Chapter 961: The Story

At last, Gawain asked the question he had come to Talrond to answer—the one that mattered most to him.

It was about the chain that bound mortals and gods alike.

Back on the continent of Loren, his understanding of this “chain” had been vague at best—just scattered ideas and rough guesses. But since arriving in Talrond, and witnessing more and more of this dragon kingdom’s “true nature,” his impression of that chain had grown clearer.

Talrond was a civilization pushed to its extreme limits—a society seemingly frozen in time, no longer advancing. From its social systems to its technological development, Talrond was shackled by countless constraints, and all of these chains appeared to be man-made. Considering the laws that governed the gods, Gawain could easily imagine that the birth of these “civilizational chains” was inseparable from the Dragon God.

In the lower city, he had seen what a civilization locked down tight looked like—at least part of the truth—and he believed the Dragon God had deliberately shown it to him. It was this very “deliberateness” that made the whole thing feel so strange.

Because from the subtle details in the Dragon God’s words and actions, Gawain sensed that this deity did not want to imprison its people—but it had no choice. There was a supreme law, a rule even gods could not break, that bound it.

Gawain and his team of experts had tried to analyze and reason out this rule. They believed they had at least uncovered part of it, though some details remained elusive. Now, Gawain was convinced that this very “god” before him was the final piece of the puzzle.

The Dragon God fell silent for a moment after hearing Gawain’s question, as if even it needed time to gather its thoughts before answering such an ultimate inquiry. After a brief pause, Gawain continued, “I actually understand that gods aren’t entirely free either. There’s a higher law that binds you. Mortal thought currents influence your state, and drastic shifts in those currents can push gods toward madness. So I guess you imposed these heavy restrictions on the dragonkind to prevent yourself from falling into insanity…”

“Extradimensional wanderer, you’re only half right.” Suddenly, the Dragon God interrupted.

Gawain frowned slightly. “Only half right?”

“Yes, gods are indeed not free… but you underestimate the extent of our bondage,” the Dragon God said slowly, its voice deep and solemn. “I do not wish to fall into madness. I am indeed a shackle upon the dragonkind. But all of this… was not my choice.”

A pale golden light descended from the ceiling of the temple hall, gathering around the deity like a hazy halo. The distant rumble outside the temple seemed to fade, becoming almost like a faint illusion. Gawain’s face showed a thoughtful expression, but before he could ask more, the Dragon God spoke again on its own accord.

“Would you like to hear a story?”

“A story?” Gawain blinked in surprise, then nodded. “Of course—I’m very interested.”

The Dragon God smiled faintly, gently swirling the delicate cup in its hand. “There are three stories in total.

“The first is about a mother and her children.

“Long, long ago, before there were any people on this world, a mother and her children lived upon the earth. It was a savage age, the ancient wilds, when no knowledge had yet been gathered, and wisdom was still hidden in the tender minds of children. At that time, the children were ignorant, and even their mother knew little.

“The world was dangerous, and the children were fragile. To survive, the mother and her children had to live cautiously, careful not to make mistakes. The river held biting fish, so the mother forbade the children from going near it. The forest was home to man-eating beasts, so she forbade them from entering the woods. Fire could burn, so she forbade them from playing with it. Instead, the mother used her own strength to protect and help the children. In those primitive times, this was enough to keep the family alive.

“But as days passed, the children grew, and wisdom began to spark in their minds. They learned more and more, able to do more and more—the fish in the river could now be caught with spears, the beasts in the forest no longer feared the children’s sticks. The growing children needed more food, so they began to venture out—to the river, to the forest, to fire.

“But the mother’s mind was slow. In her eyes, the children were always children. She saw their actions as dangerous and tried to stop them, repeating the old lessons over and over—don’t go to the river, don’t go to the forest, don’t touch fire.

“Her warnings sometimes slowed the children, but not for long. Their will to survive was stronger than her restrictions.

“At first, the mother could barely keep up. She slowly accepted her children’s growth, loosening her grip bit by bit to adapt to the new order at home. But as the children multiplied, she fell further behind. Their changes came faster and faster. What once took years to master—like fishing—now took only days. They tamed new beasts, explored new lands, even created new languages. Even the way siblings spoke to each other changed rapidly.

“The mother was lost. She tried to adapt, but her slow mind could no longer keep pace.

“All she could do was repeat those outdated rules, forbidding the children from venturing too far, forbidding them from touching dangerous new things. In her eyes, the children were still far from grown—but in truth, her restrictions no longer protected them. Instead, they made the children restless and uneasy, even becoming shackles that threatened their survival. The children tried to resist, but their efforts were futile, for as they grew stronger, so did their mother.

“Now, the mother had built fences around the home. She could no longer tell how much the children had changed. She simply enclosed everything, barring all she deemed ‘dangerous’—even if those things were the very food the children desperately needed. The fences were finished, hung with the mother’s teachings, filled with rules about what was forbidden. And the children… starved to death inside that small enclosure.”

Gawain’s expression grew pensive. The story was simple and straightforward, and its symbolism was clear—the mother and children representing something obvious. Yet the details hinted at deeper meaning.

Before he could ask, the Dragon God continued with the next story—

“The second story is about a prophet.

“Also long ago, in a wild and ancient age, a prophet appeared in an old kingdom. This prophet had no name, and no one knew where he came from. People only knew he was full of wisdom, as if he knew all the world’s knowledge. He taught the locals many things and was loved by all.

