Chapter 670: 670

His words echoed through the trembling air of his dimension, an oath of balance. The skies split open as a vast presence stirred beyond the veil. From within the golden radiance above unseen by mortal eyes, Nana, the World Will and Primordial Mother, turned her gaze toward the beast who dared to bargain with creation itself.

She had watched him long before this day, from the moment Murmur’s fallen heart became his curse. She knew the paths of his choices, the anger that fueled his growth, and the fear that shadowed his rise. Yet she did not condemn him, for through Krogan’s struggle, her world would also be enriched.

Within the depths of her awareness, she saw what this covenant meant. By accepting his offering, she would gain a new small plane, a living fragment of divinity folded into the structure of her creation, a wild realm, filled with primal essence and raw potential.

Such a gift would strengthen not only her, but also her divine children, the origin gods. Their influence stretching further across existence, giving them a glimpse of what is to come.

And so, she reached out.

Her will manifested as a colossal hand of starlight, descending gently upon Krogan’s realm. From his very being, she drew forth a fragment of essence, the crystallized truth of who he was and shaped it with the authority of a creator.

The fragment pulsed, shifting form under her touch until it became a throne, the wild and the divine.

Then, with a gesture, she lifted it high into the heavens.

The throne ascended beyond the veil of the world, joining the constellation of divine thrones suspended among the stars, each representing a god who had transcended mortality.

The moment the throne was set in place, the world screamed as Krogan’s divinity was announced to creation “God of the Sovereign Nexus and Divine Hierarchy.”

The proclamation rippled across the world, through mortal soil and sky alike. Mountains trembled, rivers bent their flow, and beasts across the land roared in unison as though the world itself acknowledged the birth of a new order.

But deep within Krogan’s pocket dimension, the runes binding Murmur’s heart began to split open. One by one, their luminous sigils cracked, their seals unraveling as black tendrils of corruption spilled forth. The heart convulsed violently, pulsing with an alien rhythm beating faster, louder, like a trapped beast realizing too late what Krogan had done.

Krogan’s claws dug into its vile surface, black ichor searing his forming divine flesh. The air around him screamed, half divine radiance, half abyss radiance as the Godthrone flared to life above him, descending in a spiral of gold and white flame.

The moment it touched him, the throne’s essence embedded itself into his soul. A surge of unbearable light tore through him, divine energy flooding every fiber of his being. Krogan roared, a sound that cracked the veil between realms.

The heart thrashed in defiance, trying to cling to him, to root itself deeper into his divine core. It lashed out, desperate to retain dominion. But the feedback of his ascension poured into Krogan like a river of starlight, a tidal wave of sanctified force that purged, cleansed, and reshaped him from within.

His body split apart under the strain. The jaguar’s form he had worn for centuries erupted into radiance, dissolving into raw power before reforging anew.

His bones glowed like molten gold; his mane flared like a burning dawn. The black veins of Murmur’s corruption sizzled and turned to ash beneath the divine fire coursing through him.

Then, with a roar that shattered what remained of the seals, Krogan struck.

He seized the heart, the cursed relic that had once belonged to him, tainted for him and defined him, he ripped it free.

A shockwave rippled outward. Reality fractured.

Krogan hurled the heart skyward, his golden claws trailing ribbons of light. Above, the air split open, a vast wound revealing the boundary between his pocket dimension and the Cursed Land.

The heart soared into that rift, beating erratically as it crossed the threshold.

And then, A colossal demonic arm, black as void and crowned with runes of crimson flame, tore through the breach. Its claws wrapped around the heart, clutching it tight. For a moment, it lingered, as if mocking him. then it withdrew into the darkness, dragging the heart with it.

The tear sealed shut.

Silence followed.

Krogan staggered, divine light bleeding from every pore. The dimension around him trembled violently, rejecting his presence. The realm that had once been his sanctuary now recognized him as something other, something too divine, too vast to belong within its mortal bounds.

He could feel it pushing him away, its essence no longer his to command.

As the sky above his world fractured into shards of silver light, Krogan lifted his gaze toward the heavens, where his newly forged Godthrone burned among the stars.

He let out a low, resonant growl that spread through out his realm announcing his depature.

The last of his mortal shell broke apart into a thousand golden sparks, ascending toward his throne, leaving behind the trembling pocket dimension, now slowly folding into the weave of the world’s order.

Few truly understood what had transpired that day. The world only knew that it had welcomed a new god.

But far from the temples and the celebrations, on the southern continent, an old man sat by a lonely lake. The waters were calm, the surface unbroken save for the soft ripples made by his fishing line. His white robe, pristine and untouched by dust, fluttered faintly in the wind.

In his other hand lay a heart, the same black, pulsing core that Krogan had flung from his realm. It beat weakly now, subdued, like a beast pretending to sleep beneath its master’s gaze.

The old man regarded it in silence. His expression was serene, his eyes still as glass. There was no anger in them, no frustration. Only the distant calm of one who had already foreseen the end of this tale.

“Failure,” he murmured.

The word slipped from his lips like a sigh. For a fleeting moment, emotion crossed his face, a shadow of weariness, of something almost human before it vanished, swallowed by his composure.

He didn’t know when it had begun, but failure had long since become an old companion to him. Familiar. Predictable. Even comforting.

The hand that held the heart began to twist. Veins bulged, bones shifted, and from his palm sprouted a mouth, wet and gleaming with teeth not meant for mortal flesh. Without hesitation, it swallowed the heart whole.

The man closed his eyes. For a moment, the world around him seemed to still. The lake mirrored his form perfectly, an unbroken reflection of quiet horror.

Then he smiled.

A faint curve of the lips, he could feel it the faint pulse of the devoured heart resonating within him. A thread of insight grew with the pulse, an insight that would bring him closer to the surprise he had long prepared for this unsuspecting world.

“Divinity,” he whispered, a chuckle threading through his voice. “Doesn’t seem all that bad after all.”

His gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the light of Krogan’s ascension still shimmered faintly in the heavens.

“I’ll be joining you all soon,” he continued, voice low and amused, “but first…”

He tugged gently on his fishing line, the faint sound of rippling water answering him.

“…the pot needs to be muddied a little more.”

As for the godlings, they remained silent through the waves of change that shook the world.

Yet their silence was not born of indifference, it was the silence of restraint, held tightly in place by the hands of their new kings and leaders.

Many among them had clamored for vengeance after Erik’s transgression. The thought of a mortal daring to defy their kind, to act without fear, was an affront that burned deep in their pride. Civil unrest had nearly erupted among them.

But their leaders stood firm.

Zephyr, in particular, was unflinching. His voice once known for its lightheartedness carried the weight of command now.

“Any who go against Erik in defiance of my word,” he declared before his gathered kin, “will cease to be godlings. You will not speak our name, nor claim our grace. You will walk as mortals do, and your memory among us will be cut away.”

His decree spread like cold fire through their ranks. A boundary drawn not only for discipline, but for change.

For the godlings like himself had grown weary.

Zephyr and the others had long grown weary of shepherding humans.

For centuries they had tolerated the burden, quietly tending to mortal civilizations, guiding their kings, all while suppressing the resentment that slowly fermented within their divine hearts.

But now, that restraint has reached its end.

They no longer hid their weariness. Instead, they began to spread it, an idea that flowed from court to court, from the youngest godling to the oldest amongst them. A whisper turned into doctrine:

“The age of shepherds has ended.”

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