The Guardian gods-Chapter 574

Her gaze pierced through Ikenga as she drew closer. "Do you fear death, brother? Do you fear me?"

Ikenga held her gaze. "I do fear death, but I do not fear you."

"But I am death?" Keles’s voice was a soft, dangerous whisper, a subtle challenge in the stillness of Zarvok’s observation chamber.

Ikenga didn’t flinch. He maintained his steady gaze, his grip on her arm firm but not tight. "You are the vessel through which it manifests, Keles. You are the harbinger, the watcher, the guide. But you are not the inevitable cessation itself. Death is a force, a fundamental truth of existence. You are its most powerful conduit in this realm, perhaps, but not its entirety."

Zarvok, who had been silently observing the entire exchange, let out a low chuckle, the sound like grinding stones. "A nuanced distinction, Ikenga. One that few would dare to make to a goddess, let alone the Goddess of Death."

Keles, however, simply tilted her head, her veiled face unreadable. "And what does this ’nuance’ imply for Vorenza, if not an inevitable end?"

"It implies that while you see the threads leading to a specific outcome, those threads can be re-woven, or cut, or even reinforced by the actions of the beings involved," Ikenga countered, his voice gaining a touch of steel. "Vorenza just defied what many would consider impossible. She bled, she lost, she gambled everything, and she won. Does that not shift the tapestry, even for a moment?"

He gestured vaguely towards the scrying mirror, where Vorenza’s demonic soldiers were now prostrating themselves. "She is at her peak. The abyss itself rewarded her, a validation of her power. To proclaim her demise now, with such certainty, feels less like foresight and more like... a desire."

A flicker, almost imperceptible, passed over Keles’s veiled face. "My desires are of no consequence to the greater design, brother," she said, her voice regaining its earlier, colder edge. "The threads are merely clearer to me." She released her arm from his grasp, turning her attention back to the mirror, though her gaze seemed to penetrate beyond the image. "The cycles of power turn. Vorenza has had her ascent. What follows, inevitably, is descent. It is not my will, Ikenga, It’s the nature of things" She said the ending in a word Ikenga could understand.

"Do you see the inevitable in me?" Ikenga finally asked, his voice low.

Keles scoffed, a dry, dismissive sound from behind her veil. "Such words mean nothing to me, and to you, brother." As primordial beings, their existence transcended the typical notions of death and fate that applied to lesser entities.

Zarvok, who had been listening intently, could hardly contain his curiosity. "What about me then?" he interjected, a rare hint of vulnerability in his usually stoic demeanor.

"You are strong," Keles stated, her veiled gaze fixed on Zarvok, "and you are blessed."

Zarvok’s curiosity, however, wasn’t sated. The goddess’s words, while seemingly complimentary, offered no true insight into his own inevitable end, a fate that even a being of his immense power couldn’t escape. "Blessed by whom?" he pressed, but his eyes widened as he knew his answer.

Keles shifted, her attention returning to Ikenga and the silent scrying mirror where Vorenza’s rejuvenated domain now pulsed with renewed power. "The abyss blesses those who entertain it, Zarvok. You are a fulcrum of chaos, a necessary weight in its eternal embrace. Your strength ensures continued conflict, continued spectacle." Her tone implied that his purpose, while grand, was merely a component in a larger, more indifferent design.

Ikenga interjected, stepping slightly between Keles and Zarvok. "But, Does the abyss’s blessing alter those threads you see so clearly? Does its entertainment grant a reprieve from the ’inevitable’?"

Keles finally turned fully to Ikenga, her veiled head tilted, an almost imperceptible hint of frustration in her posture. "The abyss is an audience, brother, not a weaver of fate. It delights in the unraveling, the tearing, the re-stitching of the pattern, but it does not dictate the material. Its blessing empowers, yes, it strengthens the hand that wields the blade, but it does not remove the blade’s ultimate destination."

"Vorenza’s recent triumph was merely a particularly vibrant thread, pulled taut and shining for a moment. It changes nothing of the loom itself."

After saying this, she raised her arm a gesture for Ikenga to take it as they went back to their room.

