The Guardian gods-Chapter 505

Ikenga emerged from the planet’s core with the slow, deliberate grace of something ancient and wounded. His body had returned to its human form, though it bore the deep, glistening scars inflicted not just on him—but on the world itself. They criss crossed his skin like molten veins, seeping golden blood that shimmered faintly in the dim planetary light.

Yet, ever cautious, ever disciplined, not a single drop touched the ground. Each droplet of his luminous blood hovered mid-air before reversing its descent, flying back into his body like birds returning to a wounded nest. Flesh reknit. Muscle wove back into sinew. His skin, a tapestry of divine resilience, mended silently.

Without fanfare, Ikenga lifted from the scorched surface. His ascent was smooth, effortless, yet heavy with loss. He broke through the fractured sky and hovered in the cold silence of space, suspended between stars, looking down at the planet he had once been bound to.

It was dying.

Where once its crust had thrummed with life, now fault lines bled magma into oceans that boiled away. Forests shriveled into ash. Storms no longer raged—they simply collapsed under their own weight. The mages’ law, the corruption they had embedded into the ley lines and lifeblood of the world, held firm. It had taken everything from the planet to resist them. It had survived only because Ikenga had fused with it, sustained it with his own essence. But now he was no longer part of it.

And the rot had begun to show.

From his vantage point, he saw them—the mages. Their astral bodies loomed like eldritch gods above the stratosphere, colossal silhouettes pulsing with twisted sorcery. They were no longer whole, their forms shimmering with instability. They had sacrificed too much to run from him.

Ikenga slowly opened his palm.

Within it danced fragmented soul-embers—remnants of the mages’ spirits, incomplete and writhing. They spun and twisted in his grasp, drawn to the golden warmth of his divine blood, yet unable to escape his will.

A tired breath escaped his lips, and he spoke—not in anger, not in triumph, but in sheer, exhausted acceptance.

"It seems... you have more toys to play with, Keles."

His voice carried into the void, meant for ears far away. Perhaps for Keles. Perhaps only for himself.

Then, he sat. Legs crossed, arms resting on his knees, he floated in the cold cradle of the universe, a meditative god beneath the fading glow of the sun.

The planet below cracked and groaned. It was unraveling—its beauty, its scars, its history—all collapsing into cosmic silence. And Ikenga watched. He had seen this in stories, in films, in his past life, sitting on a couch with popcorn in hand, marveling at the end of worlds on a screen.

But this was real. This was up close.

And so, despite the ache in his bones and the cry of the plants on the planet, he allowed himself a moment of peace.

While Ikenga sat in silent reverie, basking in the cold majesty of a dying world, far above and away, in the crystal chambers of the Imperial Spire, chaos had taken a more insidious shape—disbelief.

Only moments earlier, the top-tier mages of the Empire, gathered in their viewing sanctums, had been euphoric. The energy in the room had crackled with premature celebration as they watched their collective might—an arcane symphony centuries in refinement—culminate in a strike so devastating it split the land and shattered the skies. Ikenga’s body, once towering and divine, had crumbled before their eyes. They had seen it fall. They had seen him die.

Or so they believed.

When the planet itself had begun to pulse with strange vitality, when roots surged from the cracks like veins beneath skin, when the ground reformed into a womb and birthed that colossus of bleeding gold and wrath—panic set in.

And then, their sight was taken.

Their scrying pools turned to black. Their viewing mirrors cracked. Their tethered spirits recoiled like burned nerves. His resurgence did not merely blind them—it denied them. As though existence itself had deemed them unworthy to bear witness to what followed.

And so, there had been silence. Agonizing, uncertain silence.

Until the vision returned, and with it, dread.

There he was.

Floating above the sundered planet, bathed in the starlight of oblivion, Ikenga sat with terrifying stillness. Not wounded. Not weakened. But alive. Watching the world below decay, not with remorse—but with the distant curiosity of a being who had outgrown it.

Within the imperial chamber, the joy from before curdled into fear.

