Chapter 225: This Is God

Even Richard, who had always been spirited, now looked a little awkward. He forced himself to explain to Marl, “I think they are just a little tense because of the recent battles.”

Marl narrowed his eyes, his gaze passing over the knights and falling onto the Fog Fortress.

Clearly, it was daytime, and the Morning Star hung high above. Yet he felt that under the Morning Star’s radiance, the Fog Fortress gave off a chilling gloom, as if untouched by its light.

“The Fog Fortress is a small stronghold, right on the edge of the Misty Forest. It was originally a sanitation fortress, controlling a trade route leading to the Principality of Corlay. But because of the fishmen’s attacks, it was abandoned.”

“Of course, those foolish fishmen wouldn’t occupy the fortress, so it should be safe there now.”

Richard explained about the Fog Fortress, as if trying his best to ease the awkwardness.

“You’ve been there before?” Marl asked casually, then gestured for the Temple Warriors to change direction.

“No, I’ve never been there. I only heard about it, of course, because of the stories of the Misty Forest. The Elbert Knight’s Road mentioned it.” Richard said, “The Elbert Knight’s Road was written about the adventures my father experienced, and it’s quite thrilling. I’ve also heard about the Church’s story of the Northern Expedition of Glory.”

“I think although the Church’s story is not bad, it’s still far worse than the Elbert Knight’s Road.”

Marl’s face immediately stiffened.

The Northern Expedition of Glory was the story about his first northern campaign against the werewolves, written by those bastards from the Monastery. Marl hadn’t dared look into it for a long time, not knowing how ridiculously they had twisted it.

Of course, Marl had no intention of finding out.

“You’ve never been there, then why did they say you knew the way?” Marl quickly interrupted.

Richard pulled back his wandering thoughts and said, “Oh, actually, it’s because if you just keep following this road all the way to the end, you’ll see the Fog Fortress. Here, anyone who has heard of the Fog Fortress knows the way.”

…

Just as Richard had said, they followed the road all the way until the White Star rose, and Marl and his men finally reached the Fog Fortress.

It was somewhat dilapidated, with solid-like slime all over the walls and ground.

“These look like fishmen’s eggs?” Richard said uncertainly. “But shouldn’t fishmen lay their eggs in water?”

Marl glanced around but saw no trace of fishmen or humans in the fortress or its surroundings.

“Doesn’t matter what they are. First, set them on fire. Otherwise, we won’t be able to settle in.” Marl said.

The Temple Warriors set up camp outside while Marl rummaged through the fortress, finding some kerosene. He stuffed the fortress with collected branches and set it ablaze.

As the flames roared, Richard spoke with some regret, “Some of the defensive works were wooden, as well as the fortress gate. Who knows how much will be left after this fire.”

Marl gave him a look and said, “You’ll know tomorrow in the daylight.”

Richard shrugged and was about to help the warriors with the bonfire when suddenly, as if sensing something, he snapped his head up, staring toward the Fog Fortress.

Richard’s sudden movement caught Marl’s attention. “What is it? Did something happen?” he asked.

Marl followed Richard’s line of sight—and then saw a star rise into the sky. Suddenly, it exploded, its shell scattering like a meteor shower crashing down upon the earth.

Rumble—! The ground trembled. And after the meteor shower finished, one last star streaked across the sky with a crimson tail flame before slamming into the earth.

Boom! A thunderous explosion. A dome-like half-sphere covered the ground, whirling, before rising into the sky as a towering pillar of flame. Its brilliance even drowned out the faint glow of the White Star.

“…This is… the power of Mystery?” Marl swallowed hard.

“…It should be.” Richard also looked dumbstruck.

The shockwave of Mystery swept over them, knocking Richard to the ground. Marl, together with the Temple Warriors, steadied the trembling cross. He could feel it was faintly glowing.

…

For mankind, the birth of a god was never something to hope for.

Humans ruled these lands, and power had already been divided among the nobles. Then—what need was there for a god?

The same was true for fishmen.

But for weaker races on the verge of extinction, they longed for the descent of a god.

Like the werewolves. After seizing a whole marquisate, what they dreamed of was a god for their kind. Only when a god belonging to the werewolves appeared could their race endure and their suffering be lifted.

These fishmen were in agony. Compared to aquatic fishmen, they had changed too much—unable to live long in water, unable to stay permanently on land. They were not human, and even fishmen themselves rejected them.

What’s more, they suffered constant tearing pain—fire and water, Morning Star and sea—tormenting their bodies, tormenting their souls.

Some unknown Mystery had rewritten the foundation of their lives, and they could not undo it.

So, they needed a god. Only a god could free them from this suffering.

Creating a god was not difficult.

The population of any viscounty was enough to glimpse divine power, not to mention more than a million fishmen.

For fishmen, the question was not whether to create a god, but what kind of god to create.

