Chapter 1209: The End of Obsession

It was a radiance long absent for three thousand years, accompanied by a voice long unheard for three millennia.

And a history long forgotten.

Azmor stepped forward slowly, just as he had so many centuries ago—when, as a young druid apprentice, he first earned the right to enter the temple. Back then, he had followed his mentor up those grand, solemn steps and stone ramps with reverence. Now, behind him, several priests trailed closely, arranged on either side according to their ancient duties.

This was the most sacred of audiences; every step mattered. Though even the youngest among them was already 3,700 years old, these venerable elves still walked with the steady surety of mountains, flawless in their pace.

Amoen lay quietly in the center of the courtyard, his gaze gentle as he watched the elves approach—each face now so different from the memories he held. Three thousand years had passed; even for long-lived elves, life’s end was near. These elders, who had been middle-aged even back then, survived only through the blessings they had received and an iron will to endure. Their deeply wrinkled faces etched themselves into Amoen’s eyes, slowly merging with shadows from his past… until finally, a sigh escaped him.

“Azmor, you have grown old,” the god spoke softly.

“My lord…” Azmor’s steps faltered as the divine voice filled his ears. Trembling, he finally spoke, “We have searched for you for three thousand years…”

“You should not have sought me,” Amoen sighed gently. “I left for a reason—and you would have been better off without me.”

“We know that, but we want to follow you!” a high priest suddenly declared. “No matter the reason, we are willing…”

Amoen gazed quietly at those who had loyally followed him, even after three millennia. After a long pause, he sighed deeply, “It is because too many were willing to follow me back then…”

…

Gawain and Belsethia stood quietly at a distance, beside the narrow path leading to the courtyard’s center. They watched the priests, like pilgrims from a sacred tale, approach the holy stag bathed in light. At last, Belsethia spoke softly, “Three thousand years… The Morningstar family has pondered countless times how to resolve this ancient dilemma, yet no one ever imagined it would end like this.”

“Ending like this… your troubles are far from over,” Gawain glanced at the Silver Queen. “These people cannot return—and no matter what explanation you give, they will be seen as having ‘left this world’ after you took them away. You spent years trying to handle the cult issue gently, but now it’s impossible to end it peacefully.”

“I remember we discussed this before,” Belsethia smiled faintly, her gaze resting on the priests at Amoen’s feet. Her smile was warm and sweet, but her eyes gleamed cold as frost. “Many misunderstand one thing—I have only treated gently those elders who once served the empire loyally and never truly betrayed the Silver Empire. As for the cultists you mentioned… what are they worth?”

“Looks like you have a plan,” Gawain withdrew his gaze and looked ahead silently. “Maybe I was worrying too much.”

“The Silver Empire is vast, its ancient history breeding complex social structures. After centuries of ruling, some will always refuse to follow me… Now, I’ve simply found a way to let some of them go with their gods. After all, it’s what they’ve long dreamed of.”

The Silver Queen fell silent, as if lost in thought. After half a minute, she asked softly, “Elsewhere, there must be many technicians monitoring this… After Azmor and the priests entered the defiant courtyard, what happened between them and Amoen?”

“They established a connection,” Gawain said gravely. “Clear and stable. Even after three thousand years of ‘drought’ and ‘interruption,’ their devout faith in Amoen has not waned—in fact, it has only grown stronger and deeper with time.”

“Is that so… Well, if not for such unwavering will, even with elven longevity and divine vitality, they wouldn’t have lasted this long,” Belsethia’s eyelids drooped slightly. “Azmor is nearly five thousand years old.”

She paused, then murmured as if to herself, “Looks like they really can’t go back.”

…

On the shattered, floating land of giant stones, Azmor and the priests sat cross-legged, just as druid sages had done thirty centuries ago—gathered in the forest to discuss scriptures and doctrines. The god’s power seeped into their souls, long parched for three thousand years, filling their minds with peace and fulfillment. They spoke of ancient times, lush forests, mountains and valleys, seasons and beasts, rivers flowing through plains, and eagles soaring the skies. Amoen mostly watched quietly, his crystal-molten eyes shining with a purity beyond the mundane.

Time stretched on until the sages seemed to forget its passing. Suddenly, a high priest sighed, “Ah, if only His Majesty Ista were still here…”

“Kostina betrayed the sacred faith,” another high priest said bitterly. “She… she shouldn’t have…”

“Kostina may have betrayed her faith, but she never betrayed us,” Azmor’s deep voice silenced the room. “Many can criticize her decisions when reorganizing the church, but none of us who live today have the right to judge.”

The old elf’s eyelids lowered, hiding the expression in his eyes. Then Amoen’s voice rose softly and gently: “Kostina Ista Morningstar… my last priestess. I still remember her face. She… has been dead for many years, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, my lord,” Azmor answered immediately. “Her Majesty Ista died over two thousand years ago… After you left, she restructured the druid church, took control of elven society through royal power. The backlash from forsaking divine grace and the immense pressure she bore led to her early death. She was the last Silver Queen to bear a church name—after her, no ruler of the Silver Empire held one.”

Amoen fell silent for a long time before his gentle yet solemn voice returned: “She bore great burdens, didn’t she… Ah, such a foolish girl. She actually did very well… truly well… It was my selfishness that drove me away back then.”

