My Wives Are A Divine Hive Mind-Chapter 76: So They Call Forth Upon The New Champions

A sword shimmered into being in Samael’s hand—raw, seamless, formed entirely from Mana Psyche.

It didn’t reflect light as much as it consumed it, a blade without a true edge, defined only by intent and divine configuration.

The air trembled gently as it was raised, hovering parallel to the ground.

Samael turned her head slightly toward Kivas, who sat on the ground, one leg folded beneath her, the other resting with a trembling knee. Her hands were clasped tightly together, resting over her lap.

Her halo flickered erratically above her head, casting a crooked radius of fire.

"Are you ready?" Samael asked.

Kivas inhaled sharply. "I’m ready."

Blanchette tilted her head slightly, watching the exchange from where she sat perched on a tree stump.

Her white hair shifted with the breeze, her eyes lazily focused on the sword in Samael’s hand. "Is this really necessary?"

Samael turned toward her with a faint expression of surprise, not at the question, but at the fact that it was even asked.

"Yes," she answered plainly. "Kivas must not be recognized as a Fateling. That identification must be eradicated from her existential pattern. Not only that, now that the timeline reset, we cannot risk her undergoing an Apotheosis either. She has two divine organs, her wings and her halo. One must go."

Blanchette placed a hand gently to her cheek and grinned. "That sounds quite painful. Imagine having what is essentially your extra limbs with its own nerves, bones connected to the spine—to be cut off from your body."

Kivas let out a dry chuckle through gritted teeth. "Thanks, Blanchette. I was mentally prepared until you opened your mouth."

"Is your bravery faltering already?" Blanchette teased. "Does this still seem worth it, I wonder~?"

A faint shimmer passed through the treeline as a Blessed Limbo Tier Divine Construct stepped forward.

Black dust drifting slowly from its cracked joints. Pale flame glowed behind hollow sockets. The construct seemed wanting to express something.

"The more you anticipate the pain, Celestial Avatar," the construct said with quiet composure, "the more your nervous system will amplify its effects. A clean mind would suffer less."

"That doesn’t help at all!" Kivas hissed through clenched teeth. "By mentioning it, you’re simply reinforcing my mind to anticipate it even—"

Samael moved without another word.

The sweep of the Mana Psyche blade was almost imperceptible.

There was no dramatic motion, no warning. It carved cleanly through Kivas’ back, severing the wings at the root where they connected to her soul’s threshold.

Kivas screamed.

The noise tore through her chest, violent and pure, but it didn’t last long.

She collapsed forward, her hands clawing at the ground, and then dragged in a lungful of breath so deep it shook her ribs. Her halo stuttered with irregular pulses, and her limbs twitched involuntarily.

Blood had already begun to flow, but her Hemo Psyche was faster.

The veins around her shoulders glowed crimson as she forced her Hemo Psyche into overdrive, rerouting stability into her vital channels, burning away the trauma.

Her breathing returned to rhythm slowly, her chest rising and falling with painful steadiness.

Blanchette leaned slightly forward from her perch, eyes twinkling with detached interest. "That looked unnecessary."

Samael barely blinked at the comment. "It is necessary."

Yoiglah shifted slightly, his gaze still and steady. "We may not be alone soon," he said, his voice slow and deep. "Titled individuals have entered the perimeter. They carry the weight of shrine-bound oaths."

Kivas adjusted her posture and pressed her hand against her shoulder wound. "Are the Champions already here?"

Samael nodded. "They are."

At the edge of the shrine’s divine radius, the light began to warp.

A procession stepped through, led by three figures flanked by Blessed Limbo Tier Divine Constructs, each construct drifting silently beside their charge like watchful shadows.

These were the ones identified during the proselytization campaign. Of the six individuals appraised by Samael and Yoiglah across Vaingall, only four were found, and only three of the four had accepted the divine offering and accepted their new epithet.

The first towered above the rest.

A colossus of bark and stone shaped into a vaguely humanoid form, five meters tall with eight rooted legs, no discernible head, and a perfect hole cut through its chest like an empty reliquary.

Its arms hung long, knotted with vines and pulsating spores.

This was the Bastion of the Harvest.

To its left, a woman walked slowly, her frame draped in layered fabrics. A massive witch’s hat sat atop her head, drooping gently over one eye.

Her upper torso was mostly hidden beneath a short capelet, but the exposed line of her midsection revealed an unnatural formation—no skin, no organs, only a luminous vertebral structure and complex glyphs pulsing between them.

She walked barefoot. Her title was the Speaker of Veins.

To the right came a man with three arms. His skin was dark and seared with ash-colored tattoos that branched out from his throat down to each fingertip.

