bullyxtreme V.4.120. Angry Clone (2) <3800+>
V.4.120. Angry Clone (2) <3800+>
Doha steps into the quiet house, the faint echo of his shoes following him down the hall. The air still smells faintly of turpentine and coffee—his world of paint and sleepless nights.“Tonight,” he says softly as he passes the living room, where lounges with a book, “I’ll stay in the painting room.”
She glances up, a small, tired smile tugging at her lips. “Don’t overwork yourself again.”
He doesn’t reply. The words would only tangle on his tongue.
He walks through the narrow corridor, enters the painting room, and locks the door behind him.
The room is silent—his sanctuary. Brushes, half-finished canvases, and the faint metallic scent of dried pigment surround him. Doha sits cross-legged in the centre of the room, closing his eyes.
He begins to —to feel the unseen currents of the world.
At first, there is nothing. Then, a faint begins to flow down from above. It moves softly, like a stream of liquid light, descending from the . The moment it enters his body, an icy chill spreads through his veins.
Within minutes, his
Doha’s breath catches; he halts the absorption, forcing his blood to circulate faster, pushing warmth back through his limbs. His heart thunders in his chest, thawing the frost.
“So,” he mutters under his breath, “before cultivating the with the moon’s energy… I have to transform my body to withstand it.”
The night stretches on.
He repeats the cycle again and again—absorbing the moon’s light until the cold numbs him, then burning it away with his blood’s heat. Pain becomes rhythm, rhythm becomes will.
Outside, the world sleeps. Inside, a man unravels his mortality thread by thread beneath the silver glow.
By dawn, the pale moon fades—the silvery flow thins, dissolving into the brightness of the sun. Doha exhales, sensing the last ripple of that strange celestial energy vanish.
He opens his eyes. The room feels different now—warmer, lighter, though his limbs ache like tempered steel.
He stands, stretches, and quietly unlocks the door.
The house is still. Morning light filters through the curtains of their bedroom. Merilyn sleeps on her side, her breathing soft, a strand of hair across her cheek.
Doha slips beneath the sheets, careful not to wake her. He wraps an arm around her waist, the warmth of her body grounding him.
For the first time in days, his mind is still. He falls asleep almost instantly.
—
A few hours later, far across the city, eats his breakfast at a long black marble table. The clink of silverware breaks the silence.
A man in a tailored suit enters, bowing slightly. “Sir, the file you requested—information on Mrs Seiko and her husband.”
Long Zen takes the folder, his expression sharpening. “Good.”
He opens it, scanning through the pages, each line drawing his interest deeper.
World-renowned painter. International acclaim. Married to Merilyn Seiko, president of Seiko Enterprises.
A faint smile curves his lips.
“Hmm… separating her from him won’t be simple. He has fame, wealth, public sympathy.” He flips another page, his tone turning thoughtful. “No… targeting him directly would draw attention. But the company—that’s where she bleeds first.”
He closes the file, pushes his plate away, and leans back in his chair, lost in calculation.
“Seiko Enterprises…” he murmurs. “Let’s see how strong your foundation really is.”
Outside the tall windows, sunlight strikes the glass towers of the city, glinting like blades.
—
A , under the same moonlight that once froze his veins, sits again in the centre of the painting room.
This time, when the silvery energy flows into him—
His
It flows. Warms. Accepts.
And in that quiet moment before dawn, the first thread of roots itself in his body.
Later that morning, sunlight fills the kitchen, warm and domestic. sits at the table, stirring her coffee as places toast on his plate.
“What have you been so busy with at night?” she asks suddenly, her tone light but curious. “You’ve barely slept this whole week.”
Doha glances up, calm as ever. “What else could it be except painting?”
She narrows her eyes. “You could paint in the morning. You’ll ruin your health if you keep this up.”
He sets his cup down, lips curving slightly. “Are you complaining that I haven’t been taking care of you this past week?”
Merilyn snorts, half-hiding her smile. “Who wants to be taken care of by you?”
A faint laugh slips from him, brief and quiet.
Minutes later, she leaves for her office, heels clicking through the hall, perfume lingering behind her. Doha clears the dishes, then returns to his studio—the air heavy with the scent of oil and dust.
As the day passes, his consciousness splits again, linking with across the bridge of spirit. Together, their minds align in the ongoing of the immortal concept. But when dusk falls and the moon climbs the horizon, that connection fades.
The silver light calls to him.
Doha sits cross-legged in the centre of the room. He breathes deeply, letting the moon’s energy pour through him once more. This time, the cold doesn’t bite. It , soft and weightless, threading through his veins.
