Chapter 483: 483

And now, she was kneeling on the cold floor, crumbling, breaking, that cursed skull not far from her trembling hands.

His anger was immediate. It was vast. It was felt.

The sea of blood in his realm churned violently, its waves crashing against unseen shores, mirroring the storm within him. Across his kingdom, his people stilled for the briefest of moments, their eyes flashing red with his fury before the glow disappeared.

Björn exhaled slowly, but his rage did not subside.

Power surged through him as he began to expend faith energy, pushing his vision beyond the land he had claimed, beyond the confines of his dominion. His sight stretched outward, reaching across the vast distances, until it settled on the southern continent.

And there—there—was the man responsible for this.

His gaze locked onto the hidden place where Murmur lurked in the shadows, the demon who whispered and weaved his unseen threads into the fabric of the world.

Björn’s divine sight bore down upon it, sharp and unrelenting.

Yet, he was met with something even the Origin Gods had never been able to break.

A veil. A wall. A barrier woven by Murmur himself—an impenetrable guard over his sanctuary, a place concealed from all who sought him.

Björn’s rage flared hotter, but he did not falter.

He would not stop. More faith. More power.

His presence pressed against the veil, demanding, searching, burning—and that was when he noticed it.

A single detail, Murmur was not there.

Björn narrowed his eyes, the revelation only fueling his fury. If Murmur was no longer in his place of hiding, then—

“Where was he?” Jaw clenched, Björn turned his focus outward.

A clean sweep of the entire southern continent.

No land was beyond his sight. No shadow deep enough to elude him. He would find him. He would see.

And when he did— There would be no place left for Murmur to hide.

Björn’s relentless search led him to a city—a place teeming with life, bustling with the chatter of merchants and the rhythmic clatter of wooden carts rolling over stone pathways. The scent of spices, roasted meats, and freshly baked bread filled the air, blending with the noise of haggling voices and the laughter of children weaving through the crowd.

And within this vibrant market, moving unbothered through the sea of people, was an old man.

His long white beard swayed slightly with each step, his traditional robes flowing around him. He held no air of divinity, no oppressive presence, yet there was something about the way he walked—calm, deliberate, untouched by the chaos around him. His hands moved slowly along his beard, his expression one of quiet amusement as he observed the world around him.

Then, without warning, he stopped.

The old man’s gaze lifted to the sky, but what he saw was not the boundless blue stretching above.

In his eyes, they were there—two massive red eyes, burning with raw fury, staring directly at him from beyond the fabric of reality.

A lesser being would have crumbled beneath such a gaze. The weight of that anger, that unyielding will, was enough to shake the strongest of men.

But the old man merely smiled.

“Ah, it’s been a while, old friend.” His voice was light, almost playful, as if addressing a long-lost companion.

The red eyes—Björn’s eyes—remained fixed on him, filled with silent scrutiny. Then, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they vanished, dissolving into nothing.

The old man stood there for a moment longer before he let out a quiet sneeze, covering his nose with the sleeve of his robe. He rubbed his nostrils and muttered to himself, “Why is everyone suddenly so interested in an old man like me?”

Meanwhile, back in his realm, Björn sat in silence, his expression strangely calm.

But beneath that calm was something else.

Uncertainty. A feeling he was not accustomed to.

His fingers tightened into a fist as he exhaled, murmuring to himself, “What the hell are you planning next?”

Before he could dwell further on the matter, his attention was pulled back by the sound of Yuki’s quiet sobs.

His jaw tensed.

Björn sighed, shifting his gaze beyond his blood-drenched realm, past the expanse of empty space that separated divine dominions. His eyes landed upon the distant glow of another realm—one that belonged to Maul.

He let the silence linger before speaking, more to himself than anyone else.

“I hope our new friendship is enough for you to overlook this.”

With that, he turned his focus back to Yuki, his connection to her deepening through their sacred bond—his voice, his will, reaching her as his head priest.

