The Guardian gods-Chapter 736

He even went so far as to break the tension.

Looking up at the gathered godlings, he asked lightly, "Tell me, how old is the oldest among all of you?"

The godlings exchanged glances, momentarily caught off guard. Then, one by one, they pointed toward a beautiful mermaid godling standing among them.

She frowned as she noticed the attention suddenly focused on her.

With genuine curiosity, the old man continued, "And how old might you be, milady?"

The mermaid scoffed.

"Two hundred and forty-five," she replied sharply. "And even at your age, you have not learned not to ask a lady her age."

A collective gasp rippled through the stands.

Even Gram, wrapped in his brooding silence, glanced her way, surprised by the number, then again by the fact that she looked no older than a woman in her twenties.

The old man laughed, the sound warm and unrestrained.

It earned him a glare from the mermaid godling.

"How strange," he said, still smiling, "to no longer be the oldest in the room. To all of you, I might still be considered a child."

He shrugged gently.

"After all, I am only seventy-five."

Turning to the judges, the old man spoke once more.

"In my youth," he said gently, "I dreamed of becoming a scribe. But I never knew where to begin, and life has a way of pulling dreams quietly out of reach. Still... it seems such an opportunity has presented itself at last."

He lifted his gaze to the godlings.

"I believed I understood the gods," he continued. "I thought faith and stories were enough. But you have walked closest to them. You have spoken with them. Lived beside them."

"I wish for you to teach me the truth of the relationship between gods and mortals."

A hush fell.

"At my age," he went on, "it pains me to realize how little worthy knowledge I have to pass on to the young. Knowledge that could save lives. Knowledge that might have lessened the fall, the disaster that brought us all here today."

He drew a slow breath.

"This is my wish: to learn. So that I may teach. So that I may extend that knowledge outward to save lives, to safeguard humanity, and to ensure that ignorance claims fewer souls than it did this day."

For a heartbeat, the court was silent.

Then applause erupted.

Humans in the stands rose to their feet, clapping openly, some bowing toward the old man with deep respect. Others wiped at their eyes, moved not by power or vengeance, but by purpose.

Even the nobles stood.

This time, their smiles were genuine, unforced, unguarded. At last, someone had seen what was truly at play within the court.

The godlings nodded, accepting the old man’s wish without hesitation.

And then, at last, it was the turn of a troubling victim.

The smallest among them.

The young girl stood alone at the center of the court, a fragile figure facing a choice that would shape the rest of her life. She did not truly understand what was happening around her, only that her world had ended. Her family was gone. The people who made her feel safe no longer answered when she called.

She was seven years old.

When all eyes turned to her, she froze. The weight of grown gazes, adults, nobles, godlings alike pressed down on her, making her chest tighten. Words would not come easily.

Then, in a small, wavering voice, she spoke.

"I want my family back," she said.

Her brow furrowed, confusion slipping into fear.

"I want my mother back," she whispered. "Where is my mother?"

The question shattered the room.

Even Xerosis, embodiment of cold judgment, did not answer. The truth was too sharp, too final to place in the hands of a child.

Silence fell upon the court.

It was then that one of the godlings moved.

The mermaid, the same one who had earlier announced her age stepped forward. She slowed her approach deliberately, aware that even the tallest human barely reached her shoulder. When she reached the girl, she knelt on one knee, lowering herself until they were nearly eye to eye.

Her voice, when she spoke, was as gentle as she could make it.

"Your family... your mother," she said softly, "they are gone."

The girl shrank back at the words, shoulders trembling.

But a scaled palm reached out and held her.

It was not warm.

It was cool, like deep water, like stillness but that very cold grounded the child. It anchored her to the moment. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to look at the beautiful aunt-like figure before her.

"You may have lost your mother," the mermaid godling said softly, "but you may yet gain another."

The girl’s small hands curled into her dress as she listened.

"I can be your mother," the godling continued. "I have borne many children of my own. Raising them has always brought me great joy." Her voice faltered for just a moment. "It may be difficult to believe especially knowing that these hands have also brought death to many children. But it is the truth."

She lowered her head slightly, a gesture of humility rather than shame.

"I and my companions would raise you until you become a woman in your own right. I would swear before the goddess herself to raise you in honesty, never denying you the truth of your life... nor the dreadful day that was stolen from you by my own hands."

The court held its breath.

The girl did not understand everything that had been said. The words were too large, too heavy for someone so young. But she understood enough.

The blue-scaled woman before her was asking to be her new mother. To be her family.

And that frightened her.

Wasn’t this woman one of the ones who had hurt her? Who had taken her family away? Why, then, were her eyes filled with such aching kindness, such unmistakable sorrow?

The girl looked up at her, torn between fear and something fragile and unfamiliar.

A murmur rippled through the court, soft at first, then swelling.

"No"

"That cannot be allowed."

"She was one of them."

The whispers grew into open protest.

From the human stands, voices rose in alarm and outrage. Men and women who moments ago had wept now stood rigid, faces pale with disbelief.

"You would give the child to the very one who killed her family?" someone cried.

"Is this what passes for justice?" another demanded.

The sound carried raw, emotional, unrestrained.

Even among the nobles, unrest spread. Though their expressions remained composed, their words were sharp, clipped with unease.

"This is inappropriate," one noble declared, stepping forward. "A godling, one directly responsible for the disaster, cannot be entrusted with the life of a child harmed by it. This borders on mockery."

Others nodded, murmuring assent.

"Justice is meant to protect the innocent," another added. "Not bind them forever to their tragedy."

The girl flinched at the rising volume, her small fingers tightening in the folds of her dress. The mermaid godling felt it immediately. Her grip softened, her body angling subtly to shield the child from the noise.

She did not rise.

Instead, she lifted her gaze to the crowd calm, unflinching.

"I understand your fear," she said, her voice carrying clearly without being loud. "And I do not ask for your forgiveness."

The murmurs did not stop.

"She has no right"

"That child deserves a human life"

A noble turned toward Xerosis. "This court must intervene. The child cannot consent. This decision cannot stand."

The murmurs did not fade.

They thickened, grief turning to outrage, outrage hardening into resolve. Before the sound could swell into chaos, a single figure rose from the noble stands.

He wore the gold-and-crimson of the Sun Kingdom.

The largest, the strongest human kingdom on the western continent. The kingdom whose voice carried weight even here.

The noble moved with deliberate calm, descending from the stands and into the court itself. Each step was measured, unhurried, as though he were approaching not a tribunal of gods, but a frightened child.

When he reached the girl, he did not loom over her.

He knelt. His appearance slowly pulled away the increasing noises and voices.

His voice, when he spoke, was low and warm crafted with care.

"Little one," he said gently, "you are scared. And you have every right to be."

The girl’s eyes flicked toward him, uncertain.

"What is being offered to you," he continued softly, "may sound kind. But kindness can sometimes wear a dangerous face."

He turned his head slightly, not glaring at the mermaid godling, but acknowledging her presence all the same.

"This woman admits that her hands took lives," he said. "Including the lives of children. Including the lives of your family."

His gaze returned to the girl.

"To accept her as your mother would be to place your future in the hands of the one who ended your past."

A hush fell over the court.