The Emperor, seated upon a throne of obsidian carved with the runes, leaned forward with unreadable expression. Long seconds passed. Then, with a voice like thunder muffled behind heavy doors, he spoke:

"Every hidden archive we possess on gods—scour them. Dust, decode, and unseal them all. Leave nothing untouched. What we face are not mere relics of myth. These are not simple gods."

A murmur of assent followed, but he was far from finished.

"Effective immediately—the extermination of all ratmen must be seen to completion. No cavern, no buried city, no forest warren is to be spared. The nobles will need new servants. The frontline will be their new home. If they breathe, they fight."

He paused, eyes narrowing. His tone deepened, more grave than before.

"Whatever these gods are, whatever root they have planted among the ratmen—we will tear it out. Burn it. Salt the memory of it. We will not allow their influence to fester under our feet."

A hush fell over the mages. Some glanced at one another, as if seeking reassurance that this wasn’t spiraling beyond even their comprehension.

And then came the final order—cold and surgical.

"Study this battle. Every frame. Every echo. Learn from it. Build your countermeasures. Forge new wards, rewrite the laws of defense if you must. Because this is not the last time we will cross paths with them."

His gaze swept across the room like a blade.

"When we meet them again—we will be ready."

The chamber dimmed as the last of the mages bowed and vanished, their retreat silent, burdened with shame and fear. The room, once filled with echoing arcane discussions and hurried decisions, was now quiet—save for the pulsing golden light that lingered in the far corner.

Two eyes. Burning. Watching.

The Emperor did not flinch. He had grown used to the weight of Vellok’s gaze, though never fully comfortable. That radiant fury—those ancient, searing eyes—were not merely intimidating. They were a mirror to something primal, something barely contained.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand over his brow.

"It might have ended differently if you were there," the Emperor said quietly, his voice low, heavy with the burden of hindsight. "But at what price?"

The golden glow narrowed, emotion flickering within it—anger, perhaps... or restraint.

"You know what I mean," the Emperor continued, still not meeting the gaze directly. "Your power... it’s not like the others. Even the mages, with all their arrogance, knew better than to unleash you fully. This god we faced today—Ikenga—he would have drawn it out of you. Pushed you past your edge. And none of us... not even you... want to see what lies beyond that."

The chamber pulsed once, briefly bathed in gold. The glow in the corner shimmered, then shifted subtly—like eyes narrowing not in rage, but in thought.

Then came the voice. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.

"The demons must be retaliated against for today’s transgression," Vellok said, his words as sharp as a drawn blade. "They were watching. Measuring. Our loss, however slight, will embolden them. They will see it as a victory."

He stepped forward from the shadows, his golden eyes still blazing, though dimmer now—no longer wrathful, but calculating.

"I believe we should act swiftly. Decisively. Snuff the flame before it rises into wildfire."

The Emperor studied him for a long moment. This was Vellok at his most dangerous—not roaring, not rampaging—but reasoning. Cold, strategic, and unflinching.

"It would snuff the flame," the Emperor agreed at last, his voice tired. "But to the higher-tier demons, the scent of smoke would be an invitation. The more we strike, the more they will hunger. Our world, our hidden wonders—our secrets—they will not resist the temptation."

Vellok scoffed, turning away.

"The moment they breached our realm, that secrecy was doomed. You know it as well as I do. This illusion of control—it died the day the rift opened. We are living in the twilight of hidden things."

Silence fell between them once more. The tension was not combative, but heavy with the weight of decisions neither wanted to make.

Then, without further word, the golden eyes dimmed, shrinking to twin stars before vanishing completely. Vellok was gone.

The Emperor remained.

Alone.

He sat back upon his throne, his expression unreadable, his thoughts circling like carrion birds.

Demons, Gods. What had once been the Empire’s stage was now crowded with forces that could not be reasoned with, only survived.

He leaned forward, fingers steepled, eyes fixed on the dark horizon outside his chamber’s great window. freewebnσvel.cøm

"They are already here," he murmured to himself. "And we were never ready."