Chapter 1545: The Twilight of the Gods Plan

On the eve of the epoch’s turning point, the mortal king and the divine embodiments of the gods gathered in the courtyard of the Shadow Realm. There, they conspired in secret—a conspiracy that marked the definitive end of the Age of Myth. From that day forward, the Twilight of the Gods began.

Later historians would sum up this pivotal moment in the transition of eras with just a brief sentence—so brief that it barely eclipsed the fleeting presence of countless mortals throughout history. Scholars in later generations speculated endlessly about this terse record. Most believed it was an intentional effort to sever the ties between the mythic age and the mortal era, to minimize the gods’ influence in the coming age. Their judgment was correct, but that was far from the whole story.

Another reason was that the details of this grand conspiracy were too raw, too unsettling—especially as it unfolded further, it became impossible to record without censorship. Historians simply couldn’t bring themselves to write it all down.

Beneath the golden canopy of the great oak, when High King Talwen uttered the words “Twilight of the Gods Plan,” the towering figures assembled fell into a sudden hush. Confused glances were exchanged, until Baalphal, the god of commerce, broke the silence first: “And what exactly? How do you intend to… ‘detonate’ this deadlock?”

“Simply put,” Talwen nodded, “we’ll use mortal weapons to tip the scales in your favor.” Each god ruled over different domains, their followers scattered across vastly different peoples. Not all were familiar with the modern arms forged by mortal magi-industrialists, so Talwen chose words everyone could understand. “You may not know what a magocrystal bomb or an orbital cannon is, but surely you’ve heard of the War God’s fall, and the recent great battle on the Talash Plains?”

“As you know, mortal weapons can slay gods—if wielded in sufficient numbers and with precision. These weapons are ours to use, and in truth, they can be yours as well.”

“The divine and mortal halves of your beings are roughly equal in strength, or the mortal side slightly weaker. Without external aid, if your mortal half challenges your divine half, the only outcome is mutual destruction. What we intend to do is break this balance within the rules—using mortal weapons to weaken the divine half, or ideally, to eliminate it outright. As for the specifics, we’ve already coordinated with the Three Goddesses of Plenty…”

Talwen spoke clearly and methodically, laying out his extraordinary plan without omitting a single detail. The vast assembly was silent except for the low hum of anti-divine barriers and surveillance devices scattered throughout the courtyard.

Amber, standing beside Talwen, drifted momentarily. She looked up at the eternal gloom shrouding the Shadow Realm, the faint glow of the golden oak illuminating the colossal figures standing on the barren land. She noticed Amon quietly resting at the garden’s edge—seemingly detached, yet attentively watching the proceedings. At the far end stood the ancient, formidable Fortress of Defiance, a castle forged by mortal hands at the edge of civilization, standing silently in the dark like the last fading light of the Gondor Empire, guarding an era that never came.

Talwen stood at the center of it all—at the edge of the faint light and the encroaching darkness, between the assembly of gods and the Fortress of Defiance—painting a picture of the end of the Age of Myth to the most powerful and tragic beings in existence.

Amber blinked, suddenly feeling a distant gaze fall upon her, as if a strange presence was watching everything through her eyes. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came, and she snapped back to attention just as Talwen finished explaining the entire “Twilight of the Gods Plan.”

The courtyard fell into the expected silence. This was truly a moment worthy of epic chronicles—a mortal king announcing the coming of the Twilight of the Gods, while the gods bowed their heads in silence. The word itself seemed to radiate a grim, bloody aura, stirring something deep within them, yet they all restrained their emotions. It was impossible not to wonder what these “gods involved” were truly thinking when faced with such an ominous term.

Finally, Naferia, goddess of song and wind, was the first to break her composure—she laughed aloud.

Amber, Rosetta, Belsethia, Amon, and Talwen all exchanged the same expression: “=.=?”

“Sorry, I just… got a little excited,” the relatively young goddess, whose main followers dwelled in the western continent, quickly apologized, noticing the awkward shift in the previously solemn atmosphere. Her gaze then fixed on Talwen. “Is all this really achievable? The plan sounds reasonable, and I know about the great battle on the Talash Plains… but here we are, over a dozen gods gathered, and mortal-made weapons…”

“If you’re worried about numbers, my sisters and I have already confirmed that,” said Eve, goddess of harvest, from nearby. “The ‘Industrial Age’ is vastly different from the classical era we know. Those mighty, legendary weapons are no longer crafted painstakingly over generations by master artisans. Instead, they’re mass-produced like rice poured into granaries. Besides the Cecile Empire, both Typhon and the Silver Empire can manufacture large quantities of ‘magical weapons.’ Given a year’s preparation, we can fill every divine realm with mortal-made arms.”

Rosetta’s holographic projection nodded. His voice came from the magic network terminal. “Yes, no need to worry. Factories in Typhon are already testing production lines and scheduling shifts. Within twenty-four hours, the first line will be ready to operate.”

“The Silver Empire has also begun mobilizing,” Belsethia added. “Our production arrays are warming up, and we’ve salvaged many energy crystals and etched lattices from the ruins of the Star Temple. With minor modifications, they can serve as powerful explosives. They’ll definitely come in handy.”

Talwen glanced at the Silver Empress, inwardly amused. These elves truly lived up to their ancestral legacy—not only did they regularly dig up treasures from their ancestors’ tombs, but their skill at resource recovery was so advanced, it wouldn’t surprise him if one day they unearthed a starship from their own graveyards.

Eve’s words and the assurances from the two mortal kings clearly eased Naferia’s mind. She exhaled softly, her smile unhidden. “That’s truly good news… looks like we might not have to die after all.”

