My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind-Chapter 68: The Process Of Becoming A Shrine Maiden

On top of all the benefits from the new established pacts with the Solvish Keep and Karasu Association, Kivas was also enjoying the harvest from all of the proselytization.

It seemed like by garnering more faith and influence, Kivas could grow her attributes without killing a single Nightmare.

➤ 『WELL OF THE SOUL』

Name: Kivas Chariot

Race: Fateling

Total Level: 25

➤ 『Attributes』

💪 Strength (STR): 788

🧠 Intelligence Quotient (IQ): 795

🙏 Piety (PIE): 670

🛡️ Vitality (VIT): 1037

💨 Speed (SPD): 806

🎯 Dexterity (DEX): 788

🍀 Luck (LUK): 630

➤ 『Vitals』

❤️ Hemo Psyche (HP): 180 / 180

🔮 Mana Psyche (MP): 170 / 170

➤ 『Derived Stats』

🗡️ Attack Power: 788

✨ Magic Power: 795

🔆 Divine Power: 670

🛡️ Defense: 1037

🍃 Magic Defense: 670

👁️ Detect: 687

🧩 Disarm Trap: 743

🚧 Evade Trap: 759

🏃 Action Speed: 806

🎯 Accuracy: 743

🌀 Evasion: 759

⛓️ Resistance: 796

➤ 『Classes』

◈ Priest Lv25 Disc0

➤ 『Skills』

◈ Divine Soulmate Imbuer Lv1 – You possess the power to imbue a Genesis Core onto your fated soulmate.

◈ Fate Weaver Lv1 – You possess the power to weave fate.

◈ Remembrance of Renenutet Lv2 – You embody a fertile field, bringer of happiness, and a nourishment of milk.

◈ Frugal Vow Lv1 – You limit the amount of your spiritual equipment in exchange for enhancing the effects of what you equip.

◈ Soul Entanglement Lv1 – You possess the power to latch your soul.

◈ Detection Pulse of Madness Lv1 – You possess the power to scatter your all-encompassing essence.

◈ Detection Pulse of Serenity Lv1 – You possess the power to scatter your all-soothing essence.

◈ Madness Bolt Lv1 – You possess the power to launch a bolt filled with madness.

◈ Calm Voice Lv1 – Your presence soothes others emotionally.

◈ Touch of Mercy Lv1 – Your touch calms physical pain.

◈ Channel Soul Lv1 – You can act as a conduit for divine forces, strengthening healing and purifying effects.

◈ Silent Chant Lv1 – You can pray internally without vocalizing.

➤ 『END OF THE WELL』

Kivas also acquired the Channel Soul skill, which appeared to be a variation of Soul Entanglement but more leaning to the usage of blessings and miracles as either a priest or the deity itself.

Kivas had no idea why she gained this skill, but Samael casually told her that Kivas might be unconsciously trying to use her own divine power and that manifested into a skill.

She gained Silent Chant skill too, which appeared to be acquired from reaching a certain level threshold on the priest skill.

The description might make it look useless, but it was quite helpful since a priest who followed a deity must vocalize their prayers in the hope for blessing and miracle.

With Silent Chant, they could be blessing or cursing others without anyone knowing.

It also seemed to include all priest-related skills that require verbal evocation.

"I wonder how Lyenar is doing with the whole attunement," Kivas murmured to herself.

Contrary to this deity, the soon-to-be Shrine Maiden was in a totally different scenario and mood.

"By the name of Kivas Chariot..."

The sky burned with gold.

Lyenar stood at the edge of an endless plain, the horizon blurring between ancient civilization and radiance.

There was no sound of her own breathing, no pulse in her veins, no sensation of her body at all.

Her feet touched nothing, yet the soil stretched beneath her like a living tapestry—rich, red, fertile, veined with green shoots that shimmered with divine light.

"To think that the entity I will attune to possess such a vast spiritual manifestation."

A wind rolled through the wheat, slow and solemn, and where it passed, entire acres bowed not from pressure but reverence.

Fields that had no beginning nor border stretched out like pages of holy scripture, each grain humming with silent purpose.

This was not Vaingall, nor was this Fathomi.

This was something older.

The air shimmered again, and Lyenar felt her mind press against the edges of a realm that was neither memory nor dream.

It was something sacred, somewhere etched deep within the bloodline of gods—a place constructed from divinity rather than geography.

Ahead, a procession moved along a path of beaten clay flanked by obsidian stones. Banners woven from sun-drenched silk swayed without wind.

The figures were not human. Their forms bore marks of divine hybridism—crocodilian jaws beneath feathered hoods, serpentine torsos wrapped in ceremonial bands, jackal-headed scholars bearing baskets filled with starlight and ash.

And then she saw her.

Renenutet, the Egyptian goddess.

Her form towered above the procession, not in height alone but in magnitude.

She wore robes woven from hieroglyphs, every thread a verse of divine law, each hem flowing into stories that whispered themselves.

Her skin was the color of sculpted lapis, her arms adorned with spiraled gold cuffs depicting the Nile’s bounty, serpents, and rivers. Her eyes were black voids ringed with luminous pearl, not lifeless but infinite—an ocean of truths so ancient they predated question.

Her face was beautiful and harsh, carrying the weight of every harvest since the dawn of seasons. Around her neck curled the coiled body of a live serpent, white-scaled and crowned with a small disc of sun.

It hissed not in malice but in greeting as it passed the workers she approached.

Behind her trailed more divine entities, lesser gods or chosen avatars—silent and loyal. One bore a woven shield depicting the phases of famine and feast. Another carried a sealed jar filled with black soil pulsing like a heartbeat.

