Chapter 715: 715

But for the rest of the world, enveloped in that same domain, the experience was different. Where it was night for some, it had been day for others, and as his wings lifted him higher, the normal cycle of light returned to them as naturally as if nothing had happened. Only the ripple through the spiritual fabric of the world told the powerful what had transpired.

Roth’s display was not vanity, it was not a threat.

It was a reminder. A reminder that a trueborn of the goddess Keles still walked this world.

As Ethan had said: This world knew nothing of his existence or had forgotten.

And more importantly, it was his final gift to the world before he ascended beyond it.

With this single act, he forced open the eyes of every mage, warlord and knights, and hidden master across the continents. For centuries, the powers of this age had been trapped at the peak of the fifth tier, unable to glimpse the next horizon no matter how they struggled.

Roth’s domain had shown them, if only for a moment what the sixth tier looked like.

What it felt like.

What it meant for a being to impose their will upon the world itself.

Roth himself had never fully understood how he crossed into the sixth stage. There had been no grand revelation or sign. Instead, his power simply kept rising, quietly, relentlessly long after he had deliberately held himself back from ascending.

For a time, he believed this unstoppable growth was owed entirely to his lineage. A demigod… a trueborn of Keles, a being with one foot already in the realm of divinity.

But even that divine blood had shown its limit. Because once he touched the sixth stage, the impossible happened, his growth slowed.

Not stopped, never stopped but became something else. More deliberate, more demanding, more tied to comprehension than raw strength.

For the first time in an age, Roth could no longer advance through instinct or innate potential alone. He had to learn. He had to research. He had to observe. Power at this level required understanding, not just possession.

And that was precisely why this world needed his parting gift.

Most practioner of mana no matter how brilliant, how gifted, how fortunate would never reach this stage in their lifetime. Not only because they lacked power, but because they lacked something far rarer:

A path, a reference. A glimpse.

Roth knew this well so he gave them exactly that.

When his domain had expanded and overlapped with the world, when the sky bent and the sun vanished and the horizon folded, he had not done it to intimidate or to flaunt his strength. He did it because the sixth stage was nearly impossible to comprehend without seeing it.

Those at the peak of the fifth tier, who felt their cultivation tremble and resonate beneath the weight of his presence, those who had stood at the edge of a bottleneck for decades or centuries, they would now have something to grasp.

A direction, a possibility. Some among them, perhaps only a few, might actually find their way forward from the reverberations of his domain.

And this was not merely charity, nor was it sentiment.

Roth was on the brink of ascension, a privilege most beings would never be offered. And once he left this world, every soul who remembered him, who whispered his name in awe, fear, or longing would feed his growth in the higher realm.

A god without worship was weak. A god without recognition was forgotten. But a god whose name had been carved into the memory of an entire world?

He would ascend with a foundation unmatched.

So this final act served two purposes: To guide the worthy and to be remembered.

The shadowed wings that had eclipsed continents, the night that bent reality itself would become a story carried through generations. A monument not of stone, but of fear, reverence, and undeniable truth.

And as Roth vanished into the horizon, leaving the daylight restored and the world trembling in the aftermath of his power.

Meanwhile, as Roth flew into the distance, another Roth appeared on the lake quietly, without ripples or sound sitting across from an old man who had arranged a small tea table atop the water as if it were solid ground.

Roth studied him. This old man was the only being in existence either mad enough or wise enough to stand against beings like his parents… the Origin Gods themselves.

“Why have you invited me here, Murmur?” Roth asked as he lowered himself into the seat opposite him, the legs of the wooden chair resting impossibly on the mirror-still surface.

Murmur, wrapped in the frailty of an elderly human form, gave a soft laugh, one that did not match the depth of the thing hiding behind it.

“We have kept each other in sight for a long time, young one,” Murmur said, pouring tea into both cups with hands that shook only when he wished them to. “Opportunities like this where we can speak face to face without pretense are rare.”

Roth didn’t touch the tea. He remained silent.

Murmur continued, his voice gaining the faintest edge of amusement.

“You could have killed the boy. I would not have been offended. His rashness delivered his own fate to him.”

Roth scoffed, the sound sharp in the still air.

“I don’t doubt the truth in your words,” he said. “But doing as you suggested would’ve shifted your attention toward my children. And whatever scheme you’re stirring in the shadows… you’d have brought it closer to them.”

Murmur waved his hand in a playful, dismissive gesture “You overthink things,” he said lightly. “Your people would gain my attention either way once you have ascended.”

The last words dropped with a weight that didn’t match his joking posture. His eyes old and sharp beneath the facade of an old man—studied Roth’s expression with careful interest.

Roth only lifted the tea that had been prepared for him, slowly blowing away the steam before taking a sip.

“That is inevitable,” he conceded. “But they are no longer as alone as before. Besides…” His eyes narrowed faintly. “…the Old Deer has never taken his sight off you.”

Wardenwild.

The name stirred in Murmur’s mind like an unpleasant echo. His lips twisted into a scoff, and he leaned back in his chair with a deliberately lazy, uninterested expression, as though the very mention annoyed him more than he wanted to admit.

Silence spread across the lake. Roth didn’t move to leave. As Murmur had said earlier, moments like this were rare. Neither seemed eager to break it.

Eventually, Murmur exhaled, long and slow, staring past Roth at nothing in particular. When he spoke again, his tone had shifted. It was not directed at Roth, more like he was speaking to the air, to himself, or to a memory he could not kill.

“This world… your world… is wrong,” he said quietly. “Everything about it is wrong.”

His fingers tapped the teacup once, absentmindedly.

“It took me so long to understand that. And once I did…” A faint, humorless smile crept across his lips “…everything finally began to make sense.”

Roth frowned not out of irritation but concentration. A part of him knew there was truth in Murmur’s words. Before becoming what he was now, Murmur had been a demon older than living memory, older than the first kingdoms, older than the very idea of history in their world. A being who had walked through multiple worlds, watched civilizations rise and burn, and survived gods long forgotten.

If someone like that said this world was wrong… Roth could not simply dismiss it.

He leaned back slightly, letting Murmur’s words settle.

Murmur sighed, fingers tensing around his cup.

“It pains and disturbs me that I cannot pinpoint when things went wrong,” he said. “But wrong they are. Everything here is the opposite of how it should be. To you and the others born in this world, everything feels normal. Natural.”

His eyes lifted, ancient and dissonant.

“But to an outsider like me? Nothing about you all is normal.”

The lake remained still. But they were no longer alone.

There was another presence, delicate, vast, and possibly older than both of them. A presence that folded itself into the space between them so perfectly that neither Murmur nor Roth noticed her arrival.

Nana.

Mother of the Origin Gods. The world’s will and soul given form. The quiet breath of creation itself.

She had come because Murmur’s words struck a familiar chord, one she had tried, for ages, not to acknowledge. He spoke the truth she had long whispered only to herself.

Something was wrong with this world.

But unlike Murmur who stood outside, unable to trace the deviation she knew precisely when the thread had twisted.

She knew who twisted it.

How could she not? He was her child.

Her beloved, her anomaly.

Ikenga.

The name vibrated through her mind with both longing and affection.

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