Azmor’s eyes widened, and he instinctively tried to rise. “My lord, you must not—”

His words cut off. He did not stand. The old elf lowered his head in shock. Through the opening of his priestly robes, he saw his muscles and skin had withered away, a grayish, weathered hue spreading visibly over him.

It was as if this body, frozen in time, suddenly remembered it should have died long ago.

The old priest sighed, then smiled faintly, looking around to meet the same smiles on the faces of his companions.

“My lord, it seems the time is near,” Azmor said with a smile.

“I can let you stay,” Amoen said quietly, gazing at these elves who should have passed away a thousand or two thousand years ago. “Abandon your bodies, abandon your past, sever all ties with the mortal world, and remain here—until the end of time.”

Azmor fell silent. After a long while, he asked softly, “If we stay here, will the god return?”

“…The god will not return. The god is dead.”

Azmor chuckled softly, shook his head slowly, then pushed himself up with great effort. Bit by bit, he lifted his rapidly aging body off the ground. This time, he succeeded. Turning back, he saw Belsethia and Gawain nearby—standing as if awaiting the arrival of a destined moment.

The old priest beckoned gently. The young queen approached, and the ancient priests rose one by one, supporting each other as they all fixed their gaze on the Silver Empire’s ruler.

“Your Majesty Belsethia—I address you as such,” Azmor said slowly, his voice rough and dry like rustling dead leaves. “I know that for many years, you, your father, and your grandmother have wished for us to die… And now, it seems that day has finally come.”

Belsethia opened her mouth, but he interrupted, “Leave it to us. Our time is limited.”

He raised his hand slowly, pressing his index finger to his forehead. A faint green glow shimmered, accompanied by a soft sound of skin rubbing. Then, astonishingly, a dark green jewel emerged and fell from his forehead!

The Silver Queen stared in shock. “What is that…?”

“It was hidden on me, and you might have found it during a search. With your intelligence, you would recognize it and guess why I prepared this token,” Azmor grinned, his teeth loosening, his voice growing more slurred. “But now, I can give it to you… This is the missing jewel from your grandmother’s scepter—the final piece of your royal authority.

“Take it. Find my apprentice waiting beneath the mountain. Show him this jewel, and tell him in ancient elven: ‘The stars rise, the leaf returns to its root.’

“With that, those who truly follow us and the old traditions will disperse. From then on, they will recognize you as the legitimate and sole ruler. And those who do not leave… Your Majesty, let them stay with us.”

Azmor extended his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Belsethia took it. She couldn’t help but ask, “What if I don’t bring back the jewel and say those words?”

Azmor looked at her for several seconds, then smiled faintly and shook his head. “Nothing will happen—who could ever resist the mighty Silver Queen?”

After speaking these words, the ancient priest—who had lived for thousands of years—turned away, as if leaving the entire mortal world behind him. He strode toward the massive, sacred giant stag not far off. Behind him, the other ancient priests, supporting one another, followed with equal resolve.

“You still have a chance to change your minds,” Amon’s gaze settled on the priests, his tone growing serious. “Beyond this point, even I cannot undo what’s to come.”

Azmor lifted his head, looking up into those crystal-clear eyes. Bathed in the god’s warm, pure gaze, he whispered, “Lord, after death, is there an eternal heaven?”

“…No,” Amon replied softly. “Nothing lasts forever. Even gods will fall. Death is a peaceful void—beyond this, there is only me.”

“Thank you—” Azmor smiled faintly. His withered body was bathed in the light of the god of nature. He took a step forward and slowly opened his arms. “You are with us, and we are with you.”

Amid a gentle, drifting white light, the ancient priests and their simple crowns transcended into pure radiance, dissolving into the glow emanating from Amon.

All returned to nothingness.

Gawain watched this scene in surprise. It was nothing like what he had expected. He stepped beside Belsethia, the empire’s ruler, and together they looked up as the lingering light gradually dimmed and faded. Half a minute later, the shimmering glow in the air finally settled—the magical barrier set by the goddess Mirmyna dissipated as well.

The giant stag Amon’s shocking wounds reappeared before Gawain’s eyes—the wreckage of the ships that had pierced and pinned its body to the earth slowly materialized from the void. But in just a moment, everything returned to how it had been at the start, as if nothing had ever happened.

The Rebellion Courtyard fell silent. Neither mortal nor god spoke. After an unknown stretch of time, Amon finally murmured, “They’ve gone. All of them… gone.”

Belsethia lowered her eyelids slightly. “They had already reached their end. They just clung on stubbornly.”

“That’s for the best…”

Amon sighed softly. Then, in that instant, the light flickering around him suddenly faltered. That ancient, sacred aura seemed to shift somehow. Gawain sensed it immediately and instinctively looked up. The colossal stag—like a mountain in size—stirred gently in the darkness. Its body, unmoved for three thousand years, rose and fell with its breath. From within Amon came a low, rumbling sound, as if flesh and blood were refilling an empty shell, water flowing back into a dried-up riverbed.

The holy giant stag took a deep breath, then lowered its head. Its forelegs pressed firmly against the ground, and that mountain-like body began to move—slowly, steadily rising to its feet…

(End of chapter)