Chapter 160: Riot

Osmund and Madoc, the Anaelle race, for example, had been totally different from humans, even considering they were of intermixed blood with the human Transcendents.

This was the second time something Finn was told from the future was different from what he was seeing with his eyes here.

The first was about the encounter with Gods. Osmund had stated that it was greed for power that spurred the Transcendents’ first encounter into planes where Gods existed.

That was just plain wrong.

What remained to be known now was whether Osmund had lied, or he had regurgitated a false story.

Finn observed the locals carefully as he passed through the gates. They couldn’t sense him in the least. His Null Perception already worked on Transcendents to an extent, not to talk of regular humans that had no magic.

Yes. The humans in this settlement, and maybe the rest of this world too, didn’t have magic. There was mana in the air. Faint. Very faint and sparse, but there. Perhaps the little that had spilled into this world from theirs. Or maybe some natural background mana that no one here had the capability to use.

Either way, these people were entirely mundane. Vulnerable. Dependent on their gods for any supernatural intervention.

Finn strode in fully to the town and weaved his way past the sounds and sights, and into a secluded alley. The town reminded him of old Arabian movies. Despite the harsh environment, the locals were well adapted and carrying on with their lives normally.

Deacon materialized next to him inside the alleyway, along with Keeva, Osric and Tavian.

“I can see some temples already,” Finn noted.

“Yeah. I saw that too. The large building with the insignia of a large worm on it?” Osric asked.

Finn nodded, positing his prior hypothesis. “These guys likely worship that worm creature Himothy just killed.”

“I wonder if they can tell it’s dead now,” Tavian muttered. “They should, shouldn’t they?”

If the worm was sustained by collective belief, then its death might register as a sudden absence. Like a voice that had always been there going silent. The faithful would feel it. A void where divine presence used to exist.

“I’ll sneak into the temple to find out,” Keeva nodded and faded from view, heading straight for the temple not far away.

“Tch. She didn’t even wait,” Osric hissed softly. “Does she expect us to wait till she’s back?”

“You can go ahead and scout for anything of note,” Finn pacified. “I will remain within the area.”

“You too, Tavian,” Finn added.

The two Transcendents nodded and faded from view, heading further into the city.

“Let’s go fish for information,” Deacon turned towards one end of the alleyway, and Finn followed.

Together, they strode into what looked to be a tavern — by desert standards. It was a low, sprawling building with a cloth awning stretched over an open courtyard.

The scent of roasted meat, spices, and something fermented hit Finn immediately they entered. Tables were scattered throughout, occupied by locals in various states of weariness and inebriation.

Finn and Deacon found a corner position with good sightlines to both entrances and the main gathering area. His [Null Perception] and Deacon’s Truth concealment made them nearly invisible. Not literally, but people’s eyes simply rolled over them without lingering or registering their existence. The serving girl already walked past them twice without noticing.

“Now how do we understand their language?” Finn asked.

“Leave that to me,” Deacon was already focused on the table closest to them.

A boisterous group of inebriated men occupied the adjacent table, their voices loud and gestures animated. The language they spoke was utterly foreign — harsh consonants, rolling vowels, nothing like any tongue Finn had heard.

But Deacon’s golden eyes blazed brighter.

“Truth isn’t just about seeing lies,” he murmured. “It’s about understanding intent. The truth of what someone means to communicate transcends language.” His eyes tracked the speakers. “I can glean the meaning behind their words, even if I don’t know the words themselves.”

“So you’re reading their intent?” Finn asked.

“Essentially. Though it’s taxing.” Deacon’s focus intensified. “Give me a moment to… adjust.”

Finn waited, watching the inebriated men argue with increasing passion. One of them, with a weathered face, and missing two fingers on his left hand, was gesturing wildly toward what Finn now recognized as the worm temple visible through the courtyard opening.

Deacon’s raised a brow. “He’s saying… the statue shattered.”

“What statue?”

“In the temple. A statue of the Guardian. The worm god. It shattered hours ago. Just… broke apart. No one knows why yet, but this man…” Deacon’s eyes narrowed. “He believes the god is dead. He’s saying gods can die.”

The one-fingered man’s voice rose, carrying across the tavern despite the language barrier. His companions tried to shush him, but he shook them off, standing now, swaying slightly.

A younger man at another table, with sharp features, and his eyes blazing with fervent conviction, shot to his feet.

“He’s angry,” Deacon said. “A true believer. He’s telling the drunk to stop lying, to stop blaspheming. The Guardian has protected them from the evils of the Still Plains for generations. It cannot die. It’s eternal.”

The drunk man laughed bitterly, and Finn didn’t need translation to understand the mockery in that sound.

“He’s saying it’s his god too,” Deacon continued. “But gods die. They always have. And there’s never been any sign of ’evils’ in the Still Plains anyway. He’s always believed there was more beyond the plains than just this settlement.”

The drunk used his standing position and the attention he’d gained to push forward, speaking loudly across the now-quieting tavern. Several patrons were turning to listen, some nodding, others frowning.

“He’s talking about travelers,” Deacon said, keeping pace with his translation. “Travelers who come from beyond the desert sometimes. From the far kingdoms. They worship a different god — The Radiant One. A sun god. Much stronger, he claims. Strong enough to grant its followers safe passage across the Still Plains and the vast desert. He’s saying… he’s saying their temple should be allowed to be built here the next time those travelers come. That maybe if they convert, they could leave this settlement. See the world beyond.”

Murmurs rippled through the tavern.

Half the patrons looked intrigued, leaning forward. The other half looked horrified.

The young believer’s face went purple with rage. He shouted something, spit flying.

“Heresy,” Deacon translated. “He’s calling it heresy. The Guardian is their protector. Their only protector. To abandon it for a foreign God is to invite destruction.”

“The Guardian is dead!” the drunk roared back, and this time, Finn caught the word “Guardian” in the foreign tongue, similar enough to recognize.

The tavern exploded into chaos.

People were on their feet, some agreeing with the drunk, others defending the Guardian’s eternal nature. Fists were raised. Tables shoved. A woman near the bar was crying, praying loudly to the Guardian for forgiveness on behalf of the blasphemers.

“This is escalating fast,” Finn muttered.

“Religious schism in real-time,” Deacon said as his eyes tracked the truth of belief in the crowd. “Half of them have actually been doubting for years. The Guardian never speaks, never manifests, only the worm patrols the desert. They’ve always wondered if there was more. The other half… their entire identity is built on Guardian worship. If it’s dead, their worldview collapses.”

A bottle shattered against the wall.

Someone threw a punch.

The tavern keeper was shouting for order, but his voice was drowned out.

“We should leave before this becomes a full riot.”

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