Chapter 1208: Reunion
In the last lingering glow of the setting sun, the great silver eagles of the Silver Empire beat their massive wings as they descended onto Pioneer Square near the heart of the city. These proud, well-trained giant raptors stood solemn and orderly, bowing low on this foreign land to allow their riders to dismount. Almost simultaneously, the final rays of sunset slipped quietly away from the rooftops surrounding the square, and night fell over the imperial capital.
But darkness did not come as expected—the magical crystal lamps had already been lit, their bright light pouring down from towering iron pillars, illuminating the square and nearby streets as if it were broad daylight. Welcoming parties lined both sides, greeting the arrivals. At the edge of the square, a colossal holographic projection soared into the air, shimmering with dazzling streams of light and displaying a welcome message in two languages. Cheerful music echoed overhead—a human melody, yet tinged with elven modulations.
Azmor stepped down from his giant eagle. Before he could fully take in this human imperial city, the flood of sights and sounds stunned him momentarily. Gradually, he adjusted, his gaze sweeping over the people dressed in “modern attire” so different from his memories—vibrant and full of life. He looked at the bright, orderly street lamps and the towering buildings lining the square. Beyond the floating giant holograms, he spotted the softly glowing crystal spires, the mechanical clock tower, and even flying machines patrolling the skies far off, alongside night-faring dragons.
These divine eyes granted to him allowed him to see farther in the dark, revealing details invisible from the sky. The oldest living druid sage widened his eyes in surprise. He remembered the glory of the Gondor Empire and the pioneers who carved out a nation through the chaos after the magical storms. Yet everything before him now was utterly different.
“So this is… the ‘Cecil Empire’ reborn from the ashes?” he murmured in astonishment. “I had thought…”
“You expected it to be rougher, more like a militaristic empire bent on conquest?” a female voice with a smile came from behind, pulling the old druid back to the present. “Just as many rumors say.”
“I don’t hold such prejudices, Your Majesty. I know a purely militaristic empire could never unite the continent’s powers,” Azmor shook his head slowly. “But I truly did not expect it to look like this… The humans I remember lived shorter lives than elves, yet they were far more solemn. But this city—everything here grows wildly, unchecked.”
He chose the phrase “grows wildly” to describe the city because what he saw was unlike anyone else’s view. Through those god-given eyes, he could trace the veins of vitality and energy pulsing beneath the seemingly cold architecture. He saw the entire city enveloped in a vast, living energy field, and sensed the “resonance” formed by thousands of minds—a vibrant, confident, and overwhelming spiritual harmony hanging over the city. Such a powerful, living, cohesive force had not been seen by him for centuries.
“This city gathers twelve different intelligent species, encompassing dozens of ethnic groups from all corners of the world. Here are dragons from Talrond, elves from the Silver Empire, dwarves conducting business, gray elves studying abroad—and on rare occasions, you might even encounter sea sirens from the deep,” Belsethia said with a smile. “I understand what you mean by ‘growing wildly’… Though I don’t have your eyes, I can see the immense power gathered on this land.”
“As the current leader of the Druid ‘Orthodoxy,’ is it appropriate for me to admit I lack the ‘God-given Eyes’?” Azmor said calmly, not looking up. “For three thousand years, the Morningstar family never acknowledged this.”
“That no longer matters,” Belsethia said softly, looking up toward a tall figure appearing at the end of the carpet. The artificial lights of the square seemed to weave a curtain behind him. “Meet the ‘resurrected’ human hero—he has arrived.”
…
In the Shadow Realm, shrouded in endless chaos and darkness, the Rebellious Courtyard remained as peaceful as it had for centuries. A sacred giant stag, as immovable as a mountain, lay quietly among floating stones and vast metal structures, eyes closed in rest. Around it, tiny artificial devices—dwarfed by comparison—were scattered, their surfaces etched with glowing runes, magical light flowing slowly.
