CHAPTER 635: 635

His knees wanted to give in again, but he forced them to lock. His pride, the last fragment refused to let him crumple before Zarvok, even if only for appearances.

Inside, though, the truth burned: he had no path but the one laid before him. The demon lord owned him, body and soul.

Still, a small ember whispered in the back of his mind: Puppets can cut their strings if they find the right knife.

Zarvok, lounging with casual poise on his throne, smirked as if he had overheard every unspoken word clawing at Rattan’s mind. And in truth, he had. The abyss was his ear, his eye, his hand. Nothing within its reach could be hidden from him.

"You think of knives," Zarvok said smoothly, his voice dripping with amusement. "Of rebellion. Of freedom." His crimson gaze fixed on Rattan, sharp enough to pierce through the emperor’s clenched fists and hollow pride. "Good. That flame will serve me well."

Rattan’s throat tightened. For an instant he thought he had been discovered in treason, that this was the moment he would be crushed like an insect. But instead, Zarvok leaned closer, almost conspiratorial.

"Understand, puppet of mine," Zarvok continued, "a hollow man cannot rule. Your people must see strength. They must see ambition, hunger, pride... even if it is borrowed pride, borrowed strength. That is how they will move where I direct them. Not as my slaves, but as your subjects."

The words wrapped around Rattan like chains of honeyed steel. He could not tell if they offered hope or tightened his prison.

Zarvok straightened, his smirk never faltering. "So let that little ember in your chest burn, Rattan. Dream your dreams of cutting strings. Aspire, rage, curse me in silence if you must. It changes nothing, because every fire you kindle becomes my stage, every dream you shape becomes my army’s foundation."

With a flick of his hand, the illusion of Rattan’s people shimmered brighter. They appeared kneeling before an empty throne, waiting, desperate for direction.

"Now," Zarvok said, his tone shifting from indulgent to commanding. "Step into your role. Walk to your throne, Rattan. Show them their emperor has returned."

Rattan’s feet moved before he decided to move them. Each step toward the phantom throne felt like a betrayal of himself, yet Zarvok’s words echoed in his mind: A hollow man cannot rule.

Back in the main world, six decades had passed since the new gods first ascended. Entire generations had been born and raised under their reign, shaping a new era of stability, innovation, and hidden conflict. In this span of time, not only had a new god ascended altering the balance of divine power once again, but a new profession had also emerged, one tied closely to the new divinity. These changes rippled through every corner of society.

The turning point had come when the four great godling races began to notice troubling patterns. Reports filtered in of the Beast Kings, creatures who were supposed to embody primal sovereignty over their domains, vanishing one after another.

The four races gathered in council, their leaders locked in grave debate. At first, suspicion and doubt clouded their judgment, was this the work of known enemy, an unseen hand of his games, or something worse? It was only after weeks of careful scrying, scouting, and whispered exchanges with those close to the beast kings that a revelation came to light: the disappearances were orchestrated. Someone, or something, was pulling strings from the shadows, manipulating events with a precision and foresight that unsettled even the most seasoned of the godlings.

The name of the mastermind emerged "Krogan". None of the races knew the full extent of his power or intentions, but his influence was undeniable. The godlings, unwilling to plunge the world into open conflict without understanding their enemy, resolved upon a course of cautious diplomacy. Each race would send forth envoys to confront Krogan directly and discern his designs.

The decision demanded subtlety. They could not risk alerting the humans or the wider world, for the consequences of open knowledge might spark panic or worse, curiosity. Thus, the gates, those mighty shortcuts across the continents, were deliberately left untouched. To reveal their hand by using such obvious means would be too dangerous. Instead, the envoys were dispatched in silence, setting out on a long and arduous journey across land and sea.

The harpies, already on their homeground on the western continent, circled high over the dark forests and broken plains that marked the cursed land’s border. For the others, the road was slower and grueling. Beasts, storms, and hostile terrain tested their resolve, but secrecy demanded patience. Two months passed before, beneath the pale silver light of the moon, the scattered envoys at last converged.