“In that ancient time, the world was still dangerous, and humans were weak before nature—even the simplest diseases could easily take lives. People knew little—they didn’t understand how to cure illness or avoid danger. When the prophet arrived, he used his wisdom to create many rules for safe living.

“Don’t eat beasts near the swamp, for most of their meat is poisonous. Don’t drink water from a certain mountain, as it causes stomach infections. Don’t cross a certain river, for the other side grows poisonous plants, and humans cannot yet make antidotes.

“After giving these teachings, the prophet rested, returning to his secluded home. The people gratefully accepted his wisdom and began to live by these rules.

“Soon, they benefited. Their friends and family no longer fell ill so easily. The rules helped them avoid disasters. So they followed them more and more carefully. And then, things began to change.

“People began to treat these rules as sacred, even more important than laws. Generations passed, and people forgot the original purpose of the rules, but still obeyed them strictly. The rules became dogma. The prophet was revered more and more, seen as a being who had glimpsed ultimate truth and possessed supreme wisdom. Statues were made in his imagined, radiant image.

“Many years later, the prophet returned to the land. He saw the once poor kingdom had grown prosperous. The population had multiplied many times over. People were wiser, more knowledgeable, stronger. The land and mountains had changed greatly over the long years.

“Everything was different—more flourishing and beautiful than the old wild world.

“The prophet was pleased. He observed the people’s way of life and then went to the streets, loudly telling everyone—beasts near the swamp are now safe to eat if cooked properly; the mountain water is now safe to drink; the land across the river is now fertile and safe…

“Guess what happened next?”

The Dragon God paused, a faint, knowing smile playing on its lips as it looked at Gawain.

Gawain took a slow breath. “…The prophet was doomed.”

“Yes. The prophet was doomed. Angry crowds came from all directions, shouting to purge the heretic. They claimed he insulted their sacred springs and mountains, and tried to lure commoners to the ‘holy land’ across the river. They surrounded the prophet and beat him to death with clubs.

“That is the second story.”

Gawain’s brow furrowed deeper.

At first, he thought he had grasped the meaning of these two stories. But now, a flicker of doubt stirred within him—perhaps he had been too simplistic.

He looked up and said, “The mother and the prophet don’t just represent gods, and the children and commoners aren’t necessarily mortals… is that right?”

“I’m glad you think so deeply,” the Dragon God smiled, clearly pleased. “Many who hear these stories immediately assume the mother and prophet mean gods, and the children and commoners mean humans. But in the whole story, these roles are far more complex.

“Everyone—and every god—is but a minor character in the story. The true protagonist is the invisible, intangible, yet irresistible rule. The mother will build fences—that is beyond her personal will. The prophet will be killed—that is beyond his will. And the children and commoners, as victims and perpetrators, are from beginning to end only parts of the rule.

“You might think breaking the tragedy is easy—if only the mother could change her mindset in time, if only the prophet were more tactful, if only people were smarter and more rational, everything could end peacefully, without such extremes… But unfortunately, it’s not that simple.”

The Dragon God’s voice grew distant and ethereal, as if His gaze had already fallen upon some far-off, ancient realm. In His gradually deepening, fading words, Gawain suddenly recalled the scene he had witnessed in the heart of the Eternal Storm.

That frozen battlefield—where neither side showed mercy or left any room for compromise—seemed soaked in a hatred so profound it felt as if only mutual annihilation could bring an end. But upon closer reflection, was it truly “hatred” that had driven both sides to such an impasse?

Enya’s calm voice broke the silence: “The collective mindset of a people is a powerful force, heavy with inertia. When a race has adhered to a set of rules for centuries—rules tied to religion and the divine—that force becomes… formidable. Often, you cannot overturn beliefs accumulated over ten generations within the span of one. The clash of these beliefs stirs up turbulent waves in the collective consciousness—what you call ‘divine madness.’ But the gods themselves are not mad.

“The gods are simply ‘correcting’ your ‘dangerous behaviors’ according to the ‘traditions’ mortals have upheld for centuries—even if they do not wish to do so, they must.”

Gawain looked at her. “The god’s ‘personal will’ and the ‘laws they must follow’ are separate. To mortals, that’s schizophrenia—madness.”

“Indeed. From a mortal perspective… when a god chooses to destroy all life, whether that act is ‘correction’ or ‘madness’ makes no difference.”

Gawain fell silent for a long moment, then spoke in a low voice: “From the perspective of civilization’s development, in a healthy, continuously advancing society, the birth of new ideas and innovations always accelerates. Changing beliefs accumulated over ten generations within one generation is inevitable, because productivity must grow—unless…”

He hesitated, though he knew his words were true. Yet here, in this moment, he felt as if continuing would sound like a weak excuse, or selfish mortal pride. But Enya spoke for him—

“Unless you fall into the ‘Eternal Cradle.’”

Her expression was calm.

“The dragons have failed. The gods have merged into one. The chains of the mind now bind every member of civilization. So I had no choice but to turn Tal’Rond into such a cradle, to freeze everything in place, to ensure I would not accidentally wipe them out. And the result you have seen—they still live, but only barely. Tal’Rond is dead. Machines run across this land, and those lifeless steel and stone surfaces are stained with fragments of what was once called ‘the dragon race’… Preserving these fragments is all I can do for them.”

She looked at him steadily. “So, wanderer from beyond the realms, do you like this kind of ‘Eternal Cradle’?”

(End of chapter)