Chapter 1103: Tacit Understanding

The surge of humanity often springs from the decline of divinity.

In the vast, shadowed courtyard, two former gods sat in silence, lost in thought. Only the arcane network terminal beside them flickered with images and sounds from the mortal world. This quiet stretched on for a long while before Mimirna finally broke the stillness.

“Looks like coming to you to pass the time was the right choice… If it were just me, I’d probably need ages to notice any change in myself.”

Amon’s gaze settled quietly on her. “So that’s why you keep coming to bother me?”

“No, mainly because you have the network here.”

“…Well, honesty is a virtue at least,” Amon said, as if about to sigh, but then returned to the point. “Tell me about your ‘humanity’—do you have any idea why that part of you has grown so quickly?”

“Not a clue,” Mimirna shook her head, genuine confusion in her voice. “After all, everything I’ve done so far has been an experiment, a gamble. There were no precedents, no solid data to rely on. I’ve only been estimating the shifts in my divinity and humanity by feel. Maybe this is just how it’s supposed to be? Either way… the rise of humanity and the fall of divinity is a good thing.”

“Divinity means madness. The more we lean into it, the further we drift from reason. But on the other hand, divinity also links us to mortal thought. Mortals don’t suddenly forget things en masse, so that connection can’t just vanish…” Amon’s eyes gleamed like crystal, his voice soft as it echoed through the courtyard. “From what we know, there hasn’t been any massive population loss in the mortal world recently, nor a global shift in collective thought in just a few months. Yet your divinity is fading far faster than mortals could be forgetting you… This is a huge anomaly. I don’t think we should just brush it off by saying ‘it’s all for the best.’”

“…Alright, I agree. Mortals probably haven’t forgotten me in just a few months,” Mimirna fell silent for a moment, then dropped her usual nonchalant act and took Amon’s question seriously. “But speaking of my ‘humanity’… Old Stag, you seem to have changed too lately. Haven’t you noticed?”

“I don’t like that nickname you gave me,” Amon said immediately, his eyes narrowing slightly—a sign he was thinking. “You say I’ve changed?”

“Yes, and quite a lot,” Mimirna said bluntly. “The biggest change is that you talk more now. There’s more ‘initiative’ in your personality—I still remember when I first met you, you were lazy and slow. Now, you’re still slow, but no longer lazy.”

Amon fell into thought. After a while, he spoke slowly, “So… our divine parts are both fading, making us more ‘human.’ This change happened recently… and there’s been no corresponding huge shift in the mortal world. So what do you think is the most likely explanation?”

“Something is interfering with our connection to the ‘thought currents,’” Mimirna’s mind raced, “or filtering out their influence on us.”

“What could it be?” Amon’s voice was cautious, tinged with unease. Once the supreme god of the elves, now trapped here, powerless to steer events, he was especially sensitive to unknown changes. “Who would interfere with our link to mortal thought, and why? And who even has that power?”

“I don’t know. Like you, I lack the information…” Mimirna shook her head. Then her gaze suddenly dropped to the shattered ground before Amon—a broken patch connecting the Rebellious Courtyard’s central area to the distant Rebellious Fortress gate. Once barren, it was now cluttered with all sorts of “things” from the mortal world: glowing arcane network matrices, floating crystal devices, and many strange contraptions even Mimirna couldn’t recognize—apparently inventions by human experts after she left the material realm. These arcane machines, large and small, were scattered around Amon, quietly humming in an unmonitored but orderly fashion.

To a towering god, they looked like little glowing stones—insignificant, yet oddly pretty.

Mimirna’s expression turned thoughtful. “When they set these up for you, did they explain the name and function of each machine?”

Amon sighed. “I told you, a mortal named Kamail installed them. He was in and out quickly, didn’t explain much. Why? Is there a problem with these machines?”

“While I strongly suspect you just didn’t remember or understand his explanations, I have no proof,” Mimirna said, her arcane-lit eyes narrowing slightly. “I don’t see a problem myself, but I’ve seen how mortal ‘arcane network communication’ systems work. I hadn’t paid attention to these machines around you before, but now that I think about it… if all they needed was to maintain communication between the Rebellious Courtyard and the material world, they wouldn’t need so many machines—especially those floating crystals…”

“What are those floating crystals for?” Amon asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

“Mostly, they spread arcane network signals or stabilize the magical environment. The courtyard is large, but one crystal is enough to cover it. Even with backups, two or three would suffice. But you have over a dozen crystals of various sizes, plus supporting matrices, and that huge one… I can’t even tell what it’s for.”

Mimirna stood up, towering like a pillar. She walked among the devices, scanning the entire area around the great stag god, then seemed to reach a realization. “…Only a small portion of these are actually for maintaining your arcane network terminal’s communication. The rest… are creating some kind of ‘environment’ around you.”

Amon’s eyes cleared as he pieced it together. “So this is an experiment—disguised as helping set up arcane network communication.”

Mimirna turned to him, a half-smile playing on her lips. “What, do you feel they tricked you? Upset they hid their true motives?”

“No, they’re helping me.” After a few seconds of silence, Amon’s voice broke the quiet, still gentle and pleasant as ever. “I’ve been lying here for three thousand years, but my mind hasn’t dulled.”

