-----Chapter 23.2: The Mortal Faith-----
The ruins stood still.
The air was thick—too thick. Dust clung to the stagnant atmosphere, unmoving, undisturbed. The ancient hall, once a place where voices echoed and decisions shaped the fate of kings, was now a forgotten carcass of stone and shadow. Pillars stretched skyward, fractured but unyielding, their edges worn by time yet standing as if refusing to fall. The ground, split by deep fractures, had long since stopped remembering the footsteps of those who had once walked here.
Beyond the towering archway, where the world met ruin, the remnants of an abandoned meeting chamber lay in quiet decay. Stone seats, half-buried beneath the weight of centuries, lined the broken floor. The ceiling, collapsed long ago, had surrendered to the abyss above—and no stars watched over it.
The world had moved on.
But something still lingered here.
Then—they entered.
Two figures, wrapped in black.
They did not walk—they moved, seamless, soundless, their steps defying the silence around them. Their cloaks were not mere fabric, but a presence in themselves, swallowing the dim torchlight, denying the world a glimpse beneath. Not a single inch of skin was exposed, not a breath, not a shadow that belonged to a man.
For a long while, nothing.
Then—
"The gods have taken action."
The first figure's voice broke the silence. Smooth, steady—but beneath it, weighted.
Not surprise.
Not anger.
But understanding.
The second did not stop walking.
"Too soon."
Their path led them past the remnants of a shattered throne—not just broken, but ruined, its destruction deliberate.
The first figure continued.
"They have descended in numbers unseen before. Their purpose is clear."
Their steps slowed.
"They seek to claim That."
The second figure did not turn, nor acknowledge the weight of the words. Instead—a question.
"And the people?"
A pause. The first figure's head tilted slightly.
"They too are uncertain."
Silence. Heavy.
Then—a thought, unbidden.
---
Just like us… they were confused.
The words barely escaped the first figure's lips before a memory rose from the abyss.
A sky splitting apart.
Not like a storm. Not like fire, or lightning, or anything that could be explained by the laws that once governed the world.
No—that was different.
The heavens did not crack; they peeled, layer by layer, as if something beneath reality itself was clawing its way out.
And when it did—
Everything was erased.
Not burned. Not destroyed.
Entire cities were devoured, swallowed by something unseen, leaving behind nothing but the void where they once stood. No screams remained. No ruins. Just a consuming emptiness that ate the past itself.
They had all watched. Helpless. Powerless.
Until—
They too had been taken.
Hurled into an unknown world. An unknown future. Without warning. Without reason.
And now—
The sky was splitting again.
---
The first figure's fingers curled slightly beneath the fabric of his cloak.
The memory still burned.
But before he could sink deeper, a voice pulled him back.
"When the gods descended, they gave people something else."
The second figure's voice was calm, measured.
"Hope."
Or something close to it.
He continued, his words weaving through the space between them like a blade through fabric.
"Expectations. Desperation. A reason to believe that something greater had come to deliver them from the unknown."
The first figure exhaled. The ruins around them flickered, as if the world itself had shifted.
A vision of the present.
Cities, once broken, now filled with whispers.
Some called it salvation.
Others called it a lie.
Their faces, turned skyward, were filled with uncertainty. Their lips moved, some in prayer, some in whispers of doubt.
For the gods had come—but they had not spoken.
They had not explained.
They had not offered choice.
They had come for something else.
And just like before—the people were powerless to stop it.
---
The first figure lifted his gaze.
And then—
"Not all gods move the same."
The second figure glanced at him.
"Elaborate."
A pause. Then, slowly—
"Some come openly. They take followers. They shape their will into power, into belief. They claim this world as their domain."
The memory of golden figures, leading their believers away without looking back burned beneath his words.
"Some remain unseen. Their influence is not spoken, but felt. Their presence is not declared, but whispered. They do not seek faith—they seek something deeper."
Another breath.
"And then—there are the ones who do not belong here at all."
The second figure did not respond immediately.
Then—"Like ■■■■"
Silence.
Not confirmation. Not denial.
But something closer to truth.
---
They continued walking.
The ruins, once still, seemed to watch them now.
Then, the first figure lifted a hand—not fully, just enough to touch the fabric at his collar.
For the second time, the other figure's gaze followed.
And this time, they saw it.
A mark.
Not ink. Not a brand.
Something deeper.
It pulsed—not with power, not with magic, but with something else.
Something not of the gods.
Lines curved in unnatural shapes, shifting subtly, as if existence itself rejected them. Symbols not meant for human eyes carved their presence beneath the flesh.
A pact.
A binding to something beyond even the gods.
And for the first time—silence stretched between them.
Then—
"We must act before the gods reach us first."
The words were quiet.
Final.
The first figure lowered his hand.
Their move was undecided.
---
A single torch burned low, its glow barely touching the stone walls.
Seven figures remained seated.
The weight of unspoken words pressed against them, thick as iron.
Then—
Sylvian exhaled.
His fingers curled slightly against the wooden table, his expression unreadable.
And then—
"We act. Now."