They walked without speaking. Every step marked the ground in gold, and wherever her shadow passed, crops bloomed, animals bowed their heads, and the dust rearranged itself into symbols of gratitude.

Lyenar tried to speak, but the moment she thought to utter a sound, her thoughts were swallowed.

She was not allowed to affect this vision. This was not hers to edit, only to witness. She understood then, she was not meant to observe with critique, but to absorb, to synchronize.

The vision shifted.

Renenutet stood before a gathering of mortals. Their clothes were coarse linen, their hands stained with fieldwork.

They offered bowls of grain, jugs of water, slices of date and pomegranate laid carefully on polished stones. None knelt.

They stood upright, shoulders firm, gazes proud. Their reverence was not submission. It was an alliance, for the hope of the future.

Renenutet accepted nothing with her hands. Instead, the serpent uncoiled from her throat, dipped toward the offerings, and exhaled a white breath.

The food became filled with light—no longer sustenance, but blessing.

When the mortals took it back, they consumed miracles.

"So this is her past," Lyenar thought. "Her true self."

A child approached, timid and dirty-faced, clutching a carved wooden toy.

Renenutet knelt. Not completely, only lowering her gaze enough to meet the child’s eyes. She extended a hand. The child placed the toy in her palm.

It was a crude thing. A miniature serpent etched with chalk.

The goddess did not speak, but the serpent around her neck did, its voice a chorus of whispers.

"This is worth more than gold. It is a memory given shape. It is truth formed with intent."

The toy vanished in a shimmer of mist.

And that child’s body began to grow flora all over the skin, yet there was no expression of pain and fear.

And from then on, the child lived happily, feeding a family with bountiful crops that grew naturally from the flesh.

The scene warped again.

A village on the edge of drought. Fields failing, livestock thinning. Smoke in the distance. Raiders, perhaps. Soldiers, the threat of war.

Renenutet stood alone at the edge of their lands, arms wide. From her mouth came no spell.

The sun darkened. Clouds formed in shapes resembling ancient beasts. The wind coiled like rope.

Then the sky screamed.

Rain fell—not water, but golden threads of nourishment.

They burrowed into soil, trees, bones. The enemies stopped at the border, confused, then terrified. They turned back, routed not by blade or spell, but by the presence of a divine being.

Wherever her name was spoken, where the glyph of grain was carved into stone, Renenutet extended her reach.

She punished no one without cause either.

When betrayal came—a ruler who taxed the yield of the poor, who desecrated her shrine and salted the altars to another—she didn’t remain kind.

The harvest did not fail to enter the storage of the kind and faithful, but dug deep into pestilence for those who defy the noble.

Grain twisted into thorns.

Milk turned to brine.

Children forgot how to speak, and many died from bitten scarabs.

"Well, she is indeed cruel, and she is not ultimately kind to anyone either," Lyenar commented.

Renenutet arrived, walking through the palace gates without force.

Guards froze, eyes vacant. The ruler, arrogant and clad in gold, lifted a cup to mock her.

But the wine turned to dust on his lips.

Her gaze alone cracked the floor beneath him.

From his throne, crops burst—wheat with no roots, fruit with no seeds. Hollow plenty. A mockery of nourishment.

And soon, the defying ruler was enshrined with its own kindness done to his people.

"This is what you built," the serpent whispered. "A feast of emptiness and cruelty."

The vision flickered.

Lyenar stood once more on the edge of the field, facing that divine form beneath the eternal golden sky. Renenutet stood motionless now, arms folded, eyes closed.

Lyenar felt her own thoughts slow.

In the presence of such absolute conviction, Lyenar’s spirit began to fold into new shapes. She felt the resonance taking root—not within her bones, but deeper. Her purpose was being rewritten. Her soul was bound to the concept of reason.

The golden horizon collapsed inward like pages closing on a sacred tome. The divine fields crumbled into motes of starlit chaff, drifting upward into the void between moments. Lyenar did not feel her body reassemble.

There was no sense of return. The sensation was not of waking but of deepening.

Now she stood, if such a word could apply, inside a shrine not built by hands but willed into shape by conceptual belief.

Every wall throbbed gently with unseen breath, alive not in flesh, but in principle. The architecture reflected neither mortal cultures nor Fathomi’s erratic influences. It was alien, elegant, and impossibly clean in design.

The walls bore murals that moved when not observed. Glyphs rippled across their surface—depictions of the same deity, Renenutet, painted in dozens of art styles, eras, and forms.

In some, she wore a serpent’s head. In others, she bore the face of a veiled woman, masked and eyeless.

One showed her weeping in a field of skulls. Another showed her sitting at a hearth, hands coated in flour.

Lyenar turned slowly. She could feel her name lessening—not vanishing, but loosening its grip over her identity. .

From the far end of the chamber, the floor shifted, and something began to grow.

A stem of white wheat, rising from beneath the tile of divine substance.

One stalk. Perfect. Vibrating with sacred resonance.

Lyenar did not need to be told what to do.

She extended both hands and cupped the stalk between her palms.

Light surged through her.

The wheat dissolved—its concept flowing into her, into every echoing corner of her soul.

Visions followed again—not of the past, but of possible futures.

Children weeping with joy in a garden they had once thought dead.

A broken bastion discovering a singular shrine and rallying around it to survive a divine storm.

A follower placing a single loaf of bread before an altar and finding their illness gone the next morning.

A field, burned and salted by invaders, blooming again overnight with crimson wheat that whispered the name of their protector.

In all of them, Lyenar saw it herself.

Was Kivas Chariot, with crimson covering every inch of her being. Eyes up the sky, hollow and drained as if she decided to stop breathing, stopping to hope for the future.

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