The Guardian gods-Chapter 398

He paused, his gaze unwavering. "The experience made me understand the fear our mother, Nana, has for our safety and our decisions. It made me understand how... coveted we are. Outside of our world, we are a delectable prize, a piece of pie most things want to grab a slice of."

"This world lacks a place for the dead. Your divinity’s feeling wasn’t wrong; what is wrong is your response to its prompting. The Keles I know represent death—cold, yet with an alluring embrace to welcome those who pass. But right now," he stated, his voice flat and unforgiving, "the one standing in front of me is not her." His hand dropped from her shoulder as if it had suddenly turned to ice. "You are allowing an alien world to dictate your actions rather than you dictating what you will do. You are Keles goddess of death, not a puppet of some world’s lack of order."

Keles stood there, stunned. Ikenga’s words hung in the air, sharp and cutting. The casual dismissal of her emotions, the cold assessment of her character, the stark reminder of their unique status as origin gods—it all hit her with the force of a physical blow. She felt a strange mix of anger, hurt, and a chilling sense of self-doubt. Had she truly strayed so far from herself?

She opened her mouth to speak, to defend herself, but no words came. Ikenga’s gaze held her captive, his eyes like chips of obsidian, reflecting nothing but stern judgment. She felt exposed, stripped bare, her vulnerability laid out for him to dissect.

Finally, she managed a weak whisper. "I... I just felt... responsible. For that soul. For its... fate."

Ikenga remained unmoved. "Responsibility is not about succumbing to sentiment," he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "It’s about understanding the consequences of your actions and acting accordingly. You felt a pull, a connection. That is understandable. But you allowed that feeling to dictate your reaction, rather than analyzing the situation with the cold logic that is expected of one who embodies death."

He gestured to the ravaged battlefield. "This world is not ours. Its rules are not ours. We are guests here, observers. We can learn from it, adapt to it, but we cannot allow it to change us. We are the origin gods, Keles. We are the architects of our own destinies, not pawns in some cosmic game."

He turned away, his back to her. "Consider this a lesson, sister. A reminder of who we are, and what we represent. Do not let your emotions cloud your judgment again. Or I will be forced to intervene more directly." The threat hung unspoken in the air, heavy and ominous.

Keles was left standing there, her heart pounding in her chest. She felt a tear prickling at the corner of her eye, but she blinked it back fiercely. She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. She would not let him see her weakness.

She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms. He was right, she knew, deep down. She had let her emotions get the better of her. She had allowed the strangeness of this world to affect her more than she should have. And Ikenga, ever the pragmatist, had called her out on it.

A spark of defiance ignited within her. She would not be lectured like a child. She would not be dictated to. She was Keles, goddess of death. She was not some sentimental fool.

She would learn from this experience, as Ikenga had advised. But she would not be cowed. She turned to look at Ikenga retreating back, a newfound resolve burning in her eyes. The conversation was not over. Not by a long shot.

Ikenga continued his stride away from Keles, his inner turmoil a stark contrast to his outward composure. A torrent of self-reproach washed over him. He clenched his fists, cursing himself for the harshness of his words, the condescending tone he had adopted. He hadn’t meant to make her feel small, to belittle her experience. He had simply wanted to... protect her, to remind her of their unique position. But he had clearly failed, miserably.

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath. He hadn’t intended to make Keles look like a fool. He had wanted to instill in her the importance of their self-control, their inherent power as origin gods. But his delivery had been abysmal. He had done the same thing to Mahu, dismissing his concerns with a similar air of superiority. It was a pattern, a deeply ingrained flaw in his interactions with his siblings.

A bitter realization dawned on him. The only reason he seemed to possess this seemingly superior understanding of their situation, of the dangers lurking beyond their world, was because of the memories of his past life. Without that knowledge, he would likely be making the same mistakes as his siblings, stumbling blindly through this unfamiliar reality. It was a sobering thought.

He was the one with the advantage, the one who should be guiding them, protecting them. But instead of offering support and understanding, he was delivering lectures, making them feel inadequate. He was supposed to be a brother, not a stern, unforgiving patriarch.

His mind drifted, a stray thought surfacing from the depths of his past life. He recalled the insignificant mortal rhetoric that women were inherently more emotional than men. A ridiculous generalization, he had always thought, even in his previous existence. But the thought lingered, worming its way into his consciousness. Did that concept, that flawed and simplistic categorization, somehow apply to beings like them?

He entertained the notion with a growing sense of unease. Not that he had never felt the need to speak to Crepuscular or Jaus in the same way, but rather, the situation had never arisen where such a response from him seemed necessary. Crepuscular was stoic and prideful, his emotions rarely visible. Jaus, while more outwardly expressive, possessed a remarkable self-awareness and control. They simply didn’t react in ways that triggered this... condescending response from him. Their emotional landscapes were different, more stable, requiring no such intervention. But with Mahu and now Keles, it was different. Their reactions, their vulnerability, triggered something within him, a deeply ingrained, almost automatic response that he now was recognizing. He found himself adopting this condescending, almost paternalistic tone, as if they were incapable of handling their own emotions or making sound decisions.

The realization was like a slap in the face. He had unconsciously fallen into the trap of those prejudices, even though he knew they were baseless. He had let the echoes of a past mortal life influence his interactions with his divine siblings. The irony was almost unbearable. He, who prided himself on his logic and objectivity, had been blinded by a simple, deeply ingrained bias.

He had to change. He had to do better. For his siblings, and for himself. But how? The realization of his bias was only the first step. Unraveling the deeply ingrained patterns of thought and behavior that had led him to this point would be a far more arduous task.

He sat down, watching the retreating background, his mind churning. He replayed his interactions with Keles and Mahu in his mind, dissecting each word, each inflection, searching for the root of his condescension. He realized it wasn’t simply about the mortal rhetoric of emotional differences between genders. There was something deeper, something more at play.

His thoughts drifted to the sin he bore: greed. Not the simple desire for material possessions, but a deeper, more fundamental greed for control, for certainty. He craved order, balance, and a predictable universe. And when he perceived a threat to that order, whether real or imagined, his greed manifested as a need to control the situation, to impose his own understanding upon it.

He had seen Keles’s emotional response to the loss of the soul as a threat, a deviation from the cold, detached persona he associated with her role as the goddess of death. It was a disruption of the order he expected, and his greed for control had driven him to correct it, to force her back into the mold he had created for her. He had done the same with Mahu, dismissing their anxieties about the unknown as irrational, imposing his own confidence in their ability to handle any challenge. freewebnσvel.cøm

The connection was chillingly clear. His greed wasn’t only about hoarding possessions; it was also about hoarding understanding, about believing he alone possessed the correct perspective, the right way of dealing with any situation. It was a form of intellectual and emotional arrogance, disguised as concern. He had not trusted his siblings to navigate their own emotions, to learn from their own experiences. He had, in essence, tried to steal their growth, to control their development.

A wave of shame washed over him. He had been so focused on protecting them from external threats that he had become a threat himself, stifling their individuality, undermining their confidence. He had justified his actions as necessary, as a burden he had to bear as the knowledgeable one. But it was a lie, a self-serving rationalization designed to mask his own flaws.