Björn extended his power, sending a blessing to Yuki as she lay curled up in her room, lost in her despair. The moment his energy touched her, a crimson glow enveloped her trembling form, its warmth seeping into her bones. Her sobs quieted as her breath steadied, and for a brief moment, her vision blurred.

Two images flashed in her mind—fleeting, yet vivid.

Her eyes returned to normal, but the glow did not fade. It lingered around her, wrapping her in its silent reassurance.

A message. A presence. A quiet but undeniable proof that Björn had been watching. That he had never turned his gaze away.

Yuki, still trembling but now steadied by the warmth of his power, pushed herself up. Slowly, she turned her attention to the skull.

The object that had once been her tether to her father. The one thing that had almost drawn her back into his grasp.

She lifted a hand, fingers slightly curled, and with a mere flick of her wrist, the skull obeyed—rising from the ground and flying effortlessly into her palm.

Björn had responded to her. And if all went as she and he both hoped…

She would have no need to contact Murmur.

On the other side of the world, deep within the heart of the eastern continent, Zephyr sat upon the throne his father once occupied. The grand chamber was bathed in the soft glow of enchanted lanterns, their light casting long, flickering shadows upon towering bookshelves that lined the walls. Despite the room’s vastness, there was an intimate stillness to it—a quiet sanctum where wisdom and power intertwined.

In his hand, Zephyr held a small wooden book, its surface worn smooth from generations of handling. A faint green glow emanated from the carved sigils on its cover, pulsing like a heartbeat. His eyes, sharp with focus, traced each word with the reverence of a scholar unraveling ancient secrets. Floating around him in a slow, rhythmic dance were books of varying sizes and bindings, their pages fluttering as if whispering knowledge into the air.

Each time he grasped a new concept from the wooden book, one of the larger tomes hovering nearby would drift toward him. He would receive it with silent understanding, flipping through its pages with a discerning gaze. Sometimes, a quill—suspended in midair like an extension of his thoughts—would scrawl notes onto parchment, capturing insights that demanded further reflection.

The book in his hand was no ordinary text. It was a relic, a treasure passed down through his lineage. His grandfather, Ikenga, had gifted it to his father, Ikem, before he embarked on his journey to forge one of the greatest godling kingdoms in history. And now, in the wake of Ikem’s ascension, the book had been entrusted to Zephyr.

This ritual—reading the book each morning before court—had become a sacred duty. It was more than just an act of learning; it was a communion with the wisdom of those who came before him. As the days passed and his understanding deepened, Zephyr found himself gaining newfound respect for his grandfather, Ikenga. He had always known his grandfather as a great god who blessed himself and his siblings, but now, through the words left behind, he glimpsed the depth of Ikem’s reverence for his own father, Ikenga.

The weight of legacy settled upon Zephyr’s shoulders. The more he read, the more he wondered about the man who had set all of this into motion. Who was Ikenga, truly? What dreams had shaped him? What burdens had he carried? And what, if anything, had been left unsaid in the pages of history?

Curiosity stirred within Zephyr—a desire not just to rule, but to understand. He knew that one day, he too would leave behind a legacy. And when that time came, what wisdom would he pass down?

As Zephyr delved deeper into the book, the intricate design of their kingdom unfurled before him like a carefully crafted machine. It became clear where the blueprint of their empire had originated—from the structure of ruling powers to the intricate balance maintained between the nobles and the cursed clans. Every facet had been meticulously planned, every potential conflict accounted for, with solutions preemptively devised.

He now understood why his father’s reign had been so stable, unmarred by the power struggles that often plagued other great nations. It wasn’t luck, nor sheer authority, but a carefully engineered system—one where the court functioned in harmony, not because each member wielded equal power, but because they had no choice but to move in the same direction. Their voices were heard, their opinions debated, but in the end, the system ensured that the final outcome remained inevitable.

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