He carried three weapons: a blunt-edged axe, a ceremonial blade, and a spear carved with bone patterns. He moved as if he had been born in conflict, every limb alert.

This was the Voice of Soil.

They passed through the last layers of divine pressure, crossing into the full proximity of the Major Shrine.

The Speaker of Veins looked around slowly, her eyes wide beneath the brim of her hat. She inhaled deeply, then stepped closer to the edge of the shrine’s moss-covered stone.

"I don’t understand," she said. "This land was barren. Broken. I’ve walked these roots before. There shouldn’t be vegetation like this. And yet..." She knelt slightly, brushing her fingers across a cluster of grain stalks growing in circular patterns near the altar. "These are ripe." fгeewebnovёl.com

The Voice of Soil remained behind her, his gaze slowly scanning from Kivas to Samael, and then to Yoiglah. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and layered with disinterest.

"So," he said. "Which one of is the deity we’re supposed to acknowledge?"

His middle arm tightened around the haft of the axe. He was not hostile. But he wasn’t reverent either.

Kivas pushed herself to her feet with slow, steady breath. Her wings were gone, her back still seared with fresh pain, but her posture did not betray it.

Her hands folded calmly in front of her, the dried blood on her skin already fading beneath her Hemo Psyche’s subtle regeneration.

The halo above her head stabilized into a steady glow, soft yet sovereign.

Her expression shifted.

The grimace of pain washed away, replaced by the tranquil dignity of a seated star. Her gaze leveled toward the three who had arrived—Bastion, Speaker, and Voice—and her voice resonated not with volume, but with quiet command.

"I thank you," she said, her tone crystalline, her eyes calm. "For stepping into this threshold. For considering the offer placed before you. For walking this far into change."

No reply came immediately from the trio, but the stillness that followed her words was no longer suspect.

Each of them had been given something—not gold, not miracles, but promises shaped to their longing.

The Bastion of the Harvest, massive and silent, had not spoken since the day it was found.

It had been wandering alone through broken fields, its form trailing roots that never took hold. It had once stood before a collapsed settlement, where soil turned to stone and life had fled. And when the offer was extended—of Vaingall growing anew, of people walking again, talking again, building again—it did not speak a word still.

But it followed. It followed because the promise of life itself was the greatest sound it could remember. The Bastion longed for motion, for motion was proof of existence, and proof of existence was the only truth it still clung to.

The Speaker of Veins, elegant and unsettling, had accepted with a clause: unrestricted access to materials, to biological samples, to spiritual anomalies, to artifacts buried beneath Vaingall’s tortured crust.

And the offer had come true. She had been given scrolls already alongside some artifacts constructed by miracles. Access to the outer layers of the shrine. Open permission to file requests directly to Yoiglah or the deity herself.

For a seeker like her, whose body had been rewritten to become an archive, nothing else mattered more than permission to dissect what the world had hidden from her.

Curiosity was her compulsion, and she had been welcomed into its fulfillment.

The Voice of Soil, more warrior than man, had heard the offer in silence. His tribe lived on the margins, caught between extinction and invention.

They hunted because they had to. They fought because the ground gave them no peace. Their dream had always been simple—stop surviving and start living. And Kivas’ words had not promised wealth or peace or power. She had offered soil. Soil that could be planted. Soil that would not poison or vanish. Soil that would grow food for generations. For a people who had buried too many of their own, that was enough.

As if synchronized by a thread pulled beneath the earth, the three of them began to move.

The Bastion of the Harvest lowered its limbs slowly, kneeling with ponderous weight, vines folding like reverent fingers. The soil beneath it did not break. Instead, flowers bloomed where its weight pressed down.

The Speaker of Veins inclined her head and descended next, one knee pressing against the softened ground, her hands folded before her as if in solemn agreement to a contract she had already signed with her marrow.

The Voice of Soil remained upright for a breath longer, his eyes moving from Samael to Yoiglah to Blanchette, then finally returning to Kivas. He stepped forward once, slowly, and lowered himself with the elegance of a war-priest, one arm resting on his knee while the other two held his weapons like sacred instruments in the act of prayer.

All three knelt before her.

"My name is Sarkha’una," the witch smiled. "The Speaker of Veins, ready to serve you, Gentle One."

"Uhr’tarukh," the three-armed warrior said his name. "The Voice of Soil will be your loyalty blade."

Kivas breathed slowly, her gaze flickering between them, and she nodded—grateful, unblinking, immortal in the way that only someone carrying a cause could be.

And the shrine behind her pulsed gently, resonating with quiet approval.

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