They had been exiled from the sea, no longer able to wield the might of the ocean.

They had been rejected by the land, unable to draw upon the power of earth veins without the aid of dark creatures.

Thus, they chose to make themselves gods.

So, after conquering most of the Principality of Corlay, the fishmen began their civil strife.

To become a god. To become the racial god of these new fishmen.

Among the highest-ranking fishmen in society, who would not want to take one step further and become divine?

But when so many fishmen held this desire, when they needed a fishmen’s god, then the will of a god had already descended.

For the Mysteries seized by the Church, the divine power humanity wielded was merely a scrap of awareness torn from an unknown god. But when humans could not control even that scrap, Mystery ran rampant.

Yet when the will of a god itself descended, guided even slightly, that runaway Mystery would rouse the god’s awareness.

What Marl sensed as “wrong” was because a god’s will was peering at them.

On Marl and the Temple Warriors rested the Commandments of the Lord—the extension of His will, His power.

And to the two divine wills, it appeared as though a new god had come. So they cheered, welcoming the new arrival, inviting it to join their revelry.

The will of the god born of Mystery was Destruction. Its existence was nothing but endless ruin—displaying its power through annihilation, until the world itself was undone.

The will of the fishmen’s god, born from their suffering, sought to become a true god. It would stir discord within the Nation of Fishmen, plunge them into despair, and force them to beg for its descent—so it might become their true god.

Corleon’s will manifested from the cross, disregarding both divine wills.

At what point could something be called a god?

Some scholars believed god was Mystery itself.

Magicians thought god was a powerful being who could touch Authority and wield the laws.

Great nobles thought god was a weapon.

But whatever the definition, a god’s mere existence twisted the world, assimilating it toward divinity.

Like how flames could burn flesh—yet if a god deemed fire to freeze, then where it resided, flames would indeed freeze, even while burning hot.

This was god. The world would reshape itself to match god’s existence.

Like Corleon, who had already accepted the power of Faith. With a mere opening of his eyes, the world would assimilate into “One” by that Faith. Proof that he had already touched divinity.

That was why he had Cicero build the Clock Tower, to imprison himself within.

Just like the Fog Fortress now, already distorted by the descent of a god’s will—its very meaning rewritten within the world. That was why Marl found it so strange.

Because it no longer matched Marl’s perception of the world. It was an aberration, a cradle for that divine will.

The Fog Fortress’s existence was twisted. The knights’ wills were twisted. Only one pitiful child of noble blood struggled to hold on.

That was why the knights, driven by that child and divine will, had forced Marl’s group to leave.

For a god could not allow another god’s will into its vessel—lest it be twisted itself.

So when they could not drive Marl away, that god made them retreat from the Fog Fortress.

And now, it called to the fishmen’s god, and invited Corleon into their revelry.

It was both a show of goodwill and a threat.

Join us, share this world with us—or stand as our enemy.

How could Corleon agree? He had commanded the Monastery to research knowledge, to use it—not to watch that knowledge twisted by descending gods and their wills.

He spread his hands, then closed them, opening a crack from which floated two golden motes of light.

The purest power of Faith. An extension of Corleon’s will.

Sensing Corleon’s answer, the two inviting divine wills faltered, then revealed fury.

From the direction of the Fog Fortress, a cracked meteor rose. From the Nation of Fishmen, a gray-scaled fish leapt beyond the horizon, swimming in the air.

These were manifestations of divine will, invisible to those who could not touch the divine realm.

The meteor fell toward Corleon. The gray-scaled fish swished its tail, charging at him.

Corleon blew gently. The two golden motes soared forth, one toward the meteor, the other toward the fish.

When they collided, all three wills froze—then trembled violently.

The meteor cracked, gold spreading within. Golden light seeped between the fish’s scales.

War between gods was a clash of wills without the material realm. For their wills themselves were the mightiest force—Mystery beyond any scholar’s comprehension.

But Corleon’s Mystery was higher than theirs. He was One, and All. From him, everything was born.

The Mystery of Destruction could collide with Corleon. It reduced all to nothing. But alas, it had perished countless ages ago. Its will now acted only on instinct. No one in the world remembered its existence, while the “Lord” had tens of thousands of faithful in the material world.

The fishmen’s god had many believers. Yet this god was not truly divine—not yet anchored, not yet fully embracing the fishmen’s Faith.

And so, the two gods’ fury was assimilated by Corleon’s will.

The golden meteor turned back, crashing toward the Fog Fortress. The golden-scaled fish thrashed its tail, plunging into the depths of the Nation of Fishmen.

Sensing danger, both divine wills fled.

The fishmen’s god’s will escaped far away, beyond Corleon’s reach. That was the Nation of Fishmen, not under the Lord’s protection.

But Destruction was close at hand—its body in the present world, its anchor of descent, and its prison.

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