I Somehow Became The Almighty Creator, l can create anything: Be Ware Chapter 6

....

Watts took a slow breath, eyes scanning the street with calculated calm as he left the restaurant. "Anyway, I should get going.

Now that my stomach is full, I need to blow off so steam," he muttered to himself, flashing a nacing smile as he strolled away.

The late afternoon sun bathed the streets of Los Angeles in a warm glow, but his thoughts were far from serene.

Dressed in a plain white T-shirt and black jeans, Watts blended into the crowd. Yet, the storm inside him raged quietly.

Was he truly the only one? The thought clawed at him. The idea of being the sole superhuman, unmatched and unchallenged, felt suffocating.

If there were others, where were they? Were they in hiding, like him? More importantly, what was it all for? The questions spiraled in his mind.

He couldn't shake the thought that the world was far more complex than the mundane veil it wore.

And the governnt—how much did they know? His instincts told him they had to know sothing. It was impossible for them not to.

What would they do if they discovered soone like him? Capture him? Experint on him? His lips twisted into a bitter smile.

"Better keep a low profile for now. Labs and needles aren't my style," he murmured as he approached the place.

As he walked, his phone buzzed with a soft ping. Pulling it from his pocket, he glanced at the screen. A ssage from Layla.

Layla:

OMG, I just saw the CUTEST sweater! It would look amazing on you! Sending a pic now.

He couldn't help but smile, already sensing where this was going. Layla and her antics were as predictable as they were relentless.

Him:

No need. I'm fine with my hoodies.

Layla:

Your hoodies are older than my phone. Trust , this sweater will make you look stylish.

Him:

If I buy it, will you stop spamming ?

The response ca so quickly he wondered if she'd been waiting to pounce.

Layla:

Nope. But at least you'll look good while being annoyed.

A mont later, another ssage popped up, this ti with a picture. He opened it.

And sighed.

The sweater was a blinding shade of neon orange with a ridiculous oversized logo plastered across the front.

He stared at it for a mont, then sighed again, locking his phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

He couldn't do it. Not today. Layla's sense of "style" was sothing else entirely.

The neon sign of De Macrea' Casino flickered like a heartbeat, its irregular pulse drawing in gamblers and opportunists like moths to a fla.

Inside, the air was thick with cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and the desperate energy of people gambling more than just money.

The mont Watts stepped inside, and the overwhelming tide of sensation hit him like a freight train. He flinched.

His enhanced senses surged forward, drowning him in the cacophony of voices, the clinking of coins, the dizzying swirl of perfu and sweat. The overload made his temples throb.

Breathing deeply, he closed his eyes and centered himself, forcing the deluge of stimuli to retreat into the background.

When he opened his eyes, the room sharpened into focus: gamblers of all kinds, rich and poor, chasing their fortunes or their als for the next day.

It was a place brimming with desperation and greed, a cocktail he found endlessly fascinating.

He moved through the throng, nodding occasionally to familiar faces. His reputation preceded him, even in a place like this.

People in the underworld called him "The One Punch." It was a nickna he'd earned and one that carried a certain weight.

But even as he played his part, his attention was drawn to soone else.

A young girl with striking white hair sat at a card table, surrounded by invisible bodyguards strategically placed in the room.

Watts wouldn't have noticed them without his heightened senses. Her aura was... different.

She turned her head and t his gaze, smiling faintly. The mont felt heavier than it should have.

She had no heartbeat. No warmth. No scent of sweat or blood. Nothing.

"System, analyze her," Watts commanded, his thoughts a whirlwind of disbelief.

[Processing...]

[She is a ghost,] the system replied matter-of-factly.

Watts stopped mid-step. "A what now?" he repeated under his breath, disbelief lacing his tone.

Watts stiffened. "Oh for fuck's sake, since when are ghosts real?"

[Since always,] the system replied.

"..."

.......

Evelyn was having fun—more fun than she'd had in a long ti. The old n she was playing cards with were practically handing her their money, and she relished every second of it.

But then she felt it. A gaze, intense and piercing, cut through the noisy atmosphere and settled on her.

Her eyes followed the feeling, locking onto a pair of brilliant erald-green eyes. The man—no, boy—standing across the room was striking.

There was a power in his gaze, sothing that made her feel like her very essence was being stripped bare.

A shiver ran through her, and she found herself biting her lip.

Her smile widened, but her thoughts turned possessive. She wanted him. He was strong, and she could feel it in the air.

Evelyn's gaze lingered on the retreating figure, her fingers drumming against the table in thought.

There was sothing magnetic about him, sothing that made her curiosity itch.

As he disappeared into the back of the casino, she leaned toward her bodyguard, a towering bald man dressed in black.

"What's happening in the arena today?" she asked, her tone casual, though her mind was already racing with possibilities.

"A fight between the Jury and One Punch, Madam." he replied.

She stood abruptly, her decision made. "I want in."

The bodyguard hesitated but followed her as she moved toward the back of the casino.

Her smile turned darker, and the man beside her shivered. He knew that look. It ant trouble—for soone.

....

Unaware of the storm brewing behind him, Watts made his way to the back of the casino. Two burly guards stood by the door, nodding at him as they let him through.

Beyond the tallic door lay an elevator that descended for what felt like an eternity before opening into the underground arena.

The air here was heavier, charged with energy and anticipation. The dim lights flickered above as music and shouting filled the space.

Watts stepped into the chaos, greeted almost imdiately by Pistil, his loud and brash friend.

"Where the hell have you been, man?" Pistil yelled, slapping Watts on the back. "I've been waiting forever!"

Pistil was impossible to miss—tall, loud, and sporting a nose that could probably pick up satellite signals.

Watts often wondered if God had a strange sense of humor when creating him.

Ignoring Pistil's theatrics, Watts let his eyes wander to the arena. A small fight was happening, the crowd roaring as fists flew and bets were placed.

It was nothing compared to what was planned for later.

"Forget those clowns," Pistil said, following Watts' gaze. "Tonight's all about you and the Jury. You're gonna knock him out cold, and I'm gonna make a fortune betting on you."

Watts smirked as Pistil led him to the locker room. "You're always this annoying, or did you eat bad pussy last night?"

Pistil laughed loudly. "And here I thought you were Chloe's baby daddy."

Watts rolled his eyes. "She's eight, you psychopath."

The banter was interrupted by a sharp knock. A man in a tailored suit and impeccable mustache entered, bowing slightly.

"The Jury has consented to begin the match. We await your confirmation."

Watts nodded, sending the man away with a dazzling smile. He handed Pistil $1,000 to bet on him, confident in his victory.

This wasn't just about the fight tonight.

It was about his future—his place in the underworld. With his newfound power, Watts was determined to beco the ruler of it all. The fights, the money, the control—it would all be his.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror, his erald eyes burning with ambition.

The old Watts was gone. This was the birth of sothing new. A predator. A king.

"Say hello to the new Underworld King," he whispered, his lips curling into a wicked smile.