Do You Want the Power of a Demon?

If not for Lin Hao's arrival, this would have been just an ordinary morning in San Francisco.

Ellen was a middle-aged white woman with an ordinary family—a drunken husband, a rebellious son, and the bank's relentless monthly payment notices had completely worn away all her patience.

"Bitch, that nigger next door actually dared to mock me for not knowing how to sort trash. One of these days, I'll blow up her fake tits with my gun!"

Early in the morning, her husband Dane heard her cursing. Still groggy from a hangover, he yelled impatiently from the bedroom, "If you want to kill her, go kill her. Or you can call the cops and let them do it!"

"Stop bothering me while I'm sleeping!"

"Fuck!" Ellen, now in the kitchen, slammed a knife down on the cutting board, chopping a carrot in half.

If she weren't lacking job skills, past her prime, out of shape, and without the means to find another meal ticket, Ellen might have killed her alcoholic husband first.

Busy in the kitchen, Ellen suddenly noticed smoke billowing from the house next door. An idea struck her, and her eyes lit up.

She immediately ran to the phone and dialed 911.

"I want to report a crime. My neighbor's house is on fire. Looks like someone's setting it."

"Yes, that's right. It's a black person."

"Okay, my address is on Kearny Street..."

After hanging up, Ellen wore a smug grin. She quickly rushed into the bedroom, rummaged through drawers and cabinets, and found an old camcorder.

She was going to film that bitch next door getting shot.

Just thinking about it made her incredibly happy.

Soon, the sound of sirens came from afar. A police car pulled up, and two fully armed San Francisco officers stepped out.

"Hey, George, which house did the caller say?" The burly Jake Brian rested his hand on the holster at his hip, asking his colleague George, who had already drawn his gun.

"It's an arson case. Wherever the smoke is, that's the scene."

George hadn't really been listening closely, but he quickly spotted the source of the smoke.

"Look, over there."

It was a row of apartments. The black neighbor Ellen had ratted out lived to her east, but a light west wind was blowing in from the sea. That neighbor had already tossed out the burnt hamburger causing the smoke, so it had stopped billowing. Instead, wisps of smoke drifted toward the apartment further east.

So the two San Francisco officers headed to the easternmost apartment.

As luck would have it, that apartment also housed a black man—twenty-three-year-old Air Force pilot Will Fortson, who happened to be home on his day off.

The two officers had already drawn their guns. The burly Jake Brian took the lead, while his colleague George hung back a bit to cover him.

Knock, knock, knock. Jake pounded on the door, his gun raised.

Inside, Will Fortson heard the knocking and called out loudly, "Who is it?"

The two San Francisco officers didn't answer.

On alert, Will Fortson walked to the cabinet, retrieved his legally owned firearm, and crept cautiously to the door. He first peeked through the peephole and saw two cops with guns drawn.

Startled, he jumped back two steps and shouted, "Who are you?"

Outside, seeing that he dared not open the door immediately, the officers raised their guns higher.

"Open up! Open the door now!" Jake Brian barked.

Inside, Will Fortson remembered the "friendly advice" a fellow black veteran had once given him.

War wasn't the scariest thing—what you really had to watch out for were American cops.

The young Will Fortson panicked.

"What do you want?" Will yelled frantically from behind the door. "I'm an Air Force pilot!"

"You? A pilot?" Jake outside laughed. "Open the door now, or we'll take further action!"

Will Fortson, flustered and terrified, made a decision he would regret for the rest of his life.

He stupidly went and opened the door, not raising his gun but just holding it at his side.

The moment the door swung open, Jake Brian's sharp eyes caught both his skin color and the gun in his hand.

So the gunfire came without surprise.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang—six shots in a row.

Will Fortson collapsed on the spot, blood spilling out and staining the floor red.

Only then did Jake Brian shout a warning: "Drop the gun! Drop the gun now!"

Jake stepped forward, kicked the gun out of Will's hand, and kept his weapon trained on the still-breathing black man.