---
Sylvian's words did not echo, yet they lingered.
Like steel driven into stone, firm and unmoving.
The torches burned low, their flames twisting, flickering—watching. The air was thick, suffocating in its stillness, pressing down on those seated in the chamber. Seven figures. One decision.
And there was no more room for hesitation.
---
Slowly, Sylvian's gaze shifted.
Not rushed. Not careless.
It was deliberate. Heavy. Measured.
And the weight of his presence settled first upon Sir Aldric.
"Sir Aldric, keep the knights in line," he said, his voice calm, unwavering. "Maintain order. Keep the city guarded at all times. If the gods act, we cannot afford weakness."
The older knight met his gaze, his expression unreadable, but his nod was sharp. "It will be done."
The air shifted.
Sylvian turned next—toward Sofia and Samantha.
And as his eyes settled on them—Sofia's breath caught.
How?
How could he be so composed?
Even now, with the weight of everything pushing down on him, he did not waver.
Even now, with the gods moving, with the world shifting beneath them, he still stood firm.
His expression did not crack. His voice did not falter.
As if the burdens he carried—the uncertainty, the responsibility, the lives that depended on his choices—were nothing.
Sofia clenched her fists beneath the table, forcing herself to breathe.
She had been raised to follow. To listen. To kneel.
And yet—he had never knelt.
Not to the gods.
Not to anyone.
"Reassure them," Sylvian said, his voice steady. "Give them a reason—a solid reason—to follow. The gods' presence has already divided them. That division cannot be allowed to grow."
Samantha's arms remained crossed. "And if they refuse?"
"You make them understand," he answered.
A pause.
"Not through fear. Not through force. But through certainty."
His gaze was cold. Unshaken.
Sofia swallowed hard.
There it was again.
That certainty.
How could he stand like that? How could he bear the weight of something that felt impossible?
She didn't know.
And that uncertainty scared her more than anything else.
---
Sylvian turned again.
This time—toward Alec.
And beside him, Rosia felt her entire body tense.
So many names. So many titles.
Sylvian. The one who had stood against the gods themselves.
Sir Aldric. A legend among knights, unyielding and unwavering.
Samantha and Sofia. Once devoted to the divine, now standing at the center of the greatest conflict in history.
Alec. A man who spoke little, yet whose presence felt heavier than the air itself.
Varen. Unpredictable, reckless, but never weak.
And then—there was her.
Rosia.
She swallowed, her fingers curling slightly against her palms.
Why am I here?
These were figures that shaped the world. People whose actions would be remembered long after this moment had passed.
And yet—she stood among them.
I don't belong here.
Her chest felt tight.
And then—Sylvian's eyes passed over her.
For only a moment.
But in that moment, she felt it.
Not rejection. Not dismissal.
But acknowledgment.
As if, despite the names, despite the titles, despite the weight of everything—she belonged.
The realization nearly crushed her.
---
Sylvian's gaze met Alec's.
And this time—he did not speak.
But he didn't need to.
Alec inhaled slowly, his fingers pressing against the table's edge.
It was always like this.
Between them, words were secondary.
Orders, explanations—they were unnecessary.
A single glance carried more weight than a thousand spoken commands.
And in that moment, Alec understood.
A slow nod.
Nothing more needed to be said.
---
The world did not stop.
Even in the face of divine descent, even in the shadow of uncertainty, life moved forward.
But it did not move as it once had.
Where once there had been murmurs, now there was doubt.
Where once there had been faith, now there was fear.
But above all—there was waiting.
For what, no one knew.
But they felt it.
Knights patrolled the streets, their armor clanking softly against stone as they restored order. The last remnants of chaos were subdued, structure returning where uncertainty had taken hold.
People gathered—not as one, but in fractured groups.
Some spoke of the gods. Some spoke of power.
But all knew one truth.
The balance had been broken.
And now, they stood at a crossroads.
---
The air was thick. Not with smoke, not with magic, but with something else.
A weight that had no shape, but could be felt pressing against the skin.
The people had gathered. Not by force, not by summons, but by something far more powerful.
The need for an answer.
Before them, seven figures.
Unmoving. Watching.
And at the center—Sylvian.
He stepped forward, his presence cutting through the crowd without effort.
His gaze swept across them. So many faces. So many choices yet to be made.
But he did not try to sway them.
He did not call for unity.
Instead, his voice came low. Steady.
"I am not asking you to follow me."
The murmurs stilled.
"I am not asking you to sacrifice yourselves for a reason that I have shaped with my own hands."
His words were not emotional. Not desperate.
Just truth.
"But I have seen enough—more than enough—to know that if you do not act wisely, you will be left with nothing."
His gaze did not waver.
"You have two choices."
His voice did not rise. It did not need to.
"You follow me."
Or—
"You follow the gods."
That was it.
No grand speech. No false promises.
Just the weight of reality.
And then—he turned.
The seven walked away, leaving the people to decide.
---
No cheers, No declarations.
Only silence.
A heavy, suffocating silence.
A city watching.
A world shifting.
And uncertainty.
For this was not the end.
It was only the beginning.