A towering woman in a somber black gown, her lower body half-ethereal like mist, sat nearby on a stone pillar. She hugged her knees, intently watching a magical network terminal. Above the specially designed large console, a massive holographic projection played out mortal tales of love and hate—stories so dramatic they could capture a god’s attention.
After an unknown length of time, the resting stag suddenly opened its eyes, glanced at Mylmina, and casually remarked, “You’ve watched this for the third time already. Don’t you get tired of it?”
“A classic drama deserves more than ten viewings—I’ve only seen it thrice,” Mylmina replied without hesitation, not turning her head. “Besides, I think you should watch it too. It’s the most interesting story I’ve seen so far, unlike any mortal play ever created…”
Amorn, who had never cared for Mylmina’s favorite “dramas,” couldn’t help but ask, “What’s it about?”
“It’s about the sacred legends of the Holy Light Church!” Mylmina’s eyes sparkled—indeed, they glowed with a radiance that could power a high-output magical engine for two days. “It tells of the first generation of Holy Light apostles leading their tribes through darkness to find the ‘land where grain ripens all year.’ Along the way, they face tricksters disguised as divine messengers, soul-devouring monsters forging false gospels, and even a fake holy land that devours flesh and grows endlessly. In the end, the saints lead their people back to where they started, realizing the true holy land was their homeland all along…
“Oh, and the scene jumping five hundred years ahead is brilliant—right at the crossroads where the saints set out, a great city was built…”
Amorn listened quietly to Mylmina’s narration, then after a long pause said, “No gods in the sacred legend, no church in the church’s story—they really did that, huh…”
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” Mylmina smiled, relaxing against the stone pillar behind her. “Stories are written by people, told by people, and heard by people. Gods… gods exist within the story, within that inescapable narrative. Now, finally, they can remove the gods from that story, and that’s good for everyone.
“If one day they make a magical play about the goddess of magic, revealing that the ‘miracle of the source of magic’ was just a drunken wizard’s tall tale, and that the goddess’s original oracle came from an old mage’s severe morning tinnitus… well, I’d thank them for that.”
Amorn was surprised. “An oracle? So you really did give oracles in your youth? I thought you never answered prayers from believers.”
“…Youthful ignorance,” Mylmina sighed. “When I was newly born, I was dazed—you know that state well. Suddenly hearing someone call me while I was asleep, I responded instinctively. I had no idea that once I answered, it wouldn’t stop…”
Amorn seemed to suppress a smile, his eyes narrowing. After a moment, he said, “The Divine Authority Council’s ‘reform plan’ will start with churches that are already declining or in secular control, like the Holy Light Church. So maybe they will ‘tell a new story’ about the goddess of magic—you can look forward to that. But their stories won’t always follow the same pattern—can you accept that?”
“What can’t I accept?” Mylmina said casually. “I even accepted my own funeral…”
“I once discussed his plan with Gawain and reviewed some materials from the Divine Authority Council,” Amorn said slowly. “They want to secularize divine power and humanize and popularize the gods. Given the public’s current acceptance, they probably won’t portray gods as villains anytime soon. But perhaps in their next ‘new story,’ the goddess of magic will be given a secular ‘persona’ and take the stage…”
Before Amorn finished, Mylmina pondered seriously, then said with resolve, “If their protective gear can handle it, I think I could perform it myself…”
Amorn: “…”
Mylmina looked at him curiously. “Why so quiet?”
“Sometimes I feel like I can’t keep up with your thoughts…” Amorn said slowly. “Especially this time.”
“I think that’s normal,” Mylmina said indifferently. “Compared to me, you’re not good at thinking…”
Amorn closed his eyes, seemingly too lazy to respond to this persistent “neighbor.” Suddenly, he seemed to sense something, and his eyes snapped open—his holy radiance shining brighter than before.
