The Guardian gods-Chapter 498

Ikenga lounged in a steaming abyssal hotspring, the blackened waters bubbling gently around him, their warmth tinged with strange magical energy that soothed both muscle and spirit. Surrounding him were women—eerie and beautiful, their forms both human and not, born of the abyss and yet sculpted to allure. Their hands moved across his body with practiced grace, massaging out the tension from his shoulders. Some whispered praise in ancient tongues. Others giggled softly as they traced the jagged scars across his chest and arms.

Scars that should have faded long ago.

Any ordinary wound would have vanished from Ikenga’s body with a single thought, his form easily capable of rejecting injury. But these he had kept, though not by choice. Something deeper, buried in the marrow of his soul, wanted them to remain. Subconsciously, he clung to the pain they represented. These scars were not marks of weakness, but memories—proof that he had felt something real for the first time in what felt like an eternity. That fight, brutal and exhilarating, had given him something no pleasure or conquest ever had in recent years: fun.

And now, as his body lay relaxed and half-submerged, his single remaining eye stared into the rising steam, glazed over with the weight of memory. The soft moan of the springs and the faint sighs of the women became white noise against the louder echo of the past.

On the edge of the spring, Keles sat cross-legged with uncharacteristic stillness. Her normally sharp and impatient demeanor was dulled, focused entirely on the grotesque trophy Ikenga had brought back with him—the severed head of a cursed being, or rather, what remained of it. Its twisted features were frozen in an expression of agony and defiance, its aura still faintly pulsing with residual curse energy. She studied it like one might a riddle or a weapon yet to be understood.

Back in the water, one of the women’s hands began to wander. She drifted lower, fingers brushing bold territory. Ikenga raised a brow lazily but said nothing. He didn’t stop her, nor did he encourage her. His mind was no longer here—not really.

Because in the privacy of his thoughts, he was still back in that moment—steel clashing against flesh, the roar of a dying enemy, the thrill of near-death. He could still smell the blood in the air, still feel the heat of the cursed aura biting at his skin.

And it made him smile, just a little.

After their last serious exchange, Ikenga found himself weighed down not just by the words he had spoken to Keles, but by the way he had delivered them. Harsh. Dismissive. Demeaning. It had not been his intention to belittle her, but intention rarely softened the sting of truth, especially when wrapped in cold steel.

For a while, he told himself it was necessary. That she needed to hear it. That, as gods walking a world of treachery and ruin, sentimentality was a luxury they couldn’t afford. But even amidst his pride and pragmatism, a flicker of guilt remained. And it grew.

So he began to think: how could he make it up to her? What could this dark, desolate world possibly offer that would be worthy of a goddess like Keles—the mistress of death and darkness.

The answer came to him, not in words, but in memory.

He recalled a subtle moment—her gaze lingering a little too long on the soul of a sixth-stage being, her aura vibrating faintly with curiosity and fascination. She had been intrigued then, perhaps even moved. It was rare to see Keles interested in anything, let alone the soul of a creature whose power rivaled gods.

And so, a seed of inspiration took root.

Death.

What better gift could he offer a goddess like her than a soul steeped in power and suffering? A relic of finality. A symphony of destruction. The gift of the dead.

Ikenga buried the idea deep within his mind, locking it away like a prize not yet claimed. He would act when the time was right.

As the carriage approached the great abyssal portal, the world outside grew dimmer, the air thick with heavy, demonic energy. Inside the carriage, however, the stillness was heavier than the air itself.

The silence between them wasn’t hostile, but it was dense—saturated with unspoken thoughts and unfinished feelings.

Ikenga stared out the window, jaw clenched, his only eye reflecting the void-scape beyond. He said nothing, but his mind was a storm. Regret tangled with resolve. Should he apologize? Would she even accept it? He wasn’t used to explaining himself—not to anyone. And yet, Keles was not just anyone. freeweɓnøvel.com

Across from him, Keles sat stiff and quiet, arms folded loosely, fingers drumming against her elbow in a slow, thoughtful rhythm. But her silence did not mean resentment. Quite the opposite.