Meanwhile, the battlefield itself seemed to settle into a bizarre, unsettling truce. The grand, chaotic clashes of mid-tier demons and organized forces ceased. Instead, the Abyss engaged in a relentless campaign of psychological attrition. Each day brought a constant, wearisome harassment: low-tier demons, little more than ravenous shadows, scurried across the corrupted land. There were no mass charges, no sweeping invasions, just an irritating, endless stream of minor threats that forced every soldier to remain vigilant, to personally draw steel or conjure small spells to deal with the individual skirmishers.

But the true torment came with the night, or even in the quiet moments of the day when the sun seemed to lose its power. Without the grand psychic shield that had once enveloped the fortress, every soldier was now vulnerable to the unrelenting psychic nightmares oozing from the corrupted land. Whispers of madness slithered into minds, visions of impossible horrors danced behind eyelids, and raw, visceral fear gnawed at their composure. Sleep offered little respite, turning often into a deeper descent into terror. The once-clear line between friend and foe, between reality and illusion, began to blur in the minds of the weary. The battle for the fortress had transformed into a grim war of endurance, a silent, psychological siege that chipped away at the defenders’ sanity, one waking nightmare at a time.

Vellok, grim-faced, absorbed the latest reports from the front. The news was dire, a stark reminder of the mounting losses on the battlefield. The most recent blow, the deactivation of a major mage tower due to the confirmed death of its master, sent a chill through him. It was an undeniable sign that the war was escalating, and the enemy was proving more formidable than anticipated.

Now, Vellok stood before the Emperor, discussing Kaelen’s audacious new plan. There was no outright opposition, but a palpable hesitation hung in the air. The implications for their race were profound, and the risks were immense.

The situation demanded drastic measures. Every available soldier, every guard, had been deployed to the front lines. The empire had committed its entire might, holding nothing back. Only the civilians and the "useless nobles," as Vellok privately thought, remained untouched by the direct conflict.

Kaelen’s command had been a crucible of learning. His forces had broken long-held traditions, battling and even spending nights on corrupted land—a concept previously unthinkable. Before, their armies would retreat the moment a territory became tainted by the Abyss. But Kaelen understood that to reclaim what was lost and secure victory, they had to confront the demons head-on, even in their own element. To win this war, battles must be fought on these corrupted lands. Otherwise, the demonic influence would continue to spread, relentlessly shrinking their territory until nothing remained.

Thankfully, Kaelen’s firsthand experience on the corrupted lands had yielded invaluable insights. He’d not only taught them how to fight on such blighted ground but also exposed the chilling reality of the constant psychic attacks at night. More importantly, Kaelen had brought with him a reasonable counter-plan, a strategic blueprint forged in the crucible of his unique battles.

Despite this glimmer of hope, a heavy cloud of worry settled over Vellok and the Emperor. Kaelen’s methods, while effective, were radical. The sheer scale of the conflict demanded that these new, often brutal, tactics be implemented across all of the empire’s capable soldiers. The only exceptions might be the seasoned fifth-tier generals and powerful mages, whose unique abilities perhaps offered some protection or alternative strategies.

Their deepest concern, however, lay in the aftermath. Their people’s untraditional way of populating meant that any lasting taint from the Abyss could have unforeseen and devastating consequences for future generations. Who knew what risks lay ahead for the surviving soldiers and their newfound, unsettling closeness to the Abyss’s corruption? The war might be won, but at what cost to the very essence of their race?

Finally, Vellok spoke, his voice low but firm. "Your Majesty, we can debate the cost of victory until the last of our lands falls. But if we do not win this war, there will be no future generations to worry about, tainted or otherwise. There will be nothing left."

The Emperor’s eyes, filled with a grim resolve, met Vellok’s. "You are right. The immediate threat eclipses all others. We must win first."

And so, with a heavy heart but a unified purpose, they both came to the same conclusion: it was better to win the war first before worrying about anything else.

Unknown to the two, Kealen already was working on his plans whether they agreed or not.

During this time, Kaelen and Rattan, a grim, unlikely duo, embarked on their perilous quest to gather the core components for their desperate project.

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