Chapter 892: The Double Chain

Breaking the cycle.

This was an answer Gawain had never even considered before. Yet the moment he heard it, countless connections sparked in his mind, as if the fragmented clues and evidence he’d gathered suddenly wove together into a single, intricate web. At last, he could faintly grasp the outline of something profound.

“A cycle… what kind of cycle?” Gawain fixed his gaze on the towering Amoin of the Giant Deer, whose eyes shone like molten metal. His voice betrayed his curiosity. “What kind of cycle could trap even a god?”

“We are born, we grow strong, we watch the world, we descend into madness… then all returns to silence, waiting for the next cycle to begin, endlessly repeating, utterly meaningless…” Amoin’s low voice whispered like a breeze. “So, curious ‘human,’ how far have you come in understanding the gods?”

A storm of emotions surged within Gawain. This was the first time he’d heard such things spoken aloud by a deity—things he had only ever guessed at before. The truth was even more direct, more inescapable than he had imagined. Faced with Amoin’s question, he hesitated for a few seconds before replying in a deep voice, “The gods are gradually slipping into madness, and our research shows this madness is linked to changes in human thought…”

“…You’ve gone further than I expected,” Amoin sighed, a sound almost like regret. “You’ve reached a dangerous depth.”

“What lies beyond that?” Gawain couldn’t help but ask.

“The truth. It may be perilous, or it may solve everything. In all the history I know, no civilization has ever successfully escaped this path. But that doesn’t mean it’s impossible…”

Gawain frowned. He had noticed that this god of nature always spoke in riddles and metaphors, revealing key information in veiled, circuitous ways. At first, he thought this was simply the manner of a divine being. But now a new thought struck him: perhaps Amoin was deliberately avoiding saying certain things outright. Maybe some truths, once spoken by a god’s own mouth, would cause unpredictable ripples in the future.

This wasn’t a wild guess. Gawain recalled what Amoin had said earlier: the more one encounters gods, the more one drifts away from humanity; the more one understands, the closer one becomes to divinity…

Some answers are not just answers—they are tests, shocks.

Put another way: if a god reveals an answer to a mortal, the moment that mortal learns it, they lose the ability to solve the problem as a mere human—because they have been permanently changed by that knowledge, becoming part of the divine.

For Gawain, newly arrived in this world, this was unimaginable, illogical, and absurd. But now he understood—this was the logic of this world.

He calmed himself. He knew he possessed certain “special qualities” that might shield him from some divine knowledge’s effects. Yet Amoin was clearly more cautious. This god’s evasive attitude might be a form of protection—or perhaps a sign of hidden agendas. But Gawain had no way to pry open a god’s mouth, so he let the conversation continue.

“There’s one thing I want to know,” he said, looking at Amoin. “The god of nature… was it born from mortals’ worship and reverence for the natural world?”

“Yes… and no.” Amoin’s voice carried a clearer smile than before.

Gawain’s eye twitched. Such a classic, maddeningly vague answer was the last thing he wanted to hear. But facing a god who was impossible to pin down, he forced himself to be patient. “Can you be more specific?”

“‘I’ was indeed born from mortals’ worship and reverence for nature. But the ‘deep sea’ of natural awe existed long before mortals ever appeared…” Amoin spoke calmly. “Everything in this world—light and dark, life and death, matter and void—surges and churns in that deep sea, indistinct and intertwined. It projects outward, forming reality. Mortals are born within that reality, and their thoughts reflect back down. Some elements in the deep sea become concrete gods…

“So, more precisely: reverence for nature is eternal. But only when a group of mortals living on this planet began to revere the nature around them did their own, unique god of nature truly come into being.”

Gawain’s eyes widened. For a moment, his mind struggled to keep pace with what Amoin was telling him. After a long, chaotic swirl of thoughts, he muttered to himself, breaking the silence: “A god of nature unique to the mortals of this planet…?”

Amoin chuckled softly, casually replying, “If there’s life on other planets, do you think the gods shaped by their cultures could be like me?”

Of course not!

Like a lightning bolt, a long-standing fog in Gawain’s mind suddenly lifted. He recalled having vaguely wondered about this before, but only now did he realize the sharpest, most fundamental question—

The universe is vast. It contains other star systems, other planets. On those distant worlds, environments utterly unlike the Loren Continent’s, life might also arise.

Loren faces the threat of the magical tide, the plight of the gods. Gawain had always focused on these things. But if he broadened his perspective—if gods and the magical tide were natural evolutions under the universe’s fundamental laws, if the universe’s rules were “uniform” and “universal”—then could other planets also have magical tides and gods?

Of course, a more chilling possibility might shatter this: perhaps the planet where Loren lies is part of a massive artificial environment, with natural laws and conditions unlike anywhere else in the universe. In that case, the magical tide and gods might be unique here. Considering the ancient devices floating above this planet, this possibility couldn’t be dismissed…

Gawain’s thoughts churned, but Amoin seemed to see through them. A clear, sacred voice echoed directly in Gawain’s mind, cutting off his further speculation—

“The universe’s laws are uniform and consistent.”

Startled from his reverie, Gawain asked urgently, “So other planets would also experience magical tides, and wherever civilization exists, corresponding gods would arise—so long as thought exists, gods will exist like natural phenomena, forever…”

Amoin remained silent, as if confirming this.

