Chapter 631: Divine Cataclysm

The artificial god opened its eyes for the first time.

They were eyes beyond description—crystal-clear, as if carved from pure crystal, yet within them lay countless restrained glimmers of light. An ultimate beauty and purity seemed distilled into those enormous eyes. Yet at this moment, they held no emotion whatsoever—only a quiet, unwavering gaze fixed upon the mortal who dared to provoke it, floating boldly before it. There was no hostility, no friendliness, not even the slightest hint of curiosity or concern.

Beltira felt a faint sting in her eyes and mind. Though she hadn’t met the god’s gaze directly, merely seeing those eyes from afar was enough to shake her spirit. Still, she did not look away. Instead, as if deliberately defying fate, she stared unflinchingly at what was about to unfold—including the black-robed priests standing on the floating island—none of them dared to avert their eyes.

The High Priest calmly met the god’s gaze, then stepped forward. His body gradually became enveloped in a shimmering illusion, as if merging with the sacred radiance surrounding the artificial god.

Ultimately, this act of rebellion—the most extreme denial and defiance of a god—culminated in one final step: injecting humanity into the divine, erasing divinity itself.

Humanity would be freed from the shackles forged by godhood, granted the right to develop freely. And a god standing on humanity’s side would be born through this ritual, becoming the first weapon mortals could wield against the gods.

The High Priest’s form slowly dissolved into light, a hazy glow seeping into the artificial god’s forehead. Beltira felt blood welling at the corner of her eye, but she did not blink, her gaze fixed on the ritual’s final moment.

The dark prelates bowed their heads, chanting an ancient prayer in unison. Once used to praise the supreme power of the nature god Amon, the prayer now carried a deep, oppressive weight—like a funeral dirge announcing the end of one of the gods’ seats forever.

All things perish, even gods—on this world where no one escapes destruction. The druidic priests who had fallen into darkness no longer hoped for any eternal or supreme power. They had abandoned reverence for the gods and no longer yearned for divine status. They did not intend to create a god, nor to become one themselves. Their true goal was to turn gods into humans.

Beltira’s hand lightly brushed the rough cover of the Ultimate Tome as she whispered, “The seat of the nature god will become history. No matter where the great stag Amon ultimately fell, no matter what means the gods used to resurrect themselves in every cycle, from now on, at least this divine seat will cease to exist…”

The boundless radiance in midair finally merged completely into the artificial god’s body. A low, deep breath shattered the silence of the ritual. Beltira snapped out of her reverie and looked up, eyes shining with hope and anticipation as the artificial god slowly closed its eyes.

After a brief stillness, those eyes finally opened.

Within them was only endless chaos and madness.

…

A vast, shimmering magical barrier encircled the borders of the former empire. Inside, the wasteland remained as desolate as ever.

Dark, leaden clouds pressed heavily down, while wild, chaotic winds howled from all directions. Dust swirled, obscuring the sky. Bolts of energy lightning darted between the clouds and dust storms, emitting a continuous low rumble and bright flashes.

Amid this frequent “energy storm” over the wasteland, the Wanderers—manifested as trees—shifted their tangled roots. The entire forest writhed, climbing a hill covered in black crystalline stones.

A massive arc of energy streaked across the sky, its blinding light nearly spanning the horizon. With the thunderous roar that followed, countless giant, mutated beasts prowling around the forest stirred restlessly, howling at the sky while scrambling to find safe shelter within the woods.

At the forest’s heart, an ancient tree shook its branches. Its bark, wrinkled and withered, bore a terrifying face that gazed toward the distant north—the direction of the Ansu Kingdom.

Another arc of energy flashed across the sky, casting a pale light. The leader of the Wanderers let out a low, hoarse laugh.

“Inject humanity…

“Poor High Priest, do you really think that after reaching the divine realm and beholding the god’s knowledge, what you possess is still humanity?”

A rustling sound came from nearby. Another giant tree slithered its roots past, its voice equally hoarse and deep: “Gods… gods are not lacking in humanity…”

“That no longer concerns us,” the Wanderer leader said slowly. “The chains imposed on us have been broken. We can finally end this endless wandering and self-exile. It’s time to set our own plan in motion. Prepare to depart for the Old Imperial Capital. The Deep Blue Well holds the energy we need. There, we will complete the final step toward embracing the new world.”

“Yes, High Priest.”

…

The monsters swarming from the southeastern plains had all gone mad.

As if some unknown force had simultaneously affected the minds of all the crystal cluster creatures, or perhaps their commanders had all descended into madness at once, the once orderly and disciplined horde had overnight become a raging tide of wild beasts.

Countless monsters poured ceaselessly from the plains, driven by instinct to assault the defenses of Saint Suniel. From above, all one could see was a surging black tide, the earth trembling beneath it. The dense clusters of crystals shimmered with chaotic, frenzied light under the daylight. Continuous arcs of arcane lightning leapt between the monsters, converging into powerful energy lances that slammed repeatedly against Saint Suniel’s shields and outer walls like battering rams. Bone-chilling roars and explosions echoed through the outer city and even reached the inner city!

Knights defending the walls ran tirelessly, repelling every attempt by the monsters to scale the battlements. Nervous soldiers gathered around catapults and large ballistae, launching flaming stones and bolts at the enemy tide under their commanders’ shouts.