He sinks inward, descending into his —a boundless expanse of mist and starlight. Here, he begins to construct the , the final stage of the before the Demigod realm.
He doesn’t cultivate the earlier stages; he doesn’t need to. The technique is his creation—born of his main body and refined through countless iterations across his other selves. The foundations already exist within him.
Still, this heart will be unlike the others’. It begins at the level of a mortal, its growth dependent not on raw energy alone, but on the he can comprehend. Time will shape it slowly, until it matures into the .
The hours stretch. When Merilyn returns home late that night, the Spiritual Heart remains unformed. The moonlight has grown thin, its power ebbing.
So Doha stores the remaining in his spirit space, sealing it within a ring of light until he gathers enough to continue.
That evening, he joins Merilyn for dinner. They speak little—small talk, laughter over shared memories—and after, they walk along the balcony, the city glittering below.
He holds her hand. She doesn’t notice the faint silver glow tracing along his skin, fading with every heartbeat.
Later, in the quiet of their bedroom, he lies beside her, eyes open to the ceiling. He no longer needs to meditate or remain still to absorb the moon’s energy—it flows to him naturally now, drawn by instinct.
While she sleeps, he cultivates.
By morning, the energy within him hums softly, resonating with his pulse.
After breakfast, Merilyn heads for the office once again. Doha returns to his , but this time, he doesn’t sit to meditate.
He picks up a brush.
Because to form the , energy alone isn’t enough.
He needs —a guiding thread to shape the formless spiritual energy into a heart.
And for his first step, he chooses the
His ultimate goal is to reach the , but that law is obscure and profound, hidden deep within the mysteries of existence. So, he begins with what he understands best—the brush, the canvas, and the flow of creation. The Law of Painting will be his bridge, leading him through other laws toward the Law of Soul.
He paints his understanding of the , translating its cold serenity and quiet power into colour and form. This is the first time he paints something outside his own emotion—outside his
For years, his art had been born from rage—portraits of fire and fury, expressions of his bottled storms.
But he knows he can’t ascend by repeating the same emotion endlessly. To reach the , he must explore all aspects of existence—tranquillity, sorrow, joy, light, and shadow.
So he paints.
While he paints beneath the glow of the moon, in another part of the city, hums with post-lunch energy. A meeting is underway between and
Long Zen presents a grand proposal—a to construct a massive solar power plant, an investment that could reshape the energy sector of the Southern Moon Federation.
Merilyn listens, poised and calculating, unaware of the hidden intent behind the smile across the table.
That evening, over dinner, she tells Doha, “Tomorrow I’ll be leaving for a business trip. It’ll take three days.”
Doha nods, his expression calm. “Be careful on the way.”
Three days pass. Merilyn departs and returns safely, but Doha’s progress remains still.
The refuses to form.
Days blur into weeks, each night filled with moonlight and paint. Then, two weeks later—just before dinner—the silence in his spirit space breaks.
A faint flickers into being within him. It pulses softly, made of shifting brushstrokes and colours that never settle, radiating the faint resonance of the
It’s only at the , translucent and fragile, but alive.
As he continues refining his spiritual energy and deepening his comprehension of the law, it will solidify—
and one day, become real.
That evening, he dines alone.
After dinner, he calls Merilyn. She answers, her voice warm but slightly strained. She tries to sound normal, but
Something is wrong.
When the call ends, he sits silently for a long moment, then makes up his mind.
At dawn, he leaves the house.
He takes the high-speed train to , where Merilyn’s branch office is located. Upon arrival, he contacts her and learns her exact location.
A short taxi ride later, he stands before the company’s sleek building, the city morning flashing across its mirrored glass. With the security head’s help, he enters without trouble.
As he walks through the corridors toward her office, he overhears quiet conversations between employees—fragments of worry. The company has invested heavily in the new , draining nearly all its funds. The project is unfinished and demands even more capital.
Doha absorbs it all silently.
When he steps into , she looks up, startled—then her surprise softens into a smile.
He doesn’t mention the company’s troubles. Instead, he takes her hand, leads her out for lunch, and they talk as if the world is still simple—about art, about memories, about nothing important.
Then, when the meal ends, he walks her back to the office, gives her a quiet smile, and returns home.
He had already called his secretary, , asking her to wait for him there. When he arrives, she’s seated in the living room, tablet in hand, reviewing schedules. Without a word, he gestures for her to follow him to the
Inside, the air smells faintly of oil and varnish. Against the walls lean , each one capturing a different aspect of the as seen from Earth—silver, veiled, fractured, distant.
