The Guardian gods-Chapter 812
One by one, the leaders departed the pocket space, their fading presences leaving Zephyr in a contemplative silence. His final piece of advice, the suggestion to begin the Dispersion on a small scale had been framed as a tactical benefit for all, but in truth, it was a move designed almost entirely for himself.
From its very creation, the Great Dispersion was never a universal vision. It was a plan crafted by his grandfather, Ikenga, solely for the benefit of the Apelings. The other Godling races had never been part of the original design.
Clutching the journal in his hand, Zephyr felt the weight of his leadership position pressing down on him. He could see his grandfather’s vision with a clarity his father, Ikem, had likely shared but was simply too kind-hearted to execute. Ikem had been a man of empathy, Zephyr was a man of legacy.
Ikenga had never harbored much concern for the common Apeling masses. His creation of the Four Cursed Apeling Clans was the definitive proof of his elitism. To his grandfather, the Apeling Kingdom began and ended with those four lineages. Everything outside that inner circle was secondary mere background noise to the true purpose of his work.
The clans had been engineered for superiority. They were crafted to be a uniquely talented race, even without a direct bloodline connection as potent as a demigod’s, their "cursed" status granted them a natural aptitude that bridged that gap. They were born into a state of perfection that didn’t require much, only the activation of their own latent potential.
The Dispersion was, at its heart, a calculated consolidation of power. It was a plan to centralize the Four Cursed Clans, elevating them as the undisputed pillars of the Apeling Kingdom. To Ikenga, the "common" Apelings were never meant to be players on the grand stage, they were merely intended to stay out of the way, fill in missing gaps while enjoying the security and livelihood provided by the shadow of the Four Clans.
While it wore the mask of a protective decree, the underlying cruelty was undeniable. To his grandfather, any Apeling born outside those specific lineages, regardless of their individual strength or hard-won status was part of a disposable collective. Only the Cursed Clans carried the weight of true importance.
Zephyr understood perfectly why his father, Ikem, had recoiled from this vision. His father’s heart had been too soft to view his own subjects as mere fodder. Yet, as Zephyr stood alone, he remembered his father’s frequent warning "You bear a striking resemblance to your grandfather." Thinking on it now, Zephyr realized that this cold clarity was likely one of the reasons the throne had been passed to him instead of any of his siblings.
Zephyr didn’t see cruelty in this, he saw the harsh necessity of survival. He recognized the grim truth in Ikenga’s goal because he had studied the steady decline of their race. With every passing generation of Godlings, the connection to the Origin Gods grew thinner. Their bloodlines were diluting, each new birth resulted in less natural talent and a shorter lifespan for those unable to bridge the gap through sheer strength breakthrough.
To Zephyr, the Four Cursed Clans weren’t just a preference, they were a desperate anchor. They were the only ones with the cursed biological resilience to withstand the slow erosion of their origin lineage. If the rest of the race had to be sidelined to ensure the survival of the strongest, it was a price he was more than willing to pay.
The true weight of the godilng race situation had been masked by the very prosperity the Godlings enjoyed. With an abundance of resources at their disposal, the steady decay of their nature went unnoticed. Life-extending potions were as common as water, effectively hiding the shrinking lifespans and the thinning of their ancestral lineage
As a leader, Zephyr saw through the golden haze. He recognized that only two groups were exempt from this slow, creeping "curse" of time and bloodline dilution.
The first were those of the direct lineage, the children of the Demigods born of the Origin Gods. These first-generation offspring retained the raw strength and vast capacity of their parents. When they paired with others of the same generation, their children continued to hold that bloodline spark, maintaining the purity of their bloodline against the tide of entropy.
The second group was the Four Cursed Clans. Through the hands of Ikenga’s engineering, they were biologically anchored; they did not suffer the same erosion of power that plagued the rest of the Godling races. For Zephyr, this made the Great Dispersion an absolute necessity, one way or the other.
The Dispersion would prune the dead weight, at the same time push those with weaker bloodline out so they can no longer weaken bloodlines through marriage and couplings and at the same time would force the Apeling Kingdom to evolve.
It would turn the Four Clans into the hardened pillars of a new era. As for the risk of stagnation, the fear that even the Cursed Clans might grow soft if they continued to enjoy an abundance of resources, Zephyr already had other plans in motion to ensure they remained as they should be.
Zephyr stood alone in the lingering silence of the pocket space, the weight of the journal in his hand feeling heavier than before. He was certain that Kael and Wulv, with their formidable intellects, were already tracing the same patterns of decay. They likely saw the thinning of the blood and the creeping shadow of mortality just as clearly as he did.
But unlike Zephyr they were working from a position of disadvantage. Their Godling races, for all their glory, lacked a Cursed Clan of their own. While Kael and Wulv were forced to engineer hope from the ground up, Zephyr was merely maintaining a masterpiece.
Zephyr’s understanding of his grandfather was sharp . When Ikenga first handed that journal to Ikem at the dawn of his journey, "global guidance" for all the godlings hadn’t been the goal. Elitism amongst the apelings was the sole focus.
At the time, Ikenga believed a day would come when he himself and his siblings would crash through their creation.
To ensure his own dominance in that future discourse, Ikenga had thought of the Four Cursed Clans. They were never meant to be mere citizens, they were his hidden hand if ever such a clash occurred.
But history took a different turn. The clash of the Origin Gods never came to pass. The divine siblings did not tear each other apart, they instead got closer and now they have simply drifted into a quiet, distant observation.
With a heavy sigh, Zephyr finally turned his back and left the pocket space which fell apart with no one holding together. There were affairs to settle, plans to weave, and goodbyes to be said.
Months drifted by, after the momentous birth of the new god and the arrival of the paragons. Yet, while the world below was adjusting to these shifts, a lone figure took to the sky. With effortless power, they shattered the atmosphere and ascended into the crushing silence of the deep void.
This silent traveler drifted past the twin moons of the planet Nana, steering toward the distant lights of the surrounding celestial bodies.
The figure moved from world to world, like a scout surveying the desolate reaches of the system. Each stop seemed calculated, a search for something but none seem to meet the figure’s condition. Finally, one planet caught the figure’s eye. Descending through a thin, hazy veil, the traveler touched down upon the rusted, frozen surface of the red uninhabitable planet.
Reaching down, the figure scooped up a handful of the dry, crimson earth, letting the dust slip through their fingers. With a fluid motion, the figure pulled back the dark robe that had shielded his identity, revealing Osita, his expression etched with a grim determination.
High above, a massive magic circle ignited, shimmering like a crown over his head. It expanded with violent speed, swelling until it blotted out the stars in the distance, before descending like a shimmering veil to seep deep into the crust of the dead world.
In that same moment, the latent power of his domain surged. A massive, ornate door manifested before him, its frame rooting itself into the iron-rich soil as if it had been always part of the planet.
As the door anchored, the planet itself responded. A key, forged from the very minerals of the red earth, rose from the ground and drifted into Osita’s waiting palm. He tightened his grip on the cold stone.
With this key in his possession, he finally had the means to get his wife away to safety, under the now watchful, prying eyes of the new paragons in the Omadi Kingdom.
Before he departed, Osita gripped the handle and pushed the door open. On the other side lay nothing but a silent, absolute void. As he stared into the darkness, a queen’s crown materialized in his gaze, its golden glint carrying a sudden, crushing wave of memory. With a sharp exhale, he cast the crown into the abyss, the heavy thud of the door slamming shut echoing across the red plains.
