The Guardian gods-Chapter 515

He leaned forward, and though his face remained a void, Rattan felt the full weight of his presence.

"I intend to finish what I started. And if you still have the courage to walk the path you chose—then I’ll show you how deep it truly goes."

Rattan stood frozen, the silence stretching. Then, slowly, his back—once bent under the weight of fear—straightened. His voice trembled at first, but conviction quickly took root.

"If I may be bold... your grace."

The ogre stirred, the corners of his mouth twitching with something close to amusement or curiosity. He tilted his head. "Go on."

Rattan drew in a breath—sharp, shaky, but full. And then, in a rush, the words spilled out, faster than he meant them to.

"I—I didn’t study magitech out of ambition or glory. I wanted to help the ratmen... in their war against the demons. I thought—maybe—if I could understand it, if I could harness it, I could protect them. Give them a chance."

A long beat of silence followed. Rattan felt the seconds stretch, expecting punishment—condemnation. But instead, he remained alive. And more than that: he felt the ogre’s gaze settle on him with genuine interest.

Encouraged, breathless, he continued—his voice growing stronger with every word.

Rattan took another breath, his voice steadier now, though the emotion behind it was raw and unfiltered.

"Your grace must’ve looked into my background... and the sudden shift in my behavior. Truthfully, it wasn’t planned. It happened the moment I saw what was really going on at the frontlines."

He paused, his gaze distant now—seeing it all again in his mind.

"My sight—somehow—it let me see the battlefield more clearly than I ever had before. And what I saw... it changed me."

The ogre remained silent, watching.

"At first, it was just shock," Rattan continued. "But then came disappointment. Not just in the chaos of war, but in the Empire’s attitude toward it. Toward the people actually fighting it."

His hands clenched slightly at his sides.

"That disappointment became something worse when I uncovered the truth—the Empire’s extensive knowledge of magitech. The tools. The advancements. The solutions... just sitting there, locked away, while the ratmen were being slaughtered by the demons like animals."

He looked up at the ogre now, eyes shining not with tears, but with barely contained fury.

"They could have been equipped. They could have stood a chance. But instead—what I saw was a senseless massacre. And we—those who knew better—were complicit in our silence."

The ogre let Rattan’s words hang in the air for a moment, his silence thoughtful, almost heavy. Then he leaned back on the throne and posed a quiet question—simple, but loaded.

"Tell me, Rattan... do you know how the ratmen first came into contact with magitech? Even the diluted version?"

Rattan’s eyes widened. His heart skipped, then picked up speed. The question wasn’t accusatory—it was revealing. For the first time, he felt like he might not be alone. Perhaps, just perhaps, someone else had been trying to pull the same thread he had followed in isolation.

"I had a feeling you’d seen it," the ogre said, voice low and measured. "The similarities. The strange but familiar patterns in their devices. You’re not wrong—they are rooted in magitech."

He paused, as if weighing the gravity of what he was about to admit.

"I gave it to them. A watered-down version, yes—but still enough. I had hope, Rattan. Real hope. That a race so often dismissed, so belittled, could rise. That they could be a symbol. A spark. Proof that greatness doesn’t have to wear a noble name or be born with a mana-rich soul."

Rattan listened, transfixed.

"But the truth is cruel," the ogre went on, his tone darkening. "The ratmen are a cursed race, not by birth—but by the world’s refusal to see them. For centuries, they’ve struggled with magic. Mana rejects them, or perhaps they reject it. Either way, the Empire labeled them defective."

He let out a breath—not tired, but bitter.

"What they built instead, with iron and steam, was something remarkable. Crude in some ways, yes—but beautiful in its own right. A technology that bloomed in the shadows, without the Empire’s blessing."

Rattan felt a mix of awe and rage twisting in his chest.

"And just when they began to crawl toward something greater," the ogre said, his voice now laced with quiet fury, "the demons invaded. And the Empire—ever so righteous—sent them to the slaughter. A people barely on the cusp of hope... sacrificed to a war they should never have been forced to fight."

He turned his unseen gaze toward Rattan once more.