Rachel’s eyes widen as she walks from one painting to the next. This wasn’t the fury-driven art the world knew him for. Each piece feels serene yet unreachable, like an immortal beauty glimpsed through glass.
“The noble beauty of the moon,” she murmurs, almost in awe. “It’s… divine. And it makes you want to possess it, even knowing you can’t.”
Doha smiles faintly at her words. “Good. That’s what I wanted to evoke.”
He tells her the for the collection will take place in tomorrow night. “Make sure everything is prepared,” he says. “Venue, invitations, promotion—everything.”
Rachel nods quickly, already typing notes.
Later that night, Doha loads the twenty paintings carefully into a truck and drives toward Tayak City himself.
By dawn, he arrives. Rachel, efficient as ever, has already booked a venue—an elegant art gallery near the city’s financial district. Together, they arrange the paintings, lining the white walls with the phases of the moon. When the setup is complete, the gallery seems to glow with an ethereal silver light.
Rachel handles the rest: spreading the word on , sending to Tayak City’s wealthiest patrons, investors, and cultural figures.
With that done, Doha leaves for the
Inside, Merilyn is in a meeting. Doha waits in the corridor, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. But silently, he extends his into the room.
The voices within are tense.
The representative from the partner company speaks sharply:
“If the funds aren’t delivered within a week, the project will be reassigned. According to the contract, your investment won’t be recoverable.”
Doha’s expression darkens. The man’s tone carries the arrogance of someone certain of leverage.
After the others leave, he listens a moment longer and learns more from the murmurs of Merilyn’s team—how have begun to turn against her.
If the next week shows a financial shortfall or project failure, they’ll initiate a to remove her as president.
Moments later, the office door opens. Merilyn steps out, weary, lost in thought—then stops abruptly, eyes widening when she sees him.
“Doha?” she says, surprised. “Why are you here? I told you to rest—you’ve barely slept.”
He meets her gaze, calm and steady. “I’ve arranged everything back home,” he says softly. “I’ll stay here with you for the rest of your trip.”
For a moment, the exhaustion in her face eases. A faint, genuine smile touches her lips.
“Alright,” she whispers. “I’m… glad you’re here.”
Inside her office, Doha waits quietly as she finishes her work. Hours pass, papers shuffle, phone calls echo, and exhaustion settles over her shoulders. When evening falls, he steps forward, places a firm hand on the edge of her desk, and says gently but with authority,
“That’s enough for today.”
Before she can argue, he closes her laptop and takes her coat from the chair. “We’re leaving.”
He escorts her to the hotel room where they’re staying, tells her to get ready, and later takes her by car through the glowing streets of Tayak City. When they stop before a tall, glass-walled building, , noticing the poster displayed near the entrance.
Her breath catches. “You opened an exhibition here?”
Doha nods once, a faint smile on his lips. “Tonight.”
He offers his arm, and together they enter the venue. The gallery is crowded—critics, collectors, and media personalities moving through a sea of silver and blue light.
From a nearby staff member, Doha learns that —and the total so far, even at the preliminary stage, stands at nearly , the world’s universal tender.
He turns to Merilyn. “With this amount,” he asks quietly, “can the project continue?”
Her eyes soften immediately, glistening under the dim lights. She covers her mouth as emotion overtakes her, then steps forward and hugs him tightly.
Her voice trembles. “The project needs another hundred million Green Currency in total, but… this will restart it. It’ll buy us time—days, maybe weeks—to find the rest.”
Doha’s tone remains steady, reassuring. “It’s seven million now,” he says. “In a week, the bids may double or triple. And I’ll paint more—enough to help you get what you need.”
The weight visibly lifts from her shoulders. Relief washes over her face, softening the tension that had lingered for weeks.
That night, they stayed at the exhibition until late, speaking with guests, drinking wine, and—for the first time in months—laughing together.
The next morning, elsewhere in the city, sits in the backseat of his sleek black car, scrolling through reports on his tablet.
He glances up at his driver. “So? How’s my fly caught in the web?”
Long Zen’s plan had been simple and cruel—force Merilyn from her position as president of , then swoop in as her saviour. Gain her trust. Become indispensable. And eventually, possess her.
But his driver hesitates.
“Sir…”
Long Zen narrows his eyes. “What? Did someone loan her the money?”
The driver shakes his head. “No, sir. It’s not that.”
“Then what happened?”
The driver hesitates again, then says, “Search for ‘Tayak City exhibition.’”
