The Guardian gods-Chapter 683

He couldn’t form words. His lips parted once, twice, but only air escaped. Still, his eyes said everything. Is it true? they asked. Can there really be justice?

Kael met that look in silence. He didn’t smile, didn’t promise. But his steady gaze was enough, an unspoken assurance that, for now, there might still be a thread of purpose left for Gram to hold on to.

The fire between them crackled and hissed, throwing fleeting sparks into the night sky tiny, dying stars against a sea of darkness.

Kael’s expression hardened as Gram’s question broke the silence.

"Even the godlings?" Gram asked, his voice unsteady, half in fear and half in awe.

Kael held his gaze and nodded once, firm and deliberate.

That single gesture shattered what little restraint Gram had left. He surged forward, dropping to his knees in front of Kael, the firelight catching the moisture in his eyes. "Then, tell me," he said, the words tumbling out between shallow breaths. "What role do I play in this? How can I help?"

For the first time since they met, Kael’s stern features softened. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, not mockery, but approval. He reached out and rested a heavy, calloused hand on Gram’s shoulder, the touch grounding and strangely intimate.

"You need not do much," Kael said quietly, his tone carrying the gravity of something sacred. "All that’s required of you is to follow us, out of your own will and your own choice. That last part is important. It must be something you want to do... something you decide to do."

For a moment, Gram simply stared, the meaning settling in. Then realization dawned, subtle but sure.

"This is why you didn’t force me," he murmured. "Why you threatened my life... but never truly intended to drag me away."

Kael’s nod was slow, deliberate. "Your compliance matters more than your body, Gram. The ones who gave the order, they need willing hearts. Not slaves. If all goes as planned..." His eyes turned toward the horizon, his voice dropping low, almost reverent. "We humans will finally stand with our backs straight before the godlings."

The air between them felt heavier than before, the weight of something larger than either of them settling in. Even Kael’s men, who had been watching in silence, shifted uneasily at those words. They all knew what it meant to challenge beings like them.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved but the fire, its light flickering across the dirt and faces of men standing on the edge of blasphemy.

Then Gram straightened his back. The despair that had gripped him since the moment he woke was gone, replaced by something sharper, conviction, fierce and alive. His voice was steady, resolute.

"I agree," he said. "I, Gram Maif, agree to follow Kael and his crew of my own will."

Kael’s smile widened, though his eyes remained cold and distant, as if already seeing the road ahead. "Good," he said simply. "Then it begins."

The godlings, blissfully unaware of the humans quiet schemes and ambitions for them, continued their journey toward the southern continent. They traveled in scattered flocks and pods radiant, proud, and curious about the uncharted lands that lay ahead.

The first to arrive were the Merfolk godlings, their serpentine forms gliding gracefully through the turquoise waters that bordered the southern coast. The Harpies followed soon after, their wings slicing through the clouds as they descended in dazzling formation. Behind them came the Apelings, their powerful limbs carrying them across the rocky passes and dense jungles with ease, some on their flying mounts. Lastly, under the crimson hue of dusk, came the Werewolves, their howls echoing across the plains like a herald of wild divinity.

But what awaited them was not an untouched paradise they thought it would be. Upon setting fin, claw, or foot upon the continent, the godlings encountered something both amusing and intriguing, a world where humans had grown bold enough to claim dominion not only over the earth but also the heavens.

The godlings’ destination was the Misty Forest, a sacred place where the last demigod still reside in. Yet to reach it, they needed to pass through a scattering of human cities and settlements that dotted the landscape like embers in the dark.

It was there, upon nearing those borders, that the unexpected occurred.

Whenever a godling approached, whether soaring high above or striding across the plains, they were swiftly intercepted by human troops. These soldiers were not the frail mortals of old stories; they were organized, disciplined, and armed with strange tools of flight. Humans now commanded winged beasts, their riders clad in armor that gleamed under the sun, circling the skies with practiced precision.

To the godlings amusement, the humans raised banners bearing the seal of their Empire, and shouted proclamations from the ground and sky alike:

"By decree of the Imperial Crown, the lands and skies of the southern continent belong to humankind! Passage through any domain requires authorization from the Empire!"

The audacity of such a declaration made some godlings laugh aloud. Others narrowed their eyes, their divine pride bristling at the thought of mortals daring to dictate their movement.

And yet, there was something captivating in it too, the sight of fragile creatures standing defiant before beings born from the breath of gods. The humans resolve in front of them was not born of ignorance, but of confidence in themselves.

The godlings were amused by the humans bold proclamations, their mortal pride and rigid order a strange contrast to the godlings boundless nature. Yet among them, an eccentric group’s interest was piqued, not by the humans themselves, but by the creatures they rode upon.

These were the Druids, the keepers of nature among the godlings. Their curiosity often bordered on obsession, and they had long known of humanity’s struggles to tame beasts. The idea that humans had mastered flying mounts, creatures fierce and free by nature was almost unthinkable.

And yet, here they were: humans soaring confidently through the sky, mounted on great feathered or scaled beasts, as though born to rule the air itself.

Ignoring the shouting soldiers and their demands for "permits" and "authorization," the druids drifted closer, their attention fully fixed upon the winged creatures. With gentle gestures and murmured tones of old nature-tongue, they reached out, establishing contact not with the riders, but with the mounts themselves.

The other godlings groaned. They had seen this pattern before.

Among the godlings, it was well-known that druids were terribly naïve and emotionally volatile, quick to marvel, but just as quick to rage when they encountered something they deemed unnatural. Their empathy for beasts often outweighed their sense of restraint.

The druids’ eyes darkened as their thoughts intertwined with those of the flying creatures. What they sensed within made their hearts ache and their anger surge.

These mounts were hollow, their minds dulled, their spirits bound. Whatever the humans had done to make such wild creatures so obedient had carved deep scars within their essence. There was no joy in their flight, no freedom in their wings only submission.

The druids’ compassion curdled into fury. Their fingers twitched with the beginnings of a spell, one that would awaken the suppressed will of the creatures and turn them against their riders. They imagined the beasts throwing the humans from their saddles, breaking free from their bindings, returning to the wild skies where they belonged.

But before they could act, the other godlings moved.

A flicker of energy flashed through the air, and one by one, the druids collapsed unconscious, their bodies caught mid-incantation.

The humans, confused but unharmed, had no idea how narrowly they had escaped a massacre from above.

The intervention was not an act of mercy. The other godlings had not saved the humans out of compassion, they had simply wanted to avoid unnecessary conflict and, perhaps more importantly, to keep their amusement unspoiled.

One of the Harpies clicked her tongue in irritation as she dragged an unconscious druid out of the air.

"Foolish, sentimental things," she muttered. "Always trying to fix what isn’t theirs to mend."

Another godling chuckled, his eyes following the distant human riders.

"Let them play at mastery for now. The sky remembers who it truly belongs to."

The southern continent and its empire were a secluded world unto themselves isolated, self-sufficient, and long withdrawn from the currents of the outside lands. Though whispers of the godlings had reached them, spoken of in texts or carried by the rare traveler, these mortals had never truly seen one. Unlike the other continents, where the godlings’ presence was woven into daily life and faith, the people here regarded them with curiosity rather than reverence.

To the godlings, this was something entirely new.

When the imperial soldiers barred their passage and demanded compliance with mortal laws, the godlings did not feel insulted. Instead, they were delighted. The notion that humans, mere mortals would stand before them and dictate terms was unheard of. Not once in all their long histories had humanity dared to challenge their divine will so directly.

It was refreshing.