“I have a question,” a voice broke the silence again. It belonged to the god of winter and forests, clad in hunting garb. “This plan… it won’t interfere with Lady Night’s arrangements, will it?”

“Lady Night’s ultimate goal aligns with the Divine Council’s final objective. We all seek a safe, controlled end to the Age of Myth, to free civilization from the shackles of faith. Different methods won’t affect that shared purpose,” Talwen replied gravely. But he knew mere words wouldn’t dispel all doubts—after all, the lingering trauma of “Lady Night’s PTSD” was still fresh. So he added, “Moreover, we’ve found a way to locate Lady Night’s communication window with this world. Soon, we may establish direct contact with that ancient god. When that happens, I will confirm the entire Twilight plan with Her. If circumstances change, we’ll have time to adjust.”

Talwen’s words stirred the gods again. They were shocked that this mortal king intended to directly contact—and even negotiate with—that terrifying ancient god. For those who had just undergone Lady Night’s physical therapy, it was an overwhelming prospect.

Naferia’s gaze then shifted to Amber, cautious and hesitant. “I’ve been meaning to ask… who exactly is this young lady? Why does she carry Lady Night’s aura? Were those shadow dusts sent with the letter created by her?”

Talwen knew the gods would eventually ask about this, and the shadow dusts sent earlier needed explanation. So he recounted what he had told the Three Goddesses of Plenty, omitting irrelevant details—like the possible principles of the anchor generator and some of Amber’s unusual conditions. Such information wasn’t necessary to reveal now.

“Lady Night… a shadow cast upon the earth?” Baalphal, god of commerce, looked at the bewildered shadow assault goose standing beside Talwen with surprise. Though he had suspected some connection between this unassuming little figure and Lady Night, he never imagined it would be so unique. “The overflow of ‘information’ alone can form such a being. Truly, that is Lady Night for you…”

The gazes around made Amber, already nervous, even more so. Especially seeing the bloodstained, thorny forms of the “victims” before her, she felt guilty. She edged closer to Talwen, craning her neck to look at the assembled victims. “Look, it was Lady Night who acted, not me. I’m just a copy, at best. Those sands were only to summon you here. No settling scores afterward, okay?”

Amber’s reaction left several gods momentarily stunned. The fierce image of Lady Night was still deeply etched in their minds, making this “miniature, youthful Lady Night” all the more amusing. Yet none mocked or belittled her. Baalphal, who had spoken earlier, even bowed slightly with a serious expression. “Please don’t misunderstand—we bear no grudge against Lady Night. Certainly not against you. Lady Night’s aid far outweighs these minor ‘injuries.’ Rather than complain, we should be grateful.”

The god of blood, Danmor, looked at Talwen with solemnity. The red-robed elder’s tone was grave. “If you truly meet that ancient god, please convey our respect and thanks. No matter what, She has given us and the world a glimmer of hope. We should have thanked Her in person, but Lady Night came and went too swiftly.”

Naferia nodded. “Yes, when I awoke, She was already gone…”

Voices around chimed in: “Same here, She’d been gone for days when I woke.” “I woke up to that terrifying letter and rushed here. I only learned the details on the way from you all…”

As the murmurs of discussion swirled around him, Gawain’s expression once again grew blank.

Fortunately, this time he didn’t need to interrupt. The gods quickly wrapped up their chatter and refocused on the matter at hand. Baphal first scanned the group before raising a crucial question: “I want to confirm—when the time comes, will all the ‘weapons’ be gathered here first, and then we’ll take them back to the divine realms together?”

“That’s the preliminary plan,” Gawain nodded. “The Rebellion Courtyard is currently the most suitable ‘handover point’ we know of. It sits between the mortal world and the realms of the gods, allowing safe passage back and forth. Plus, the Rebellion Fortress itself still holds protective shields from the Gondor era, along with modern anti-divine barrier arrays. Although you theoretically no longer carry divine contamination, frequent trips between the divine realms and the mortal border inevitably risk ‘bringing something out.’ These defenses maximize the safety of the transfer process.”

“Sounds good in theory…” Baphal frowned slightly after hearing Gawain’s explanation. He glanced toward the Rebellion Fortress again, muttering thoughtfully, “But having only one handover point is a serious efficiency problem. And relying on a single route doubles the risk—especially since we’re transporting extremely dangerous items. Those ‘explosives’ alone could kill a god. All piled up in one place…”

“Stop it, you’re scaring the gods,” Nafali quickly cut in, shooting Baphal a warning look. “What if your words come true?”

“I’m not the god of curses,” Baphal shrugged, then looked toward the edge of the gathering. There, a woman dressed entirely in black, wearing a black veil and a black top hat, sat quietly on a large stone. Her presence was faint, her aura unusually somber, as if the whole world’s affairs were of no concern to her. “The god of curses is sitting right there.”

Nafali noticed the goddess at the edge and waved toward her. “Lady Gizna, did you hear what Baphal just said? Hurry up and cast a counter-curse!”

The black-clad goddess named Gizna slowly lifted her head after a few seconds, glancing at Nafali with a puzzled look. Hesitantly, she said, “Ah? But I think Baphal is right…”

Nafali was speechless.

“This is a logical assessment,” Baphal spread his hands. “Even ignoring safety concerns, I seriously doubt that a single ‘window’ can handle the burden of supplying arms to a dozen divine realms. Of course, the wasteland itself is large enough, but the key issue is the ‘gate’ inside that mortal fortress…”

As he spoke, he pointed toward the Rebellion Fortress, his expression grave as he looked at Gawain. “The only passage to the mortal world is a teleportation gate. How much ‘capacity’ does that gate actually have?”

(End of chapter)