She felt shame—not from his words, but because they had hit closer to the truth than she liked to admit. He was right. She had allowed herself to be manipulated too easily, swept into someone else’s game. If not for Ikenga’s intervention—his warning, his grounding presence—she might have walked blindly into a trap she would never escape.

But unlike what Ikenga believed, she wasn’t angry at him. She was angry at herself. And more than that, she felt something deeper: a flickering desire not to retreat from his judgment, but to prove herself worthy of standing beside him. Not beneath him, not behind him—beside.

All she needed was a chance. A real opportunity to show her strength, her control, her clarity.

And that unspoken tension—the guilt, the shame, the pride, the need to reconcile—hung thick in the space between them, filling every breath with meaning neither of them dared speak aloud.

Then, without thinking, she glanced up.

Ikenga sat with his shoulders square but heavy, one arm resting on the window frame, his brown eye half-lidded with thought. There was something distant in his gaze, a quiet turmoil masked beneath the sharp edges of his features.

Keles parted her lips to speak, her thoughts finally forming into words—yet before a single sound escaped, Ikenga’s form shimmered... and unraveled into a cascade of dark crimson petals.

They drifted gently to the floor of the carriage, flickering with embers of godly energy, then vanished before they ever touched it.

A breath later, she felt his presence outside.

Then came his voice—soft, deep, and unshakable—not in the air, but in her mind. A whisper wrapped in power:

"Wait for my gift."

Keles’s eyes widened, a storm of questions and fury beginning to boil inside her, but before she could rise, she realized—she couldn’t move.

Invisible bindings clung to her limbs like shadowed chains. She grit her teeth in defiance, her energy flaring, but the seal was precise—measured—not meant to harm, only to delay.

From the front of the carriage, Vaegur and Lavderh stirred. They’d felt the shift.

Ikenga’s command had been clear, and both guardians knew they had only seconds before Keles shattered her restraints. Acting without hesitation, the two fused their energies—Vaegur’s goblin form was gone, replaced by a hulking demonic presence and Lavderh’s wooden-like flesh grew in size matching Vaegur.

For a brief instant, their bodies seemed to merge into one pulsating force, an abomination of grace and menace.

The next step the carriage took could barely be perceived. It was a blink—a ripple through space—and suddenly they were there, right before the towering abyssal portal.

The portal hummed, gaping like the throat of a beast ready to devour all.

By now, Keles had already broken free, shadow tendrils lashing and tearing apart the last remnants of the seal with an enraged flourish. She stepped out of the carriage, her presence warping the air around her. Her aura boiled in fury—her expression sharp, cold, and radiant with insulted pride.

Her eyes immediately found him.

Far in the distance, atop a jagged cliff of bone and blackened stone, Ikenga stood—half-shrouded by swirling winds and drifting ash. Even from so far away, their eyes met. His lone eye locked onto her with wordless resolve.

She held his gaze for a long, weighty moment.

Then, she scoffed.

It wasn’t anger alone. There was a flash of something else—a threat laced with concern.

She turned without another word, walking toward the portal, her silhouette sharp against the abyssal light.

Just before stepping into the yawning maw of the gateway, she threw one last glance over her shoulder. Her voice rang out, clear and echoing like a curse—or a promise:

"You better take care of yourself, Ikenga. Because if you die—deal or no deal—this world will crumble to mere space dust."

And with that, she vanished into the dark, her form swallowed by the portal’s hunger, leaving only silence in her wake and the faint trace of her divine fury in the air.

Ikenga stood alone on the ashen plains, his lone eye fixed on the sky above. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips—wry, calm, and almost amused.

He could feel it, the sky was shifting. The clouds churned unnaturally, no longer just formations of weather but currents of mana and powerful figures coalescing.