“They’re helping us,” Mimirna said, watching him for a moment before slowly sitting back down. “Though I don’t know exactly what they’re doing, it’s clear they’re trying to sever the chains still binding us… Turns out, we’re not the only ‘gods’ fighting to break free.”

This time, Amon didn’t object to her use of “we.” He just thought quietly, and after a long pause said, “So, they’re still on our side…”

“That requires a little tacit understanding,” Mimirna replied.

Amon said nothing, closing his eyes, lost in thought. After an unknown stretch of time, his voice echoed again through the dim, chaotic realm. “Don’t wander too far. These devices might only cover this small courtyard.”

No reply came. Amon opened his eyes and looked to the side, only to find the towering lady had somehow settled beside a massive wreck of a starship engine, her head bowed as if asleep. For many days she had deliberately kept her distance from these relics of the voyagers, as their origin made her divine part uneasy. Yet now, she leaned against it, unguarded and asleep.

Amon watched quietly, choosing not to wake her. For a god, a good rest was rare.

“Good night.”

…

In the Imperial Computing Center’s experimental hall, Node Scholar Yuri rubbed his forehead, sore from long concentration. His eyes flicked over the data projected above a nearby monitoring device, then back to the rising and falling “tides” behind the Mind Hub.

These “tides” were actually the non-directional thought currents from the deepest layers of the neural network—ripples of data generated by tens of thousands of human minds within the collective unconscious dreamscape. These vast, meaningless, ever-changing data streams were a byproduct of the neural network.

For centuries, the Sleepless had regarded this as a dangerous “psychic quagmire,” capable of swallowing any ordinary mind that wandered in. In that chaotic swamp of thought, the most fragmented, illogical, and incomprehensible shards of human consciousness churned like turbulent seas. Reason and madness alike lost meaning in this absolute void and chaos. Mortals who stumbled in would instantly wither and collapse. No one had ever imagined that this deadly “quagmire” could actually be useful.

An anti-divinity barrier.

A beautiful woman in a white researcher’s uniform, her hair tied up, approached Yuri. Her voice was soft and melodious. “So far, the barrier generators we set up in the courtyard area are effective. After deploying the non-directional thought currents as a barrier around the target, the leaked divine contamination is quickly reduced to safe levels.”

“Humanity’s extreme is divinity; divinity’s extreme is madness. But this chain only holds if the ‘thought currents’ are directed at the gods. If the currents lose directionality, even the strongest chains break as if missing a key link… It’s such a simple truth, yet we only realized it today.”

“There are many simple truths in the world, but if luck isn’t on your side, you might never realize them until the end of days,” the woman smiled gently, then shifted the topic. “Unfortunately, we still can’t directly assess the target’s state or know how they feel during this process…”

“Perhaps we can only hope for tacit understanding, Ms. Wendy,” Yuri said. “But the good news is we’re making rapid progress. Soon, we might communicate directly with ‘them’—then we won’t have to rely on feelings to coordinate.”

Wendy nodded, then looked closely at Yuri’s face—there was a trace of fatigue beneath his features, and his eyes were darker than the day before. Concern flickered in her gaze. “Shouldn’t you rest? You’ve barely slept while testing all this.”

Yuri waved her off, pulling a small glass vial from his pocket. He twisted off the cap and downed the alchemical potion inside. Instantly, his energy returned—except for the dark circles under his eyes. “No worries. Compared to when I was researching neural simulation pulses at the Orlandel headquarters, this workload is nothing.”

Wendy glanced at the alchemical potion bottle Yuri had casually tossed into the nearby trash bin and sighed helplessly. She then reached into her own pocket and pulled out an identical vial…

Since when had the former Everdreamers all lost their ability to sleep?

…

Beneath the solemn thirty-two ancient stone pillars, the assembly hall was steeped in a heavy silence—the final stillness before the vote.

This was the last vote of the entire agenda, and for the representatives present, it was more crucial than any before. The decision they faced was heavier, more daunting.

As Gawain had said—establishing a Theocratic Council wasn’t just about the manpower and resources each nation would have to contribute. It meant profound changes across society. For some countries, it would test their very social order. Not every ruler had the courage to face such a challenge.

Yet, for many delegates, the proposal held another allure—those eager to curb the Church’s authority, those seeking to strengthen centralized power, found parts of the Council’s concept aligned perfectly with their ambitions.

But the aspects involving widespread education and expanded citizen rights gave others pause.

The balance was delicate, the decision agonizing.

Gawain’s calm gaze swept over the quiet chamber. In the hush, it was Rosetta Augustus who finally broke the silence: “Typhon joins.”

Under a nearby massive stone pillar, the black banner with red markings shimmered with a magical glow, Typhon’s seat brightening in the light.

“The Silver Empire joins,” came the voice of Belsethia, followed by the illumination of the Elven banner.

“Talrond joins.” “The Holy Dragon Principality joins.”

“The Kingdom of Gaoling pledges to join the Theocratic Council.”

“The Northern City-States Union consents.”

“The Ogure Tribe Nation…”

The difficult weighing of interests was over. Like a halo suddenly spreading through the hall, one by one the banners representing mortal nations lit up. Their clear light rose like the first rays of dawn, bathing every delegate’s face in its glow.

No matter how many still wavered in their hearts—there was no turning back once the bow was drawn.

“Then, I hereby declare the Theocratic Council officially established.”

(End of chapter)