being, and with that conclusion, I truly started to sink into madness.

I wanted revenge revenge on the world for cursing me with boundless hatred, with no way of ever escaping it.

So in my madness, I started to formulate an insane plan: a plan to destroy the very world itself, which wasn't very difficult, based on the simple fact that I was a genius the likes of which had never been recorded before, and that I had seen the world for what it truly was—just a ball with two giant landmasses floating in darkness.

As for how I knew that, it was because some time ago, I invented a device that could fly into the sky.

By knowing the formation of the world, I could easily formulate something that could disrupt the formation. For example, the apocalyptic bombs that I had invented years ago.

If I were to place tens or even hundreds of these bombs at specific locations inside the world, I could possibly collapse the it.

Years passed again ten. I was now seventy. During these years, I had secretly installed bombs all over the world, and these bombs would detonate the moment my heart stopped beating, which would be in the next forty or so years.

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