The Guardian gods-Chapter 484

A hidden truth lay within those pages, one not spoken aloud but now revealed to him—the illusion of choice. What had seemed like an empire where all voices mattered was, in reality, a masterfully designed mechanism of control. And now, Zephyr alone bore the weight of this knowledge.

Yet, with this revelation came another—one that unsettled him far more.

The book pointed out a growing issue within the kingdom, one that Zephyr had not yet noticed but would inevitably come to face. What disturbed him most was not the problem itself—though it was indeed a grave one—but rather the solution the book proposed. The words seemed almost alive, as if the book could peer into his mind, recognizing his unease and addressing it before he had even finished forming the thought.

And unknown to him, someone else had already acknowledged the issue and was handling it. But not in the way the book recommended.

A subtle tension settled into Zephyr’s chest. The knowledge burned within him, and instinctively, he rebelled against it. The floating books that encircled him were not mere sources of information; they were his weapons against a truth he desperately wanted to disprove. If the book was right, then everything he believed in—everything his father had built—was at risk. And so, he had begun his own record, an effort to counter what he had read, to carve out a different path.

For ten years, he had searched, studied, and documented. Ten years of gathering knowledge, seeking alternatives, fighting against the quiet, suffocating certainty that the book was right.

And yet, despite all his efforts, a lingering question remained.

Was he merely delaying the inevitable?

The more Zephyr studied the book, the more he was forced to accept a grim truth—one he had spent years trying to deny. Every insight, every warning embedded in its pages had proven true.

It was in the Chapter titled "The Fall of the Great Power" that he finally understood what the book had been foreshadowing all along. For ten years, he had sought to decipher its meaning, and now, with unsettling clarity, the answer lay before him.

If he were to condense the problem into its simplest form, it was this:

"The Apelings, and not only them but the Godlings as well, had grown too comfortable."

It was a bitter realization, yet one that explained everything. Complacency had taken root within the kingdom. Strength, wisdom, and structure had built an empire that seemed unshakable, yet it was that very stability that would lead to its downfall.

At the beginning of the book, his grandfather Ikenga had written,

"Whoever lays their hands upon this book will bring about the birth of a great power."

Yet, in the final passages, he had left behind a far grimmer message:

"Just as this great power is birthed, so too will its fall be mocked by those who come after. They will learn from its failure and laugh with pointed fingers at the fallen empire, saying: ’How could you, with so much power and wisdom, overlook such a simple problem?’"

Zephyr exhaled slowly, gripping the edges of the book as if anchoring himself to reality. The words struck him deeper than any blade.

This downfall was not an act of war, not the result of some external enemy. No great conqueror would lay waste to their kingdom. No divine punishment would strike them down.

No.

Their end would come from within.

The book’s strange power allowed anyone to read its contents, no matter their language or origin, yet there was one section that remained hidden to all but the cursed clans. That passage held an even more cutting truth:

"It is a simple problem for those who laugh, for they could never grow to such heights where something ’so small’ would become their downfall."

Zephyr’s jaw tightened. It was cruel in its simplicity. Those who would later mock the kingdom’s demise would never understand how problems at the peak of power differed from those at the bottom. To them, such an issue would seem insignificant, laughable. But only those who had risen to great heights would understand how something seemingly trivial could fester and unravel an empire from within.

His grandfather had made his point even clearer through a parable—a short, seemingly insignificant tale woven into the book’s pages.

The story disturbed Zephyr so much that he had spent days poring over historical records, searching for any trace of it. Had this event truly happened in their world? Had his grandfather witnessed it firsthand? If not, then how had he come to know of it?

The more he searched, the more questions he uncovered.

And the more questions he uncovered, the more uneasy he became.

The tale spoke of two figures—the Conqueror and the Conquered.

The Conqueror hailed from a barren land, a place where survival was a constant struggle, where resources were scarce, and every day was a battle against nature itself. His people had known hardship for generations, and from that hardship was born an unyielding will to take what they needed to survive.

The Conquered, by contrast, lived in a land of abundance. Their soil was rich, their rivers flowed with clear water, and their cities flourished under the shade of fruit-bearing trees. They had everything they needed—food, shelter, wealth—so much so that they never once considered the possibility of loss.

Then came the fateful day when the Conqueror set his eyes upon the land of the Conquered. He saw not just resources, but opportunity—the kind that his homeland had never afforded him. And so, he did what he had been raised to do.

He conquered.

Generation after generation, the cycle continued. The Conqueror’s descendants took the wealth of the conquered land, using it to build their own empire, turning their once-barren homeland into a land of beauty and opportunity. Over time, the once-struggling conquerors created a nation so grand that even the descendants of the conquered were drawn to it.

Then came the debate.

The descendants of both sides—those of the Conqueror and the Conquered—stood before one another, locked in heated discussion. It was an argument fueled by history, by identity, by a clash of perspectives too deep-rooted to be easily reconciled.

And then, one voice from the Conqueror’s side posed a question—perhaps out of curiosity, perhaps out of arrogance, or maybe sheer ignorance.

"If your land and people were so great, then how come you weren’t the conquerors?"

A hush fell over the gathering. The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

The descendant of the Conquered frowned, confusion flickering across his face. To him, the answer was obvious—so obvious, in fact, that he hesitated, wondering if he had misunderstood the question.

And yet, he gave the only answer that made sense to him.

"Why bother to conquer when we had it all?"

The room fell silent.

It was in that moment that Zephyr understood. The weight of the story settled deep in his bones, intertwining with the knowledge he had already gathered from the book.

It wasn’t just a tale. It was a warning.

Zephyr’s grip on the book tightened for a brief moment before he exhaled, forcing his fingers to relax. The knowledge within its pages was damning, and yet it was not the words that stung the most—it was the fact that he had seen the signs himself and still refused to acknowledge them until now. He had let himself become blind, indifferent, complacent—the very thing he loathed and vowed to never be.

His eyes flickered over to his own book of records, floating gently before him, as if mocking his earlier confidence. It opened on its own, revealing the cold, hard calculations he had painstakingly compiled. Numbers. Ratios. Declining trends. Proof that the stagnation wasn’t just paranoia—it was real.

The birthrate among his people had plummeted.

Fewer and fewer individuals were advancing in strength.

Innovative thought had dulled. No new techniques, no revolutionary insights—just repetition. The same cycles over and over, slowly dulling to mediocrity. Even the Apeling Academy, which had once been a crucible of ambition and fire, was now little more than a smoldering ember. What was once a thriving competition between the common apelings and the cursed clan had become a shadow of its former self. There was no hunger. No drive. No defiance against fate.

And yet Ikenga had predicted all this.

Zephyr’s jaw clenched. He thought of the god’s detached gaze, the way he spoke of curses with neither remorse nor justification, simply stating them as truths woven into reality. A god of curses. A god who did not intervene. A god who let things rot away, waiting for them to wither into something new, something that would force itself to survive or be swept away entirely "God of nature"

"How evil and indifferent can a god be to curse something his own son created?" Zephyr thought bitterly as he snapped the book shut.

But was it truly cruelty? Or was it merely the nature of divinity?

His own anger felt like a mirror, reflecting something deeper within himself. Perhaps what unsettled him the most wasn’t Ikenga’s apathy, but the realization that he had already been cursed long before he even recognized it. Stagnation had crept into his people, and in turn, into himself.