The Guardian gods-Chapter 437

And there, above the sea, beyond the limits of the world she had known, she saw it—

Her divine throne.

A vast, shimmering construct of ever-shifting water, suspended in the sky, woven into the heavens themselves. It was not a fixed domain, nor a stagnant realm—it was movement incarnate, an endless flow that stretched as far as she willed it.

Flowua reached out, and the throne responded, wrapping around her like an embrace. The moment she sat upon it, the sky trembled, and the world below acknowledged her existence as a god.

"I am Flowua, daughter of the storm and sea god, now the goddess of Goddess of Unimpeded Progress and Adaptive Force"

Flowua’s divine realm is not a static place, nor is it bound by rigid structures or fixed landscapes. It is a realm of constant movement, an ever-shifting expanse where progress never ceases, where every force that opposes is merely reshaped and repurposed into something greater.

At first glance, the realm appears as a vast, liquid sky—an ocean without a seabed, an endless cascade of rivers, waves, and currents that twist and spiral into infinity. The waters here do not obey gravity; they flow in every direction—upward, sideways, even folding into themselves—without ever losing momentum. Streams of radiant energy course through the currents, glowing in hues of silver, deep cerulean, and shifting gold, embodying the cycle of motion and adaptation.

Scattered throughout the realm are massive, floating formations known as the Wellsprings of Adaptation—colossal spheres of compressed, swirling water and divine energy. These wellsprings act as catalysts for change, absorbing resistance and obstacles, then releasing them as new possibilities.

At the very center of the realm, suspended in a vortex of cascading waterfalls, is Flowua’s Divine Throne, a structure of liquid crystal that is never in the same form twice. One moment it is a spiraling tower of fluid glass, the next a ring of floating platforms orbiting a core of pure motion. This is the heart of her realm—the place where all paths converge, where every stream of progress ultimately leads.

From here, Flowua watches over her domain, guiding those who seek unimpeded progress, whispering insights to those who struggle against resistance. Unlike other gods, she does not promise to remove challenges—instead, she ensures that every struggle becomes a stepping stone, every obstacle a force that pushes one forward.

With Flowua ascension, the final pillar was set in place, locking into alignment with the others. A deep, resonant hum spread through the air, echoing across the land and sea, vibrating in the bones of all who stood witness. Simultaneously, the pillars on distant continents trembled in response, their dormant power now fully awakened. An invisible force pulsed outward from them, an intricate lattice of energy that spread across the planet like veins of light, unseen by mortal eyes but deeply felt by all who possessed even the faintest connection to magic or divinity.

From the heavens, it appeared as though a great seal had been drawn across the world, a barrier not of physical substance but of raw cosmic will. A gentle yet absolute force enveloped the planet, pushing outwards, repelling the creeping tendrils of the gods’counterparts—their influence forced to retreat like shadows before the rising sun.

At the gaping hole left by Ikenga and Keles, the very fabric of reality shuddered as the breach they had once passed through began to mend itself. The translucent shield, woven from the converging energies of the pillars, sealed the hole shut with an unyielding finality. A golden luminescence pulsed along the edges, pressing back the foreign influence that had sought to seep into this realm. The last traces of that unnatural corruption recoiled, unable to resist the sheer magnitude of the restored order.

Meanwhile, in their own forsaken domain, the gods’ counterparts stood in eerie silence, watching. From their vantage point, the change was undeniable—like a great celestial curtain being drawn before them, shutting them out against their will. The luminous barrier obscured their view of the mortal realm, solidifying the divide that had once been fractured. Some among them raged, their forms shifting and writhing with fury at their exile, while others merely watched with cold, calculating eyes, already plotting their next move.

Plans had already been laid, etched into the very fabric of fate. Now, there was nothing left for them to do but wait—slumbering beneath the surface of reality, patient and still, until the voices of their Zealots called them back into the waking world.

With that, the ascension of the demigods reached its completion. Their transformation was absolute, their existence no longer bound by the constraints of mortality. But even as their power solidified, another struggle remained unfinished. The godlings had one final task—to purge the remaining Zealots who still roamed the land, carrying the will of their forsaken patrons.

Yet, what should have been a swift and silent eradication had become something far more chaotic, far more dangerous. The Zealots, having received the blessings of the gods’ counterparts, were no longer mere fanatics. Their bodies pulsed with unnatural energy, their resilience defying what should have been possible. The godlings, once confident in their ability to root them out under the cover of darkness, now found themselves locked in a battle that had spilled into the waking world—one that no mortal could ignore. freewēbnoveℓ.com

The night sky, once a quiet witness to whispered executions, now bore the scars of war. Tremors rattled through the streets, shaking homes to their foundations. Explosions tore through the silence, sending shockwaves of light and sound that turned midnight into an imitation of dawn. Smoke rose in thick, choking plumes, carrying the acrid scent of destruction. Those who had hoped to cower behind their doors, to press their hands over their ears and pretend the world outside remained unchanged, could no longer deny the truth. The nightmare had forced its way into reality.

The godlings fought with measured precision, striking at the Zealot leaders while desperately shielding the mortals and their fragile cities from complete devastation. Every building left standing, every street not reduced to rubble, was a small victory in the face of unrelenting chaos.

But the Zealots did not fight to win. Their battle was no longer one of conquest but of remembrance and leaving a permanent mark. They did not seek victory—they sought legacy. Every strike, every reckless surge of destruction was not aimed at the godlings themselves but at the land, at the walls, at the monuments and streets where history had been written. They carved ruin into the very bones of the world, ensuring that no matter the outcome, their presence would be impossible to erase.

For example in the eastern continent. The air crackled with residual heat, the scent of burnt earth and ozone stinging the nostrils. Ikem’s grandchildren, battered and bruised, leaned heavily on one another, their breaths ragged gasps. Myrrha’s left arm hung uselessly, a dark stain blooming across her tunic. Ash, ever stoic, balanced precariously on a single leg, his face pale and drawn. Tula and Brook, their faces grim, bore wounds that revealed glimpses of bone, testament to the Zealot leader’s relentless assault. They were spent, their divine energy flickering like dying embers.

The Zealots, driven by a mad fervor, weren’t concerned with strategic victory. Their leader, a figure wreathed in an aura of unsettling power, seemed less intent on defeating the godlings and more on scarring the land, leaving an indelible mark of their presence. It was a campaign of devastation, a testament to their destructive ideology.

And nowhere was this more evident than the transformation of the eastern mountain. Where once a proud peak had stood, now a jagged, crystalline monstrosity jutted into the sky. The Zealot leader, in a display of terrifying power, had channeled an unimaginable heat, a fiery torrent that had engulfed the mountain and, impossibly, transmuted its very substance into shimmering crystal. The transformation was violent, instantaneous, leaving the surrounding landscape scorched and barren. The sheer scale of the destruction was breathtaking, a monument to the Zealots’ destructive power.

This act, this brutal reshaping of the land, was a symbolic victory for the Zealots. It wasn’t about territory or resources; it was about asserting their dominance, about etching their name into the very bones of the world. The crystal mountain, gleaming malevolently in the sun, was a constant reminder of their power, a symbol of their contempt for the natural order and a chilling testament to the godlings’ inability to prevent such wanton destruction. It was a wound on the world, and a wound on the godlings’ pride.

Myrrha coughed, a fleck of blood staining her lips. "He...he wasn’t even trying to defeat us," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "It was...a demonstration."

Ash nodded grimly. "A message," he corrected. "A message to all who would oppose them."

Tula, her face etched with pain, looked towards the crystal mountain, her eyes filled with a mixture of awe and dread. "It’s...beautiful," she murmured, "in a terrifying way."