Chapter 462: 462

Flowua suffered a different kind of misunderstanding. Humans, viewing her through the lens of her predecessor, saw her as a force of divine progress, of endless change without consequence. They sought her favor not to challenge stagnation or push the boundaries of knowledge, but to justify reckless ambition and unrestrained upheaval. Revolutions, once meant to be a means of positive transformation, became chaotic destruction in her name.

This realization struck deep. Björn had warned them that their previous methods were never foolproof—that each era, each civilization, would interpret divinity in their own way. The godlings had believed that by ascending and taking control of their faith, they could guide it into purity, yet humanity had found a way to alter its meaning all the same.

The ascended gods faced a dilemma. To ignore human worship entirely could allow their divinity to be reshaped in unintended ways, yet to actively intervene could lead to even greater entanglement with human affairs. Some of them, like Xerosis and Ursula, were indifferent, seeing human worship as an inevitable consequence of their divine existence. Others, like Ikem and Maul, found themselves deeply frustrated, unsure whether to reject or embrace the interpretations mortals had assigned to them.

For the human kingdoms, this misinterpretation of divinity gave them a sense of security, a belief that they could once again claim a connection to the gods, even if the godlings had left them behind. Yet, they did not know how these new gods would react—whether their attempts to honor them would be seen as devotion or insult.

While the newly ascended gods grappled with the unintended consequences of human worship, they were not the only ones disturbed by mortal devotion. The dragons, long content in their solitude, found themselves unwillingly dragged back into the affairs of humanity.

For centuries, the dragons had been forgotten by humans, their existence reduced to myths and old legends. The godlings and their deities had become the dominant divine figures, and the dragons—by design—had faded from mortal memory. They preferred it this way. Their kind had always done their best to remain neutral, avoiding entanglements with both the Origin Gods and their counterparts.

But that changed on the fateful night the humans later named “The Night of Sundered Whispers.”

No human truly understood what transpired that night. It was an event shrouded in secrecy, the details known only to the godlings and the dragons themselves. What the mortals did know was that something immense had happened—an event so significant that even the most powerful beings had acted in unison to resolve it.

On that night, the presence of dragons had once again made itself known. Some were seen soaring in the skies, their colossal forms silhouetted against the moon. Others had reportedly clashed with unseen forces, their roars shaking the heavens. The godlings, too, were involved, though neither they nor the dragons ever spoke of what truly occurred.

For the humans, it was a moment of revelation. The dragons were real.

The reemergence of these legendary beings ignited something within humanity—a forgotten reverence, a rekindling of old faiths buried beneath centuries of neglect. As news spread, temples dedicated to dragons began to rise once more, their altars filled with prayers and offerings.

But to the dragons, this was nothing short of an annoyance.

Dragons were not like gods. In most other worlds, they might have welcomed faith and worship, basking in the reverence of lesser beings. But this world was different.

Here, the very structure of existence revolved around divine influence. To be worshiped was to be bound—to have one’s nature shaped and defined by faith, much like the gods themselves. The dragons had always known this, and it was why they had chosen seclusion. By staying out of the affairs of the Origin Gods and their counterparts, they had remained free, unshackled by belief.

Their neutrality during The Night of Sundered Whispers had not been by accident. They had acted purely of their own will, not as pawns of any divine scheme. Even the gods’ counterparts had failed to account for their interference, so distant had the dragons remained from the conflicts of gods and mortals alike.

And now, their actions had come back to haunt them.

As the prayers of humans reached their slumbering minds, many dragons found themselves restless and irritated. Some awoke in frustration, cursing the mortals for daring to call upon them. Others stubbornly ignored the worship, hoping that in time, the foolishness of humanity would fade.

For ten years, they resisted.

For ten years, they refused to answer.

At first, dragon worship spread like wildfire. Temples were erected in grand fashion, prayers were offered, and hopeful devotees sought to understand these ancient beings. Some saw the dragons as protectors, others as divine judges, and a few even believed that through reverence, they might gain the favor of these mighty creatures.

But unlike the gods—who, whether they liked it or not, could not fully escape the influence of faith—the dragons had no interest in acknowledging their worshippers. They did not grant boons, did not answer prayers, and did not bestow divine favor.

And so, as quickly as the temples rose, they began to fall.

Faith without response is fragile. A decade of silence was enough to shatter the certainty of many. Some abandoned their beliefs, convinced that the dragons had never returned at all. Others, disillusioned by the lack of divine intervention, turned to more tangible sources of power—seeking favor from the ascended gods instead.

Yet, not all worshippers wavered.

Amidst the ruins of collapsed temples, there remained a handful of individuals who refused to let go of their faith. These people—whether out of true reverence, blind devotion, or sheer obstinacy—continued to believe.

They kept the remaining temples standing, maintaining shrines that had long since been abandoned by the masses. They spoke to the dragons in hushed prayers, even when no response came.

And though the dragons wished to ignore them, they took notice.

For the first time in centuries, the dragons found themselves faced with a dilemma. Unlike the broader wave of worship that had already faded, these particular mortals were persistent. They had no guidance, no divine voice, yet they remained unwavering in their allegiance.

The dragons had no desire to be bound by faith, yet ignoring this group entirely could prove unwise. These individuals were few in number, but their conviction was unshakable—a force that, if left unchecked, could one day lead to something far more significant.

For now, the dragons remained in a state of uneasy observation. They would not answer prayers, nor would they acknowledge their worshippers openly. But they watched.

They took note of the ones who remained loyal, memorizing their names, their faces, their actions. Not out of fondness or obligation—but out of caution.

Because if there was one thing dragons understood, it was that faith, once planted, had a way of growing into something uncontrollable.

And whether they liked it or not, the seeds had already been sown.

If possible, the godlings would have preffered to stay away for centuries, the godlings had existed in a delicate balance amongst themselves choosing to remain withdrawn from the mortal world.

As for the ascended gods, though divine by nature, they had no desire to immerse themselves in the constant demands of human faith. To them, faith was a substance best kept pure and measured—not something to be recklessly squandered on the fickle emotions of mortals.

Yet, that balance had now been disturbed.

The gods, in their wisdom, had issued divine orders. The godlings—whether they wished it or not—were to make an appearance once more.

For a time, many had resisted. They had lingered in their domains, content to let the faith of their own kind sustain them, to let the world move forward without their interference. But the ignorance of humanity had proven more disruptive than they anticipated.

The raw, untamed waves of mortal faith surged through the world, touching even those who had sought solitude. The sheer magnitude of it was intoxicating, an overwhelming flood of power unlike anything the gods had experienced in ages. It was exhilarating. Addictive.

But it came at a price.

The gods had no love for excess. To them, faith was best when drawn in controlled, refined streams—never in chaotic, unpredictable torrents. What the humans gave freely was too much, too impure, too volatile. It surged and swayed with every whim of their emotions, making the godlings’ existence less stable, less predictable.

They would have much preferred the limited, steady faith of their own kind. Pure, unwavering, undemanding. But faith and worship were not things one could simply deny to mortals.

The godlings understood one truth above all—faith was the right of mortals.

To take that from them would be to impose a cruelty far worse than any divine judgment. Worship was not just about power—it was a fundamental part of human existence, a tether that connected them to something greater than themselves.

If the godlings refused to acknowledge their faith, if they dismissed it as unworthy, they would risk something far worse than discomfort.

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