George quickly entered to search the apartment. He soon returned with a hint of panic, leaned in close to Jake, and whispered, "Damn it, he really is an Air Force pilot."

Jake was stunned. Seeing that many residents had already gathered outside, he holstered his gun with a grim face.

"Call an ambulance!"

With that, he quickly left Will's apartment, returned to the patrol car, and immediately called his superior.

"Chief, we've got trouble!" Jake reported honestly. "I shot a nigger. Turns out he's an Air Force pilot."

"Is he dead or not?" the boss pressed.

"Not yet, but it's bad. I..." Jack said weakly. "I fired six shots."

"You idiot!" His superior was startled but kept his cool, clearly seasoned by similar experiences. He quickly ordered, "Get back here immediately. No one else sees that footage."

"Fine..." Jack was deeply frustrated. He knew he was about to be put on "forced leave."

Back on the scene, Will Fortson's breath grew faint, his pupils dilating.

He heard his neighbor, Old Lady Ellen, muttering nearby: "Stupid cops, they got the wrong room!"

Will turned his head and saw Ellen glaring with hatred and regret at the next-door neighbor—a Black woman who had narrowly escaped the same fate.

Now, he understood everything.

"I... I can't breathe!"

Those were the last words of George Floyd and Frank Tyson, Black men who had been killed by American police kneeling on their necks.

But Will Fortson was luckier. Just as he was about to die, a shadow engulfed him.

"Do you want revenge? Do you want the power of a demon?"

"Hehehe, give me your soul!"

On the brink of death, Will Fortson froze for a moment, then answered without hesitation: "I do!"

A pitch-black body, curved horns, blood-red eyes, and that over-the-top speech—just like the devil from legend.

When you're about to die anyway, what's selling your soul to a demon?

Besides, Will Fortson felt he was being screwed over way too unfairly!

If he'd been set up, that'd be one thing, but the cops just got the wrong guy. Even if he went to heaven, there'd be no one to argue with!

Sell it. He had to sell it.

The moment he agreed, a floating parchment appeared beside Will's hand. He used the last of his strength to press his bloody handprint onto it.

After the contract was signed, a colorful apple with rainbow patterns appeared in the demon's hand.

"Eat this, and you'll gain the power of a demon."

The apple appeared right above Will's mouth. He opened up and swallowed it, ignoring the disgusting taste. Soon, he felt a surge of power welling up inside him.

His limbs stretched, his body thinned, black fur sprouted across his skin, his head swelled into a massive leopard's, and a long tail grew from his rear.

"Huh." Watching through the Little Devil's vision, Lin Hao was a bit surprised. "Didn't expect this batch's completion rate to be so high."

After eating the SMILE Fruit, Will Fortson had turned into a leopard everywhere except his belly, which stayed the same—a black leopard.

His belly was already black anyway, so fur or no fur made no difference.

"Interesting. Looks like this tool can be used a while longer." Seeing the black leopard, Lin Hao had some new ideas.

"Go, my servant. Vent your anger to your heart's content!"

"From today on, you will worship the great Demon Lord, His Majesty the Great Demon Lord."

"As you command, great Demon Lord." Will Fortson was reverent, utterly devout.

At that moment, he abandoned God and turned his faith to this great Demon Lord.

From this point on, his life and death were in the hands of Lin Hao, the Great Demon Lord.

The blackness faded. To outsiders, it was less than an instant—a black flash too fast for the eye to catch.

Will Fortson, back in human form, waited for the ambulance. Though his wounds had mostly healed from the sudden surge of power and the bullets had been pushed out by his muscles, would the ambulance that had come all this way pass up a thousand bucks?

That would be way too un-capitalist!

So, just as Will Fortson was about to go get his revenge, he was forcibly strapped onto a stretcher by the overly eager paramedics and shoved into the ambulance.

"Fuck, my injuries..." Will Fortson was about to break free when a better idea struck him.

The great Demon Lord needed a flashy entrance.