“But you destroyed your own divine seat,” Gawain pressed on. “You said no new god of nature has been born…”

“Only temporarily. I hope this ‘temporary’ lasts as long as possible. But on an eternal scale, all mortal ‘temporaries’ are brief—even if they last three thousand years,” Amoin said gravely. “Perhaps one day mortals will once again fear this world, facing the unknown with reverence and dread. Blind worship and terror will replace reason and knowledge, blinding them. Then… they will welcome a new god of nature. Of course, by then, that god may no longer bear this name… and it will have nothing to do with me.”

Gawain fell silent, unsure how to respond. After several minutes, his swirling thoughts settled, and he looked up again. “You mentioned a ‘deep sea,’ saying all tendencies and elements flow within it, and mortal thoughts reflect there to birth corresponding gods… I want to know, what is this ‘deep sea’? Is it a concrete thing? Or just a concept you use to explain?”

“It certainly exists. It is everywhere… everything in this world, including you and us, is immersed in this undulating ocean,” Amoin explained patiently, as if teaching a difficult concept. “Planets move within its ripples, humans think within its tides. Yet you cannot see or touch it. It is formless and intangible. Only through reflections—various complex reflections—can parts of its existence be revealed…”

Gawain blurted out, “Cosmic background radiation?”

“Hm?” For the first time, Amoin’s tone held genuine curiosity. “An interesting phrase… how did you come up with it?”

“No… I just made an association based on your description, then awkwardly combined the words,” Gawain quickly shook his head. “Think of it as my imagination of the starry sky beyond this planet. Don’t mind it.”

Amoin seemed to smile again. “Interesting. Actually, I care a great deal, but I respect your privacy.”

Gawain didn’t press further. He steered the conversation back. “Let’s return to the beginning. You want to break the cycle. So, in your view… has the cycle been broken?”

“At least in me, at least for now, the cycle belonging to the god of nature has been broken,” Amoin said. “But many other cycles continue, and I see no hope of breaking them.”

“Are other gods trying to break the cycle? Or do they even want to?” Gawain asked the question he’d been itching to ask since earlier. “Why are you the only one taking action?”

“Gods… mortals created a lofty word to describe us, but gods are not all the same,” Amoin said with a hint of regret. “Divinity, humanity, authority, rules… so many things bind us. Our every word and deed must follow certain logic. In some ways, we gods may be less free than you mortals.

“There must be gods like me who want to break the cycle, but I don’t know who they are, what they think, or what they will do. Likewise, there are gods who don’t want to break the cycle, even gods who try to maintain it. I know nothing about them either.”

“Don’t you gods have any contact with each other?” Gawain asked, puzzled. “I thought you’d be close… I mean, at least communicate somewhat…”

“How would we communicate? Like two neighbors knocking on each other’s doors and chatting?” Amoin joked. “Impossible. In fact, the opposite is true. Gods… find it very difficult to communicate. Though we know of each other’s existence, even the locations of each other’s divine realms, we are naturally separated. Communication is either extremely difficult or invites disaster.”

This was another crucial piece of information about the gods!

Gawain immediately noted the key clues Amoin had mentioned, his expression thoughtful. Then Amoin’s voice echoed in his mind again: “I guess… you’re thinking about your ‘Rebellion Plan.’”

Gawain was startled. Nothing was more shocking than hearing a god suddenly expose the rebellion plan face-to-face. Instinctively, he blurted, “Could it be you have the power to see into human hearts?”

“Not at all. In fact, I even doubt whether you truly possess a ‘human’ heart. I merely guessed what you’re thinking right now,” Amon whispered. “I know what this facility is researching, I understand what mortals are trying to do, and I can guess what you all are up to… When you suddenly learned that many gods themselves are struggling to break free from their own plight, you wavered in your rebellion—maybe just a little. You… a mortal, or at least someone who claims to be one, felt a flicker of… sympathy for the once supreme gods.”

Gawain frowned. He didn’t deny Amon’s words, because that moment of reflection and hesitation had indeed occurred. But he quickly steeled his resolve again, finding rational reasons to continue the rebellion—

He could not stake the lives of millions upon trust in the gods or hope for a lucky future—especially when those gods themselves were slipping deeper into madness.

As long as even one god remained on their throne with an uncertain stance, the mortal rebellion must never cease.

He was willing to speak with friendly and rational gods—but only with weapons in hand.

That had always been his guiding principle.

“Judging by your eyes, I don’t need to worry too much,” Amon said softly. “This era’s humans have a leader who is both resilient and rational. That’s a good thing.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Gawain smiled and nodded gently at Amon. “Then I have one last question.”

Amon responded without hesitation, “Our conversation has been pleasant enough—I don’t mind sharing a bit more.”

Gawain lifted his gaze, locking eyes with Amon.

Those eyes shone with a radiant light—warm, bright, rational, and serene.

Though He claimed, ‘The gods of nature are dead,’ those eyes still embodied everything the old followers of nature once imagined of the divine—because those eyes were forged to answer those very imaginations.

“What will you do now?” Gawain asked solemnly. “Will you continue to slumber here?”

(End of chapter)