The sky was ominously dark, the howling wind carrying scattered raindrops and an unseasonable chill. The heavy gloom seemed to weigh down even the heaviest hearts. Even the bravest and most battle-hardened units were rapidly losing morale, and the knights’ inspiring supernatural powers barely made a dent.

Yet whenever the warriors’ strength and spirit waned to a critical point, a grand luminous screen would flare up on the walls, accompanied by a sacred, ethereal echo. The light seemed to briefly dispel the gloom, and in that fleeting, dreamlike warmth and brightness, the knights and soldiers found renewed strength and surged forward once more…

The howling wind swept through the upper levels of the castle. A window left ajar suddenly slammed open, letting in cold rain and biting wind. A frightened maid rushed to close it, fearing punishment if she delayed—even though her mistress was not present.

No sooner had she shut the window than the door burst open. Two fully armored figures strode in, their presence carrying the chill of the storm outside. The maid half-suspected the wind had followed them in, as if the storm itself had entered the room.

“Your Highness, Duke.”

“Hmm, you may leave now.”

“Yes.”

The maid bowed respectfully and quickly left. The two figures approached the desk and high-backed chair. One, clad in silver-white armor trimmed with gold, took the largest velvet chair, removing his helmet and tossing it onto the nearby table. Beneath the helmet was the face of Wales Morn.

“The barrier has stabilized for now. Thanks to the extra power from the West District’s mana focus, the Great Shield of Saint Suniel should hold for a while,” Welsh said, glancing at the man who had entered with him—the Duke of the West, Bertram Franklin. “The cathedral’s clergy have also reinforced the walls in time. The soldiers’ morale and recovery are improving.”

“But the monsters are becoming more terrifying,” Bertram Franklin replied. He wore a dark blue robe woven with star patterns, but beneath it, a chainmail shirt was faintly visible, lending the scholarly duke a hint of martial vigor. “They’ve lost their organization but grown more ferocious and fearless. On the plains, that would be a weakness, but here, their overwhelming numbers have created a siege. That’s dangerous.”

Welsh was silent for a moment, then asked, “When will the Western Legion arrive?”

“Within two days—they’re near Lake Pingshui now,” Bertram said. “Don’t worry, Your Highness, they’ll relieve the situation.”

“I know… but my greatest concern isn’t Saint Suniel,” Welsh said quickly. “Please inform your legion to send half their forces to establish a defensive line along the west bank of the Gorgon River, from north to south…”

Bertram immediately understood. “You fear the monsters crossing the river?”

“Exactly,” Welsh nodded slowly. “They’ve gone mad, their actions no longer logical… When they were still an army, they focused on attacking key targets with clear orders. Now they’re insane… If large numbers of these wandering monsters cross the river and enter the western Holy Plains, the consequences will be dire.”

“I’ll arrange it immediately,” Bertram nodded, then added, “Your Highness, I’ve received word that the southern forces left Rock Fortress about a month ago. They’re operating in the southern plains, apparently fighting those monsters as well—but communication has been poor, and details are unclear.”

“…Cecil…” Welsh murmured the name, then shook his head. “Too far away. We must rely on ourselves first.”

Bertram studied Welsh for a few seconds before speaking. “Not everyone remains steadfast—nobles within the inner city are wavering badly. The capital’s aristocracy is split almost evenly between those advocating to hold the city and those urging evacuation. Their disputes have even begun to affect the stability of the knightly orders defending the walls. Many knights owe loyalty not only to the crown but also to their noble families, and those families are now planning to flee.”

“Abandon the city, abandon the city… but where would they run to?” Wales clenched his fists, bitterness lacing his voice. “Saint Suniel is the last stronghold standing along the central axis of the Holy Spirit Plains. If it falls, those monsters will sweep through and corrupt the entire Western Plain! The Western Plain is our breadbasket—open, flat, impossible to defend. Even the sturdiest fortress can’t compare to a single tower in Saint Suniel. To give this place up is to give up all of Ansu. And fleeing won’t save them—it’s just a slow march to death. Do they really intend to seek refuge with the Ogure tribes?”

“…I’m afraid so, Your Highness,” Bertram Franklin said slowly. “The Ogure tribes, the Violet Kingdom, even the northern barbarian states… Those advocating for abandoning the city may have already packed their bags at home and arranged places to stay in those lands.”

“…”

For a long while after that, Wales Morn didn’t utter a single word.

Bertram Franklin simply watched him in silence—the crown prince, so far removed from Silverfort these many years, equally silent.

Minutes later, Wales stood up, reached for his helmet on the nearby table, and slowly placed it on his head.

Bertram’s gaze followed the motion. “Where are you going?”

“To the walls again.”

“Your presence on the front lines does inspire the troops, but given the current situation, the morale boost from your frequent visits may not be enough to outweigh the risks you’re taking.”

Wales turned his back to the Duke of the West, pausing for half a second, but said nothing. He stepped out of the study.

Bertram Franklin watched him go in silence. After a long moment, he spoke softly:

“Of course, if you’re not just going to inspect the walls… then that’s a different matter entirely.”

(End of chapter)