Chapter 695: 695

As he said this, something in him changed. His eyes glimmered, green and red intertwining like tree roots. The air thickened as Ikem’s divinity seeped through the Apeling’s body, sharpening his senses a hundredfold.

Every heartbeat, every twitch and every micro-expression.

The officials felt the pressure of that gaze, a godling’s perception intensified to the level of an inescapable truth-scan. They tried to keep still, masks neutral, spines straight. But the Apeling wasn’t looking for confessions.

He was watching the involuntary reactions amd whisper of the microcosm of the body of each official.

A bead of sweat.

A tightening of the jaw.

A pulse quickening under the skin.

Anything.

After a brief but unnerving moment, the glow in his eyes faded. The Apeling blinked, looking almost disappointed.

“Hmph.” He crossed his arms. “Their bodily reactions show they know nothing of this.” He deliberately didn’t hide his voice.

A strange silence followed.

The Apeling looked genuinely puzzled, if not mildly insulted that the officials were so ignorant.

A godling from the side let out a soft laugh.

“So you’re interrogating the wrong humans?”

The Apeling scratched his cheek. “Apparently so. Either these ones are useless…” His gaze dropped to the officials, assessing them with blunt honesty “…or the emperor keeps his secrets extraordinarily compartmentalized.”

The officials lowered their heads even further, ashamed by the implication even though it wasn’t their fault.

The Harpy godling stepped forward again, feathers rustling irritably.

“Ripple-clan, you wasted a divine blessing on that?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity demanded it.”

“That curiosity,” she snapped, “is going to get you killed one day.”

“Not today,” he chirped.

But his smirk dissolved into contemplative tension as he glanced back down at the officials.

“…If even imperial envoys weren’t briefed about such matters, then the truth must be buried very deep. Your emperor hides something profound. Something foundational.”

The officials did not respond.

They could not respond.

Their throats constricted with the weight of unspoken truths and the terror of being perceived, truly perceived in a way far beyond mortal understanding. So they bowed again, deeper this time, robes pooling around their knees like ink spilled on stone.

Their foreheads nearly touched the ground as they trembled at the edges of their composure, each of them silently praying to any power willing to listen.

Please… let the godlings lose interest,Let them not dig further,

Let our emperor not kill us for hearing too much.

Because now they had two fears.

The first was the godlings, whose curiosity or mere whims could reshape the empire by accident. Who could tear down cities simply by following a hunch.

The second, far more personal, was the emperor.

For they had heard things… deductions and implications about the empire. Things they could not un-hear. Things no official ,no matter how loyal was meant to know.

The empire had strict rules about who could hold certain knowledge.

Breaking that rule accidentally didn’t exempt anyone from punishment.

Somewhere deep in their hearts, each official knew:

Returning to the emperor with this report might cost them their heads.

If the emperor chose mercy, they might still be silenced through other means.

Their terror only deepened when the godlings began to disperse.

The Harpy flicked her wrist in a curt, dismissive gesture.

Another godling waved lazily, already losing interest in the humans. a third turned away with a sigh, muttering, “Pointless meeting.”

Then, with an almost casual lack of ceremony, the Apeling lifted a hand and waved them off as though concluding a friendly chat.

“You may go,” he said lightly “We’re done here.”

Done.

The word hit the officials like a physical blow.

They remained bowed a moment longer, not out of reverence, but to gather enough courage simply to stand on shaking legs.

Slowly, they lifted themselves, one by one, heads lowered, eyes averted. They dared not look at the godlings expressions, not the Apeling’s satisfied curiosity, not the Harpy’s cold disdain, not the others unreadable contemplation.

They turned and began the long walk back toward the palace, each step heavier than the last.

Every footfall echoed the same thought:

How do we tell His Majesty what happened?

How do we convey that the godlings sniffed at the empire’s secret? How do we explain that they may have conveyed something to the godlings unknowingly?

How do we survive this report?