Frowning, Long Zen types it in. The first headlines appear immediately—
For a long moment, silence fills the car. Then his expression twists, fury simmering behind his calm.
Doha—Merilyn’s husband—had just ruined everything.
Grinding his teeth, Long Zen mutters, “Can you destroy the paintings in the venue?”
The driver pales. “Sir, that would be… difficult. Security is tight, and every major network is covering the exhibition. Any incident there would draw attention from the entire world.”
Long Zen’s jaw tightens. He slams the tablet against the back of the seat, the sharp echoing through the car.
“Damn him.”
Meanwhile, in , the buzz around Doha’s exhibition spreads like wildfire. Within a day, news outlets across the world pick up the story—
Collectors, critics, and fans flood the city. Those able to make the trip arrive in person, while others crowd online forums, sharing photos and reviews. Even through the screens, the of the paintings can’t be hidden.
There is something in them—something that draws the eyes and refuses to let go.
Among the sea of visitors, a stand quietly before the paintings. Both are elegantly dressed, their presence distinct from the ordinary guests.
They study each canvas carefully, noting the faint shimmer that lingers in the brushstrokes.
The man’s gaze narrows. “Every painting carries a trace of . They haven’t yet stabilised into magic artefacts—but even at this level, that’s no coincidence.”
The woman nods slowly. “Which means… he’s channelling unconsciously. His body has already begun to mobilise it.”
Their eyes meet.
“We need to speak to him,” she says. “Someone with this kind of natural resonance shouldn’t remain untrained. He could become one of us.”
They find , who senses their approach long before they reach him. His spiritual perception brushes over them—and he immediately recognises the extraordinary energy hidden within their bodies.
When they invite him to lunch the next day, he doesn’t refuse.
The following afternoon, they met at a quiet restaurant overlooking the city river. Between the clink of silverware and the soft hum of conversation, Doha listens as they reveal their identity.
They are —members of the , a secret organisation that governs the hidden community of magic users scattered throughout the world.
They explain that, while the surface world thrives in modern science and industry, —it merely went underground.
They invite him to join them. Doha listens silently, then replies, “I’ll think about it.”
Later, with their permission, he accompanies them to their , a discreet complex hidden beneath an old library. The underground halls smell faintly of paper, dust, and mana. Inside the library’s restricted section, he’s given access to their archives.
There, he learns the structure of the .
Cultivators of this world are called , and their ranks ascend as follows:
However, unlike his world’s cultivation methods, Magicians . Their strength rises through and .
Spells themselves are divided into six grades:
, , , , , and
As he reads, Doha realises his current strength places him at the level of an To become an , he must and successfully .
He also learns of the reason why the extraordinary world hides itself from the public—
because of the .
The texts describe a god sealed deep within the , a being that feeds on fear. Every surge of terror in the hearts of humankind strengthens the seal’s corruption.
If it ever gathers enough fear energy, the —and the world of mortals and magicians alike will descend into nightmare.
Since not everyone can become a magician, the extraordinary society remains hidden from the eyes of ordinary people. The , or “muggles,” cannot directly generate the kind of fear that nourishes the demon god—but ignorance is safety.
Yet the Fear Demon God has not remained silent. To spread terror and strengthen its seal’s corruption, it created its own servants—, twisted entities that sow panic, despair, and chaos wherever they go.
After learning all this, the official magician organisation. His first assignment is modest yet symbolic: to create an for the Federation.
As part of his initiation, he receives —, , and All three are and considered basic benefits for new members. He is also given a manual titled , which explains how artistic resonance and magical flow intertwine.
Doha reads through the three spellbooks once and immediately . His understanding of energy, already profound from his past cultivation, allows him not only to learn the spells but to them beyond their original form.
When he studies the manual, he quickly grasps how to imbue emotion, structure, and mana into a canvas—to turn a painting into a living vessel of magic.
Ten days later, he completes his first —a moon rendered in silvery hues, its calm radiance carrying subtle spiritual resonance.
With the painting in hand, he returns to the in his home City. The evaluators study the piece under dim enchanted light, observing how the moon’s glow exudes tranquillity.
After their assessment, they grade it as an —effective for calming the mind and improving focus when hung in a small room.
Doha accepts their evaluation without reaction. For him, it’s only the beginning.
He is awarded for the painting and informed of his new standing: ten merit points will be paid to him monthly as salary, and every three months, he must submit at least one new Inferior Grade Magic Painting to maintain his membership.
With that, —a silent, rising figure within the hidden world of magic.