“What’s wrong?” Mylmina sensed the restless energy around Amorn, something she had never felt from this usually peaceful nature god. “You…”
“I feel it…” Amorn murmured dreamily, his gaze fixed on the great gate before the Rebellious Courtyard. “They have come…”
“Them? Who?” Mylmina was momentarily stunned, then quickly recalled something. Her expression shifted slightly, and her eyes toward Amorn grew complex. “…Do you want me to leave?”
“…Thank you for understanding,” Amorn said softly. “Also, please do me a favor before you go.”
Mylmina stood, looking at Amorn’s vast, scarred form. Before he could continue, she guessed what he meant. “I understand—make it dignified?”
Amorn lowered his eyelids slightly. “I just don’t want them to worry.”
Within the Rebellious Courtyard, a low, resonant hum began to rise from all directions. High-powered arcane network units and numerous amplification and projection arrays sprang to life under the remote control center’s command. Crystals fixed in their bases slowly detached from their grooves, orbiting gently around the two deities. As the anti-divinity barrier activated, Mylmyna gave a subtle wave of her arm toward Amon.
The interlaced metal and crystal shards embedded in the colossal stag’s body rapidly faded away amid a swirling mist of distorted light, concealed behind an invisible optical shield. The gruesome wounds were masked and covered, and within mere breaths, the weapons and fragments of the Voyager’s ship vanished from sight. Only the sacred stag remained, quietly lying amid a scattering of floating rubble.
As for Mylmyna’s figure… she had already disappeared long before.
…
A team passed through the Shadow Realm portal at the base of the Rebellious Fortress, pressing deeper into its heart. Upon reaching the final corridor, Belsethia halted and signaled the accompanying elves to stay put.
“Your Majesty,” an elven officer stepped forward hesitantly, “should we—”
“Wait here,” Belsethia’s tone was gentle but firm, “I and His Majesty King Gawain Cecil can ensure our own safety. Beyond this point, fewer are needed.”
The officer bowed his head, accepting the queen’s command, then led the guards toward a nearby resting area. Belsethia turned to Gawain and gave a slight nod.
Gawain’s gaze fell on a small group of silver-haired elves standing not far off. Their faces were aged, their robes archaic and out of place in this era. They wore crowns and ceremonial beads long since outlawed by the current royal decree—ghosts seemingly stepped out from an ancient painting, yet undeniably present in this very place.
At their forefront stood the Archdruid Azmor, his expression calm and unreadable, neither sorrowful nor joyful, as if quietly awaiting his fate—or an answer.
The gate to the Rebellious Courtyard loomed ahead, its security mechanisms humming to life. Runes on the heavy door flickered as the anti-divinity barrier’s energy field linked seamlessly with the fortress’s own shield system.
Gawain exhaled softly and stepped forward to activate the gate. As the mechanical gears groaned under the weight of the door, he gave a slight nod to the ancient priest who had stepped out of history itself. “Master Azmor, please.”
Azmor drew a deep breath and crossed the threshold. The moment his foot passed through, it was as if he had traversed three millennia of time.
Before him stretched a space shrouded in dim chaos, starkly unlike the legendary divine realms. Yet in the distance, a sacred radiance rose, dispelling the surrounding gloom. Within that light stood a figure as vast as a mountain, lying in quiet repose. Simply gazing upon it, Azmor felt an immense power and a profound warmth blossoming deep within his soul.
A sudden dizziness overcame the old priest. All the countless thoughts, speculations, and plans that had formed along the way collapsed into a single reality. The emotions accumulated over three years came crashing down in an instant. Almost instinctively, he stepped forward—and felt a long-lost strength welling up from the depths of his spirit.
His divine arts, withered for three thousand years, had returned. His connection to the gods was restored. He was once again a priest, a conduit for prayer and magic, just as he had been three millennia ago.
He took another step forward. The figure within the light grew clearer, and he felt a familiar gaze settle upon him—peaceful and warm.
A deep, melodious voice echoed within the hearts of every priest: “You have come…”
And then, they wept uncontrollably.
(End of chapter)