CHAPTER 706: 706

When the thralls descended, entire villages found themselves unable to do anything but pray, scream, or wait to die. No spells. No charms. No wards. No flame or blade strong enough to push back the night.

The druids saw it all. Humans weren’t weak. The empire made them weak.

And if the empire would not lift them up, then the godlings would.

At least... those who still had compassion left in them.

Many among the godlings did not agree with the druid’s compassion. To them, what was happening to the humans was not a tragedy, it was a consequence. A price they had brought upon themselves through arrogance, ignorance, and the decisions of their rulers.

Pity was unnecessary. Responsibility? Even less so.

The humans emperor was the one playing dice with his people’s lives, sacrificing town after town in pursuit of political games only he understood. Why should the godlings be the ones to intervene? Why should they carry the burden of benevolence for a species that had repeatedly denied, insulted, and mistrusted them?

None of the godlings were pleased with the devastation occurring. They did not relish the death. They did not find joy in the suffering. But what else were they supposed to do? For centuries they had held their hands back, kept peace, upheld treaties, respected borders. And yet, humans continued to twist kindness into weakness.

Silence was mistaken for fear, patience for submission. Restraint for vulnerability.

Even the vampire godlings, who preferred isolation above all else, had been cornered into this path. They had no desire to clash with humans, nor to involve themselves in mortal politics. But the empire’s meddling, its provocations, its relentless attempts to control them... had pushed them here.

The druids, with their gentle hearts and stubborn morals, were seen by many as the ones overstepping now. Their efforts to help humans blurred the boundaries of neutrality the godlings had maintained. It felt like interference, unnecessary interference in a conflict humans had invited upon themselves.

The godlings had come to this southern continent not to be entangled in mortal chaos, but to reconnect with their kin. To experience new lands. To immerse themselves in new cultures. They had no intentions of entertaining human narratives or human illusions of superiority.

And yet, they complied with human laws. They respected human territories. They acted with the civility expected of a race with divine blood flowing through them.

Resorting to conflict over minor grievances brought them no satisfaction. Despite their power, they were not creatures of senseless violence. A good reason was needed, real justification, real harm. Not the petty whims of fragile ego-driven kings.

Erik had been one such reason.

The memory of him stirred a collective bitterness. A human whose desire, arrogance, and actions had crossed lines even the patient godlings could not tolerate. They had paid him a visit before making their way to the southern continent, and the lesson they delivered was one they felt was deserved, fully and completely.

People like him were the ones worthy of the violence the godlings unleashed. The gods knew they tried to avoid it, but some humans made avoidance impossible.

And that was why the druids actions troubled the others. Not because helping humans was wrong but because it disrupted the delicate balance the godlings had been forced into. Compassion was admirable, but in these times... it risked encouraging the same arrogance that had brought mortals to this brink in the first place.

Not all druids agreed with offering help. Even among their kind, known for compassion, neutrality, and balance, opinions diverged sharply.

Those who chose to help did so because the humans trapped in this nightmare were innocent. They were farmers, children, artisans, and wanderers, people who had no influence over imperial decisions, no power to shape policy, no part in provoking the godlings. The sins of their emperor and noble rulers, the selfish choices of those in gilded halls, should not condemn ordinary lives.

On that point, none of the godlings argued.

It was the truth.

But truth did not erase reality.

These seemingly innocent humans were the only targets available, the only ones they could direct their simmering frustration toward without triggering catastrophic consequences. It was unfair. It was unjust. But it was how the world was shaped.

The godlings, of course, would much rather direct their wrath at the people responsible: the emperor, his court, the high nobles, the puppetmasters and schemers who had repeatedly antagonized and manipulated the godling races. If justice were simple, if consequences could be delivered freely, they would have walked into those marble palaces and exacted a reckoning without hesitation.

But they could not.

These figures held political significance far beyond their personal lives. Their deaths were not merely deaths, they were statements, declarations, ripples that could turn into roars. The fall of a lord. The disappearance of a viscount. The death of a royal heir. Each incident was enough to reshape alliances, ignite wars, or fracture the fragile balance between humans and godlings.

The godlings were not afraid of consequences. Fear had nothing to do with their restraint.

What held them back was the knowledge that such actions, while personally satisfying, would become an inconvenience, an unnecessary burden placed upon their leaders and the peaceful majority of their race.

Most godlings preferred harmony. Balance. Minimal conflict. They did not wish to be dragged into the empire’s endless politics, nor to escalate tensions that would cause suffering for their own kin across other continents.

Thus the tragic reality settled in: They could not punish those who deserved it and so the only ones left were the powerless. The innocent and the unlucky.

This truth ate at the druids who refused to help. It tormented the ones who wanted justice but were forced into inaction. And it fueled the resolve of the druids who wants to help, determined, at the very least, not to let innocent blood be the canvas for political games they had no hand in.

The divide among the godlings widened, unspoken yet undeniable.

Compassion on one side. Resentment and restraint on the other.

Tension spiked the moment the group of druids who insisted on helping the humans departed. Their absence pulled the air taut, killing the appetite of the godlings who had been amusing themselves by tormenting the nobles. It felt as though their freedom had been stripped away, the empire’s cities suddenly smaller, tighter, suffocating.

Frustration churned in them, hot and restless as if their very instincts demanded to roar, to tear through the constraints pressed onto them by politics and human fragility. But they knew better. They chose to be civil, to follow the example set by the first group of their kin, the ones who had seen through the empire’s deceit early and built a separate settlement to wait for things to settle without unnecessary entanglement.

So the rest of the godlings left as well, shame burning like a second sun beneath their skin at the thought of the ridicule waiting for them. They expected mockery, jeering, or smug lectures from their wiser kin.

Instead, they were greeted with open arms, save for a few sharp jabs and well-earned remarks. Just like that, the godlings who had been turning noble lives into nightmares vanished from the empire’s cities.

The nobles should have been relieved. They should have celebrated.

But they weren’t.

Because they remembered the look in the godlings’ eyes as they walked away. That quiet disappointment. That subtle, piercing judgment. As if the humans had been expected to rise above all thist, o show dignity, courage, clarity and failed.

And somehow, that cut deeper than all the earlier pranks, terrors, and mischief.

When the druids reached the outskirts and saw the first town empty, silent, stripped of all life,they only shook their heads. Without a word, they continued on toward the next settlement, the one whose lights still burned and whose people had survived the night.

They had promised not to interfere with the empire’s rules regarding the extraordinary. But if humans learned something from the godling’s indirect actions... that was another matter entirely.

Dozens of apelings, druids from every godling lineage arrived at the edge of the living town just as the first hints of dawn crept across the sky. As they watched the horizon brighten, they shared a look, the kind that needed no words. Then, almost in unison, each pulled out a small vial and drank.

Their godling forms shimmered, bones shifting, skin smoothing, features softening until they appeared as ordinary humans. Immediately they began pulling on the human garments they had collected from the previous towns, adjusting cloaks, belts, and torn fabric with deft familiarity.

One approached an ancient tree and placed a hand against its bark. With a soft groan, a thick chunk of wood fell away as the tree gently shrank in size, offering what it could without dying. Another druid stepped forward and dripped a glowing liquid onto the roots. The tree pulsed once in gratitude.

They could have conjured wood from nothing but true druidic teaching demanded otherwise, take only what nature willingly gives, and repay every gift.