Their hearts pounded with dread as they neared the gates, the looming silhouette of the imperial palace standing like a mountain of fate before them.

Behind them, the godlings returned to their own discussions.

Chen dismissed the officials with a soft gesture.

They bowed shakily until their foreheads nearly touched the floor, then backed away, their faces pale, their steps uneven. They understood, just as he did that they were already dead men walking. Not because of anything they willed, but because they had heard something they were never meant to. That alone sealed their fate.

Chen watched them go with a tightness in his chest.

They served well. Loyal. Competent. Careful.

And yet… utterly doomed.

The worst part was the helplessness. He was the ruler, the emperor, but in this matter he had no authority, not even the right to spare them. The shadow behind the throne, his father, would not tolerate loose ends.

For the first time in days, however, a strange comfort washed over him.

The report confirmed something, the godlings were also looking for his father and unlike him, they were open with it. They had deliberately spoken the provocation aloud, forcing reactions, forcing attention, tossing bait into a still pond and waiting for the ripples.

His father had not taken it.

Not a single movement.

Not a single shadow stirred.

That, more than anything, unnerved Chen. His father missed nothing. He manipulated everything. Yet this? This he left alone?

“Did he ignore it,” Chen whispered to himself, “or… did he know it was bait?”

Both possibilities frightened Chen more than he wished to admit.

Still, the knowledge the godlings hinted at envoys sent beyond the empire, to a kingdom in the eastern continent was not his own doing. He knew of their departure only from fragments of overheard military logs and a few suspiciously redacted reports.

Father acted under his name, with his authority.

Chen clenched his fists.

“That ends,” he murmured. “I will drag you out from the shadows, Father. I will not rule a throne I cannot control.”

His relief surprised him, he wasn’t fighting this alone. Others, even godlings, were also reaching for the same unseen puppet strings.

Maybe he wasn’t insane.

Chen moved swiftly as the hold on communication channel reopened for the “Stuck” godlings.

Messages were relayed in rapid succession, carried across the godlings links and mana currents until they reached Zephyr and the others. The response was immediate, a shared frown settling across their faces. Their displeasure was not directed at the crisis itself, but at Ethan, who had been in contact with them moments earlier.

Why had he withheld such crucial information?

In times like these, when uncertainty pressed in from every direction, a single omission carried weight. A heavy weight. Ethan’s silence was not something they could easily overlook.

The instinctive reaction was to confront him at once, to demand answers and pry the truth out of him directly. But after exchanging glances, the godlings restrained themselves. This, they realized, was an unexpected opportunity.

A chance to observe Ethan.

A chance to see his true nature.

A chance to learn whether he was truly an ally… or merely pretending to be.

So they chose patience over confrontation, masking their growing unease beneath calm expressions. They would wait for Ethan to speak first, to see if he would reveal what he knew on his own. If he didn’t… that alone would be revealing.

Yet beneath their simmering distrust lay another, more immediate concern.

Their people.

Zephyr and the other godling kings had been on edge for the past months due to the happenings and report on their side. Hearing about the activities occurring in the southern continent, where tensions between mortals and divine descendants ran dangerously high. When report finally came through, all of them let out the same quiet breath of relief.

No casualties. Not a single mortal harmed.

Instead, it seemed their people were… enjoying themselves. Causing mischief, yes, but harmless mischief. Laughing. Exploring. Treating the southern lands like a festival rather than a battlefield.

Their mixed reaction,both relief and worry stemmed from the fragile developments unfolding across the continents. The humans had turned their eyes toward the godlings, and under normal circumstances, such scrutiny would have meant little. But this time, the humans came prepared. This time, the humans had evidence, testimonies… and backing.

And the godlings, whether they wished to admit it or not, were clearly in the wrong.

An official court letter had been issued and delivered directly to the godlings council, an unprecedented move. It was written by mortal citizens who claimed to have been harmed by the actions of certain godlings. At first, Zephyr and the others were inclined to dismiss it as mortal bravado, yet another attempt at elevating their authority in the world.

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