"They weren’t soldiers. They were a message. A test. And the Empire made sure that message bled before anyone could read it."

Rattan’s heart had been pounding moments ago—wild and uncontrolled—but as the ogre spoke, a strange calm began to settle over him. The kind of calm that comes before a storm—not of fear, but of calculation.

There was something almost seductive in the ogre’s words. The conviction. The passion. The weight of his regrets and hopes. If Rattan truly had been what he appeared to be—a young goblin with a bleeding heart and a hunger for justice—those words would have been enough. More than enough.

But Rattan wasn’t what he appeared to be.

He wasn’t a goblin. He had never been one.

He was a ratman—born and scarred as one—and his current form, the greenish skin, the sharper teeth, the stouter frame, was a disguise granted by his guardian’s power. A protection he had never dared shed. Not here. Not in the heart of the Empire.

The truth of his race was his alone, and he guarded it fiercely. Because he knew, better than anyone, what the Empire truly thought of his kind.

The ogre had spoken of the ratmen with sympathy. Of lost potential. Of crushed hope. He painted them as victims of circumstance, not of hate. And yet... he never mentioned the animosity. The centuries of scorn. The systemic, carefully engineered erasure. That silence rang louder than any proclamation of hope.

Rattan’s eyes narrowed slightly, just enough to be missed by anyone not paying attention. But inwardly, his thoughts sharpened like a blade.

Why skip over that part? Why avoid naming the Empire’s hatred for what it truly is?

Was it an omission? Or a manipulation strategy?

Rattan’s breathing slowed. His pulse, once frantic, now ticked with focused precision. He was no longer just listening—he was studying.

And though a part of him still ached to believe the ogre might be an ally in his lonely rebellion... another part, deeper and older, whispered that the most dangerous lies were the ones laced with just enough truth.

Now better at controlling his expression, Rattan gazed at the ogre with what appeared to be pure admiration, his tone soft but sincere.

"I’m truly honored," he said. "To be in the presence of someone so great—someone who shares the same dream I do."

Carefully choosing his words, Rattan continued, "My goal with magitech was always to develop it to a point where it could be deployed to aid the ratmen in the war. But from what you’ve said, Your Grace... it sounds like the Empire might not support such an idea. So—what part do you see me playing in your vision?"

The ogre nodded slowly, appearing thoughtful, though his mask-like face betrayed no emotion.

But inwardly, his mind stirred.

Indeed... the Empire’s true aim is the slow, methodical erasure of the ratmen. Their existence has always been a thorn in the Empire’s side—a reminder of what it can’t control. I never cared for them, not truly... but that thorn, that irritation, made them useful. Worth protecting.

Before the invasion, I had to tread carefully. Any outward support for the ratmen would have cost me everything. But now, with the world on fire... the rules have changed. I am no longer just a scholar or relic of a bygone age. I am a weapon. A necessity.

The Empire needs me now. And that gives me the room to move... to act.

Finally, the ogre leaned forward slightly, and his voice, when it came, was deep and deliberate.

"The role you play, Nixbolt," the ogre said, his voice low and resonant, "depends entirely on your resolve. If you’re ready to walk further down this path, I’ll give you the means to do so."

He paused, the weight of his next words hanging in the air like a blade.

"But first... your strength isn’t enough. Breakthrough. Become an official First-Level Mage. Only then will you have the foundation you need."

The ogre leaned back into his massive throne, the shadows pooling around him as he continued.

"After that, focus on your magitech studies—but don’t stop there. Seek out others like yourself: ambitious, daring, and disillusioned. Recruit them. You’ll need allies, not just for your cause, but to make the Empire take notice. To make them reconsider their actions."

"Whatever you build for the ratmen—whatever hope you manage to forge—I will see it delivered. You have my word."

Then, with a casual flick of his fingers, he gestured toward the dark space beside Rattan.

"You are dismissed."

Rattan’s lips parted, an unspoken question trembling on his tongue—but before the words could form, the mage from earlier reappeared in a ripple of dark energy. Without a word, he gripped Rattan’s shoulder and dragged him into the shimmering portal.