The harpies descended from the skies in the dead of night, as they joined the groundbound delegations. There was no need for speeches or delay. With tension thick in the cool night air, the assembled teams acknowledged one another with silent nods.

Without waiting for dawn, they turned their steps toward the cursed land, the realm where Krogan awaited. The team of twenty godlings, five Harpies with wings folded tight against the mist, five apelings with their sinewy frames taut with anticipation, five Mermen whose tridents and whips gleamed faintly even in the moonlight, and five Werewolves, their eyes glinting amber, stood shoulder to shoulder at the threshold of the cursed land. The mist roiled before them, thick and unnerving, carrying with it the stench of decay and the faint echoes of whispers that seemed to crawl into their ears.

Yet there was no fear in their faces. Instead, excitement burned in their eyes. To be chosen for this mission was no burden, it was an honor, a rare break from the stagnant grandeur of their kind. For godlings, true challenges had become scarce; their power, their status, their long lives had dulled the edge of adventure. But here, finally, was a calling worthy of their blood. They had volunteered without hesitation, eager for the unknown.

They exchanged glances and took their first step forward. The mist coiled around them like a living thing, swallowing their silhouettes one by one until the cursed land devoured them completely.

Far away, their leaders watched through tuned scrying pools and enchanted crystals, the sight relayed across distances through the channels. They saw their chosen disappear into the fog... and then nothing. The link snapped. The image went dark.

On his throne of blackened bronze and stormwinds, Zephyr’s brows knitted in displeasure. This was not what he needed, not now, not when their are so many uncertainity. The cursed land was already treacherous, but to lose all sight the moment his people crossed its threshold? That was deliberate. Someone wanted them blind.

Zephyr’s fingers drummed against the armrest of his throne, the weight of decision pressing upon him. He could not intervene directly, not without shattering the delicate balance the four races had agreed upon. But he needed sight. He needed certainty.

Before he could summon his people in charge of surveillance or press further with his will, a second message arrived, carried by the urgent gust of wind.

He froze.

The words rang through his mind like a crack of thunder: a threat, not from the western continent, but dangerously close, far too close to ignore. The cursed land and Krogan’s shadow games were perilous, yes, but this... this new message carried a danger that touched his borders, his people, his throne.

Meanwhile, the group who had entered the cursed land pressed deeper, their footsteps muffled by the damp earth of a swampy forest. The air was thick, heavy with a sour stench that clung to their lungs. Around them, ancient trees twisted unnaturally, their bark weeping black sap. Vines dangled from every branch, shifting and writhing as if alive, slithering against the damp ground like serpents.

At first, the godlings kept their pace steady, their confidence unshaken. But that calm was shattered when one of the apelings felt a sudden tug. In the span of a breath, thick vines lashed around his leg and yanked him toward the murky undergrowth. His comrades spun in alarm, only to see him react with reflexive precision: a sharp wave of his hand, and a wind blade carved through the vine, splattering dark sap that hissed as it hit the soil.

The group tightened their formation after that, eyes sharp, weapons ready. No more carelessness. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat.

What unsettled them most, however, was not the forest itself, but the creatures that crawled within it. To call them "mutations" would have been too kind. These were abominations, perversions of natural form. A snake slithered across their path, but instead of scales, its body sprouted countless centipede legs that clattered against the ground in a sickening rhythm. Above them, a bird wheeled clumsily through the mist. Its body was grotesquely swollen, its wings far too small to support its bulk, yet it flew with a jerking, unnatural grace, as though forced by unseen strings.

The further they walked, the worse it became. Wolves with eyeless faces, yet noses that twitched constantly as though sniffing into their very souls. Fish that flopped through the swamp waters on crude limbs of bone, their gaping mouths filled with jagged shards that clicked together like teeth grinding in impatience.