"That’s Orgod! He’s older, sure, but my mom always said the older a mage gets, the stronger they are!"
"That’s the City Lord! I saw him once—bought a shop from his hand back then."
"All these years, and he still hasn’t forgotten us."
"Back then, our banners reached across the fused worlds. Our warbands smothered every flicker of rebellion."
From the soot-caked shacks poured throngs of paupers—gaunt faces, bent spines, filth in every crease. But their dull eyes now blazed with light.
"Master of Chaos, save us! Give us food... I’ll do anything for you!"
A woman clutching a baby dropped to her knees. Others followed, one after another: "We’re weak, but if you can take our families out of this prison, this worthless life is yours!"
More and more prostrated themselves, begging for divine mercy. Orson only frowned. This was not his creed. He had no use for blind, ignorant worship. What he wanted was for Earth’s trialists to rise, to aim at him as a standard and grow strong.
He had never truly seen himself as a god. Only a mortal who happened to hold a godspark.
"Stand up! He’s no god!"
A clear, cold voice cut through the cries.
"Blasphemy! How dare you profane Earth’s Archmage, the supreme Lord of Chaos?!"
"Die for your insolence!"
A few kneeling zealots whipped their heads and shouted, faces contorted with rage.
From the crowd stepped a woman in a black cloak. She walked straight toward the Earth Archmage, eyes level with his.
"Look what you’ve done," Orson muttered toward Flame Fosset. The old mage picked his nose, pretending not to hear. He had his reasons. To harden their faith in chaos, to keep the powerless from breaking under rich-world trialist oppression, he’d washed them in doctrine. Without that, they’d have been picked off, forced to defect one by one.
Orson’s heart ached as he looked over the lifeless faces of these people. Nothing but echoes of the demon-haunted wasteland of his past life. Only the tyrants had changed—demons replaced by gods. He had struggled so hard, yet nothing seemed different.
The cloaked woman reached him, followed by others dressed the same. Even through their hoods, the line of their lips, their proud bearing, showed they were no peasants.
"You broke your promise."
"You cannot disappoint our kin again."
They lifted pale hands, scooping mud from the street and smearing it onto his robes. Soon his garment was covered in handprints. Flame.D and the others bristled, ready to act, but Flame Fosset’s glance froze them in place.
Orson stilled. He understood. This was no insult. It was forgiveness.
The lead woman’s eyes were steady. "Protect the people of this land. They call you a god. Whether you are or not—you must be their shield."
Then she collapsed into his arms, pulling back her hood to reveal a face of devastating beauty. "If you still remember old bonds, then never hand her over. She is our dearest little sister."
"The Fire Elf Princess, Katherina."
Orson’s chest sank. From that singing troupe he’d once toyed into being, she had always been the fiercest, the most unyielding. And the women behind her—no mistaking them. The famed clan princesses and saintesses that had once set the world ablaze.
Which meant the "little sister" Katherina spoke of—the one the Pantheon Sanctum hunted so obsessively—was Hazel.
Orson drew a deep breath. "I swear, I will not."
"No oath can bind the gods. Show us your resolve," Katherina pressed.
She explained: since offworld trialists colonized the US sector, the Light and Dark Dragon empires had fallen. Ursula had struggled to resist Sword Soul Guild, Earth’s strongest faction. To shield Katherina and the others, she had even stooped to serve as handmaiden to Taran, son of the Thunder God.
But Taran had his own agenda. Among those born of the Goddess of Aurora, some carried the key to unraveling her lingering laws. The Pantheon Sanctum’s entire existence hinged on this: their worlds, like Earth, were all once shaped by the Goddess of Aurora. If they fused them into one, her will could be purged. A King of Gods would be born.
Orson’s mind churned. No wonder the Sunforge World permitted only one god, while Earth and these fused worlds swarmed with them. The prime deity’s laws towered above all else. Even with godsparks, no one could threaten her throne. At best, lapdogs.
And yet... strength of that order, overthrown? Were these gods truly so reckless? Or was there another hand pushing them?
"Taran," Orson thought. A dangerous man. He had avoided Orson’s prime, only to rise the instant Orson vanished. Even Usher couldn’t press him down. If Orson was right, Taran had lured these gods to Earth himself. Earth, a backwater on the galactic fringe, poor in resources, weak in champions. Only demons had ever hungered for it—until now.
"Ursula is mine. Even with her crown broken, she belongs at my side," Orson said, brushing mud from his robes with a flick of his war staff, striding toward the temple.
It loomed white and vast ahead. Ninety-nine dragon pillars held up the sky, carved from the spines of god-tier star-beasts, etched with the Pantheon’s legends. Crystal light spilled like rain, bathing the hall in holy brilliance.
"Star-dragon spines... what a display," Bradley whispered, chilled.
Rank upon rank of Sword Soul Guild and offworld trialists lined the avenue. The weakest among them still wielded commander-tier power. Three dozen god-tier fighters and divine weapons glared from their ranks. And this, Bradley knew, was only a fragment. The real core never left their gods’ side.
Aurex stood at the temple gate with a battered Hobilarze, waiting.
The words landed like a drumbeat, thudding in the chest.
"Careful," Bradley warned in a low voice. "Rumor says he inherited the Thunder God’s spark. Same as you. He’s crossed into the divine."
"Earth’s strongest guild, Sword Soul’s master."
"A legend born of thunder, who shattered demon hordes, the Red Lightning."
Aurex smiled thinly, voice echoing through the temple: "Earth’s sovereign, the Pantheon’s voice, my brother, the Thunder God’s son—Taran!"
The gathered trialists roared. Lightning tore the sky, shaping a dragon that coiled above, glaring down on the intruders. Updates are released by NoveI[F]ire.net
"Dropping titles to scare us, huh?" SirLagsALot’s knees shook, but he bared his teeth. He hacked a cough. "Listen up, you sons of—"
He was winding up for one of his overblown monologues when another voice boomed across the heavens. Cold, imperious:
"The Mortal God. Orgod."
The words cracked like thunder, scattering the storm.
"Who—who stole my line?!" SirLagsALot gawped upward. From the clouds rose a crimson mountain.
And then the dragons roared. All of them. A chorus that shook the world.