Chapter 684: 684

Their pride, instead of wounded, was tickled by this audacity. The experience was strange and exhilarating, something that broke the endless monotony of their existence. They began to whisper among themselves, laughter bubbling in their language, amused by the thought of playing along with these mortal rules.

For once, they would be the guests in another’s game.

Soon, their original purpose, the journey toward the Misty Forest was all but forgotten. The godlings’ curiosity shifted entirely toward the humans and their peculiar way of life. They wanted to see more of them, to walk their streets, to study their customs, to feel the pulse of this empire that had the courage to look gods in the eye.

They imagined the tales they would tell upon returning home: stories of an empire that treated godlings as travelers, not deities; of mortals who dared to govern the sky. The very thought of the envy that would stir among their kin filled them with childlike excitement.

And so, across the southern continent, cities soon found themselves brimming with visitors, godlings strolling through markets, observing rituals, and mingling freely with the curious populace. The air itself seemed charged with a new, strange energy: a mingling of mortal awe and divine amusement.

The roleplay had begun the moment the humans halted their journey. But not all godlings were blinded by mirth. Some among them sharper, more discerning minds noticed the subtle tension underlying the humans actions. The way the soldiers moved. The careful placement of their aerial patrols. The hidden glint of magical wards buried beneath the earth.

This was not mere formality. It was a test, perhaps even a trap. The godlings exchanged knowing glances. The empire was observing them, probing for weakness, perhaps gauging how divine patience might be stretched. The discovery only made the godling’s amusement deepen.

“So the humans on this side would play games with us,” one murmured with a grin.

“Then let us play with them in return,” another replied, eyes glinting with mischief.

And thus, the godlings decided they would dance along to the human’s carefully laid plans, but on their own terms. They would twist the game, turn every human maneuver into a story worth remembering.

It had been centuries since they had felt such thrill, the delicious unpredictability of mortals, the joy of a world that did not tremble at their feet.

Whatever scheme the empire had set, the godlings had already chosen their response: they would play, they would learn, and they would have their fun, no matter how dangerous the game beneath it all might be.

Before the godlings ever set foot in the human cities, they decided to amuse themselves by taking on the role of the proud and untouchable beings, the beings that mortals once feared to look upon. When the imperial troops blocked their path, the godlings confronted them with haughty laughter and sharp, disdainful words.

“Do you understand those who stand before you?” one of the godlings asked, her voice resonating like a bell of thunder.

“Do you comprehend the weight of your insolence?” another added, the ground trembling faintly beneath his words.

The humans, however, proved to be even more arrogant than the godlings expected. The soldiers neither cowered nor faltered. Instead, they scoffed.

“The skies and lands of the southern continent belong to the Empire,” their captain declared coldly. “No being, divine or otherwise moves through them without the Emperor’s sanction.”

The audacity of it delighted the godlings. After a short exchange of mock threats and barbed remarks, the godlings decided to play along, adopting the air of elders humoring a child’s defiance.

With a few chuckles and deliberately theatrical sighs, they dispersed across the empire, choosing to “abide” by the humans’ laws. In truth, they only wished to see what would happen next.

The reaction among the human leaders, however, was far less amused.

The nobles who governed the cities and border settlements watched the godling’s arrival with unease. Their mere presence was like a storm disruptive, unpredictable, and impossible to control. Each godling who took residence in a city became the centre of unwanted attention, drawing crowds of curious citizens, scholars, and merchants alike. Order began to fray under the weight of disturbance caused.

This was not what the nobles had anticipated.

Long before the godling’s arrival, an imperial decree had already been dispatched across the southern lands. In it, the Emperor warned of the godling’s approach and instructed his vassals to block their passage to test their reactions, to provoke their pride if necessary.

The Emperor himself had spoken no words of open conflict, but those who served him understood the unspoken message clearly enough. They believed this was a test, perhaps even a trap. The Emperor, ever shrewd and silent, wished to observe how the godlings would behave when denied reverence.

And his nobles were all too eager to carry out this task.

Their eagerness stemmed from their own festering resentment. For years, a faction of vampire godlings had settled within the empire’s borders, beings who had begun to form a nation of their own, building dark spires and gathering followers under the empire’s passive gaze. To the nobles, their presence was an insult, a violation of mortal sovereignty.

Yet the Emperor had done nothing.

His silence was infuriating. Many whispered that the vampires’ lineage and ancient status had earned them untouchable privilege, and that even the Emperor dared not move against them.

Thus, when the new godlings approached, the nobles saw a chance for vindication. If they could provoke these outsiders, force them to act out, to reveal divine arrogance before mortal eyes it might justify harsher measures not only against the newcomers, but against all godlings under the Empire’s watch.

They expected the godlings to rage, to crush their soldiers, to burn the skies with their power.

But instead, the godlings laughed.

They laughed, bowed mockingly, and wandered into the cities like travellers visiting a carnival. Their decision to play along was a humiliation the nobles had not foreseen, a mockery of all their preparation.

Now, as the godlings mingled freely across the continent, the nobles could only seethe behind forced smiles.

While the nobles wrestled with the chaos spreading through their lands, the Emperor himself was far removed from their troubles, laughing softly in the grand marble halls of his palace.

He was playing a game of catch.

The air rang with the delighted shrieks and giggles of the palace maids and a few favoured consorts as they darted around him. The Emperor’s eyes were covered by a strip of fine silk, his bare chest gleaming faintly under the golden lantern light.

“Run faster,” he teased, reaching out with mock ferocity as the women danced just beyond his reach. The sound of their laughter echoed like chimes through the hall, their joy both genuine and desperate.

Every now and then, an official would approach the great doors, kneeling with reports of unrest the godling’s unpredictable behaviour, the nobles’ frustration, the growing stir among the cities. The Emperor would listen, head tilted, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Then, with a dismissive wave, he would send the official away and return to his childish game as if nothing in the world concerned him.

The game went on for some time, until at last, the Emperor froze mid-motion.

The laughter died instantly.

“Enough,” he said quietly, his tone suddenly cold and stripped of playfulness. “I would like to be alone.”

The maids and consorts hesitated, exchanging glances of disappointment. They had hoped to charm him further, to catch his attention long enough to secure his favour or perhaps bear the imperial heir that would lift them from mere attendants to women of power.

But the Emperor’s expression made it clear the moment had passed.

They bowed and withdrew in silence, leaving him standing alone in the vast chamber.

Slowly, he reached up and removed the silken blindfold. The strip of cloth slipped from his fingers to the polished floor, revealing eyes that gleamed with something far sharper than the earlier laughter a cold, calculating awareness, the kind that came from a man who had survived too much to ever truly rest.

Gone was the image of a frivolous ruler surrounded by playthings.

In his place stood Emperor Chen, the man the world had almost forgotten.

Once, he had stood on the brink of history. He could have carved his name among this world’s record, shaping the fate of nations. But when the world trembled and his moment came, he chose to step back to yield rather than burn. Cowardice, many called it. Yet that very cowardice had kept him alive where countless others, braver and bolder, had perished.

His reflection shimmered faintly in the polished obsidian floor, the faint resemblance unmistakable.

The sharp features. The pale, ageless eyes.

This was Chen, first son of Murmur, and elder brother to Queen Yuki of the people of Björn.

The Emperor had read every report, heard every complaint, listened to every trembling noble who came before him and not once did his expression change.

He had no quarrel with the godlings. Their antics neither bothered nor alarmed him. If anything, their unpredictability pleased him.

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