Absolute King Chapter 15.

Chapter 15: Waffle burglar

“996… 997… 998… 999… 1000.”

Mark exhaled slowly, lowering himself to the ground as sweat rolled down his brow. The morning sun filtered faintly through his bedroom curtains, casting long stripes of gold across the floorboards. His body trembled lightly from the effort, though the exhaustion never seemed to last long anymore. Each rep pushed his limits further, each session proof of just how much he had changed.

When he rose to his feet, his reflection in the mirror caught him off guard for a moment. His physique had grown sharper, more defined.

Lean muscle wrapped his frame, carved through months of constant training. Even his height seemed to have gained a slight edge—an inch taller, standing straighter, stronger than ever before.

He remembered one particular moment vividly. A week ago, he had stepped into the local gym, curious about how his strength compared. The bodybuilders had laughed when they saw the lean teenager walk toward the heaviest barbell in the room.

Their jeers cut off in stunned silence when he lifted it without so much as a grimace. Mark still smirked thinking about their faces—shock painted in wide eyes and slack jaws.

It had been a week now since his confrontation with Luthor and the Light. The days had blurred into a mix of training, planning, and waiting. The only light in that darkness had been his father. Mark had been granted a single conversation with him during that time, and it had gone better than he dared expect.

Three Days Earlier

His father’s image flickered across the screen, tired but sharp-eyed. There had been no accusations, only questions.

“How long have you had these abilities?” his father asked, voice laced with both awe and skepticism. Alien technology, metahumans, magic—he had seen it all. But to see his own son standing there, carrying powers no human should, unsettled him.

Mark froze. His tongue stuck against his teeth as thoughts churned. How could he explain the truth—that this body, this son, wasn’t the same one his father had left behind? Before Mark could form an answer, his father cut him off with a sigh.

“You know what? Forget it. You don’t have to tell me.” He leaned back slightly, brows furrowing as though piecing together a puzzle. “Maybe it’s a metagene. Could be something from your mother’s side. I’ve never carried one, so it must’ve skipped through me.”

Mark watched him speculate, chasing theories that would never bring him close to the truth. He stayed silent, the guilt of deception heavy on his chest.

His father’s voice softened. “How is she? Your mother.”

Mark’s gaze fell. “She’s… trying.”

The silence stretched long between them. He could see it in his father’s eyes—that longing to return, to walk through the front door and sit at the table like nothing had happened. But the deal he had made with Luthor bound him like chains, and Mark could feel the weight of it on him.

“After I finish with CP-2, I’ll come back.”

Mark’s hands tightened into fists. CP-2. The Cyborg Project. He already knew what that meant. Another Cadmus, another nightmare. Weapons disguised as soldiers, chaos waiting to happen. His father might have believed it was a project worth completing, but Mark knew better. If those machines were unleashed, innocent lives would be swallowed by the Light’s ambitions.

Their talk had drifted after that, lighter but tinged with things unsaid. It was only through the screen that they could connect, and it left Mark’s heart restless long after the call had ended.

Back to the Present

The memory weighed on him as he wiped sweat from his brow. His system interface flickered alive at his command, stats rising in glowing blue text before his eyes.

Strength: 78

Speed: 83

Versatility: 67

Skill: 76

Exp: 36

Mana: 102

He whistled under his breath. The growth had been exponential. In just one week, his abilities had

skyrocketed, far beyond anything he could’ve imagined. He had trained relentlessly, hammering out new techniques, mastering phantasms he once struggled to control.

The kings had each contributed in their own ways.

Solomn stood at the top with 545 points, his wisdom guiding Mark not only through combat but even through the mundane grind of school quizzes and exams. He was patient, precise, always steady.

Artoria, close behind with 528 points, had been a constant presence—teaching him discipline, refining his swordsmanship, showing him how to hold onto conviction when doubt pressed too heavily.

Ozymondias, with 497 points, provided cunning and strategy. His advice carried an almost theatrical weight, yet Mark found himself relying on the Pharaoh’s perspective more often than not.

Iskandar, sitting at 486 points, was less disciplined but no less important. Lazy, boisterous, and addicted to video games, yet when Mark faltered, his courage and booming encouragement never failed to lift him back on his feet.

And Gilgamesh, always Gilgamesh—arrogant, insufferable, but indispensable. With 427 points, he remained the wild card, the golden king whose presence alone kept the halls of Mark’s mind lively. Even through insults and sneers, Mark could sense a shift in him, subtle, but there.

Closing the stats, Mark stepped into his training space, the pocket dimension shimmering to life. The world bent around him into an empty field of endless sky and stone, his personal forge for growth.

He tested phantasms, some draining mana like rivers, others easier to sustain. Excalibur’s beam carved through the space like light itself, nearly emptying his reserves, but the rush of power was undeniable.

Replicas of noble phantasms cluttered the ground, some cracked, some barely holding together. He examined them with a craftsman’s eye, adjusting the weave of mana, refining their structure to endure greater force.

Fragility had cost him before. He wouldn’t let it again.

Hours passed before he finally withdrew, the pocket dimension closing behind him. Just as his feet touched back into his room, a notification pulsed into view. The message was encrypted, tangled in some kind of spell.

“My will creates your bo—”

Before he could finish reading, his alarm blared to life. School. He cursed under his breath, brushing the screen aside. Whatever it was, it could wait.

Uniform hastily pulled on, he dashed down the stairs. His mother’s voice lingered faintly in his memory from earlier that morning—she had left for work already, promising to be back that evening. The house was quiet, still.

Too quiet.

Halfway through the kitchen, the sensation struck him. A prickling awareness at the back of his neck.

Someone was watching.

He froze.

A second later, a flurry of blades materialized in the air, slicing toward him in a deadly construct.

Mark rolled instinctively, dodging the barrage as steel kissed the walls and shattered against the counters.

When he spun toward the source, his eyes narrowed instantly.

A man stood there, garbed in strange robes, aura dripping with dark magic. A grin stretched across his lips as he chewed on something in his hand.

“Damn,” the man said casually, “I was wondering when your mom would finally leave. You know, she makes good waffles.”

Mark blinked, his blood boiling. “You… waffle burglar. You couldn’t steal something else? You had to take my waffles?”

The man laughed, unbothered by the insult. “Too late. Besides…” He swallowed the last bite with deliberate exaggeration. “Now hand me over the Grail.”

Mark’s chest tightened. He didn’t need to ask why. The Grail, once whispered about in the wrong places, was a beacon to the worst people imaginable. His worst fear was unraveling before him.

“Who sent you?” Mark demanded. “The Light? Luthor?” His voice cracked with anger at the last name.

The stranger only smirked, the grin widening. “I’ve been monitoring you for the past week. And honestly? You’re not much to look at. Don’t worry, nobody sent me. This is all me, kid. Curiosity got the better of me.”

Mark’s stomach sank.

The man’s eyes glowed as his hands rose, palms swirling with raw magical energy. Everything in the kitchen shuddered, chairs lifting, utensils rattling in the air as power surged.

“My name,” the magician said, his grin twisting into something darker, “is Faust. And now… hand over the Grail.”