The Guardian gods-Chapter 497

He remembered his mother’s words—their birthright as Origin gods: "You are not made to strive. You are made to be." They were born from raw cosmic potential, beings who required no growth, no learning, only time to ascend further into themselves. But Xerosis, with her blisters and her brilliance, her fragile need to be understood and the stubborn strength she used to shape her realm—she had become something more.

Elsewhere, Jaus had withdrawn back into his own expansive realm, where the sea moved as he wished and reality danced to his quiet hums. There, he was no longer the god of sea and storms—he was simply a father. Flowua, his daughter and newly ascended, basked in the nostalgia of being doted on again. She missed the feeling of being a cherished child, a little princess twirling in the halls. Her father’s domain had grown immensely over the past centuries, full of hidden corners and strange wonders she had yet to explore. It was a playground of infinite dreams, and she indulged herself completely, knowing she was safe, adored, and, most importantly, seen.

And in the heart of another realm, Mahu reigned with the unchecked zeal of a mother reunited with her brood. Every day, Ikem and Maul were smothered with waves of affection that teetered between divine warmth and unrelenting chaos. She fed them, hugged them, kissed their foreheads unceasingly, and, in the same breath, rattled off an endless stream of potential names for their newest sibling—who, by all accounts, had yet to be made.

"I was thinking Adannaya! Or maybe Erika! What do you think? Something soft, don’t you think? Ikem, Maul, listen to me—this is important—"

The two gods, once formidable in their own right, now found themselves humbled, desperate, and in silent prayer.

"Please, Ikenga," Maul whispered one morning, as Mahu braided glowing strands of his hair into patterns old as the stars, "come back soon. I can’t do this anymore."

Ikem, beside him, nodded solemnly, his expression hollow, his eyes red from another night of divine lullabies and ancient childhood stories that would never, ever end.

The Origin Gods, once aloof, had been pulled into the gravity of love, purpose, and quiet transformation.

Though they resided in realms far removed from the clamor of mortal lives, the Origin Gods had begun to shift in subtle, irreparable ways.

Once, they had been content to exist as abstract forces—divine constants around which the world turned. They observed the world as one might watch a river run: distant, unmoving, beautiful. But ever since the ascension of their children and the ripple it caused in the realm of gods, something had stirred within them.

It began as curiosity. Then, fascination. Now, it has evolved into a slow-burning understanding.

For the first time in their timeless lives, the Origin Gods were beginning to comprehend why they were once named the Guardian Gods.

The title had always seemed ornamental—a grand label for beings so far removed from danger, conflict, or struggle. After all, what need did the world have for guardians when there was nothing that could ever truly threaten it? But now, with the ascension of the new gods, with Murmur whispering at the edge of all things, and with the ascended gods changing the tempo of the divine symphony—they finally understood.

They had not been called Guardians for what they did, but for what they would one day be required to do.

And that realization unnerved and excited them.

They had been idle not out of negligence, but because their world—their domain—had never truly required their intervention. So long as balance held, their presence had been unnecessary. But now the balance teetered, and even their old blood began to stir. There was, for the first time in years, the possibility of danger. A whisper of something strong enough to challenge them.

Something like them or similar to them.

Their awareness of this fact did not manifest in panic or even urgency. Instead, it was a quiet, collective awakening. A hum beneath their thoughts. They didn’t speak it aloud, but all of them felt it: the pull of responsibility. The weight of potential action. The slow birth of purpose.

And amidst all of this, they waited.

They waited for Ikenga and Keles to return. More than familial yearning. It was anticipation.

For while the Origin Gods still stood at the peak of creation, they had begun to feel a certain loneliness. Their power was unmatched. Their roles unquestioned. But they had never truly interacted with their equals.

Crepuscular, in his quiet moments beside Xerosis, often found himself lost in thought. Will his sibilings return changed? he wondered. Stronger than before? Stranger?

Mahu, between suffocating her children in affection whispered prayers—not to another god, but to the cosmos itself. Let them return safe. Let them return ready.

Because when Ikenga and Keles returned, the stage would be set. The universe would no longer be a place where only Origin Gods reigned in silence. It would become a world of dialogue, challenge, and shared stewardship. The old gods would, for the first time, meet beings on equal footing—beings not bound by birthright.

And with that, the title of Guardian would no longer be a dormant prophecy.

It would become an active vow.

Back in the Invaded World, the landscape had changed so drastically that only echoes of its former self remained. The skies, once blue or gray depending on the season, were now forever shrouded in a swirling tempest of smoke and thick, oppressive clouds laced with demonic energy. These clouds pulsated faintly with a sickly crimson glow, as if the sky itself had become a living wound festering above the earth.

The scars of war were visible for miles. From the original breach where the abyssal portal first tore open the fabric of reality, waves of corruption stretched far and wide. Jagged black spires erupted from the ground like broken teeth, marking the spread of the abyss demons’ dominion. What were once fertile lands, bustling towns, and peaceful forests had long since been twisted into grotesque mockeries of their former selves—twisted trees that wept blood, rivers that ran sluggish and dark, and ruins that echoed with the screams of the dead.

Despite their massive spread, the flow of demons through the portal had not slowed. If anything, it had grown more frenzied—an endless tide of snarling, shifting horrors pouring forth from the abyss. And now, they no longer marched unchallenged. They face an enemy one disturbingly similar in nature—chaotic, massive in numbers and filled with resentment.

Amidst this chaos, the empire showed its true face. Gone was the veil of civility, the speeches of unity and honor. Years of subtle cruelty had finally erupted into open brutality. The empire had stripped away its hollow rhetoric and embraced the cold, ruthless machine beneath. And at the center of its cruelty stood the ratmen.

Once offered the illusion of choice, the ratmen people were now met with iron and fire. Villages were razed. Families torn apart. The old were drafted alongside the young, trained with harsh discipline or sent to die as cannon fodder.

Even newborns were not spared—left to the wilds or thrown into labor camps to toil until they could hold a blade.

Confusion and grief swept through the ratmen communities. They had lived under the empire’s shadow for generations, trying to survive, to contribute, even to show loyalty. They believed themselves safe—perhaps not equal, but tolerated. The empire’s sudden and violent shift left them stunned, unable to grasp why they were being hunted, why they were no longer citizens but enemies.

What they failed to understand was that something had changed within the empire’s core—something known only to a few in the highest echelons of power. A hidden event from years prior had shaken the empire’s leadership to its core, unraveling old doctrines and instilling a single, blood-soaked priority: extermination.

Whatever this event was, it had not only redefined the empire’s goals, but also birthed a paranoia so deep that even the invasion itself was considered secondary. The ratmen, once a marginalized but tolerated race, were now seen as a threat that could not be allowed to persist.

The empire, ever calculating in its cruelty, found a way to kill two birds with one stone. With cold pragmatism, they orchestrated the end of the ratmen race—not by their own blades, but through the merciless hands of the invading abyssal demons. It was a perfect solution in their eyes. The ratmen, now forcibly conscripted and thrown into the heart of battle, became expendable buffers—cannon fodder to slow the abyssal tide while the empire’s true soldiers regrouped and conserved strength for their own ends.

Each ratman death served a dual purpose: weakening the demon horde, and advancing the empire’s quiet genocide. No longer did the empire have to stain its own hands with the blood of an entire race.

Far from this charnel theater of war, deep within the heart of the abyss, Ikenga and Keles had returned to Zarvok’s sanctuary. A strange contrast to the battlefield they had left behind, the scene now was one of decadent stillness.