The Guardian gods-Chapter 517

He leaned forward, his dark eyes gleaming with bitter knowledge.

"The ancient records don’t lie. The mage-gods of old? Every one of them revered—then revered less. Praised—then controlled. Each one bowed beneath the will of the Arcanum, reduced to relics, their divinity bent to fuel the ambitions of mortal spellcasters."

He gestured broadly, almost mockingly.

"And that would have been you. A divine puppet paraded before the masses. Glorified... and then used. Your godhead would not have freed you. It would’ve become your prison."

The Ogre King said nothing at first. His jaw tightened slightly, eyes dark with memories of betrayals, of secrets and decisions made behind closed doors.

Vellok’s tone softened slightly—not out of sympathy, but conviction. "You should be grateful to us," he said. "We spared you that fate. This new path—uncertain, uncharted—it is yours. Painful, yes. But at least it is not a leash forged in gold and praise."

The Ogre King gritted his teeth. As much as he loathed to admit it, there was truth buried in Vellok’s words—hard, cold, undeniable.

The silence between them cracked under the weight of unspoken history. His fists clenched, not from anger alone, but from the sting of knowing that his struggle had been written centuries ago, by others who faced the same ceiling.

In the ancient records of the mage scholars, there were classifications—distinctions made not just by power, but by affinity. Some were born with a natural sensitivity to mana and its elements, capable of weaving spells with the ease of breath. And then there were those—like him—who felt mana not as a flowing stream, but as a distant pulse beneath the skin, ever-present but untouchable.

It was from this second group that the path of the knight was born.

They were warriors who refused to be left behind by the mage-dominated world. They turned inward, honing their bodies into vessels of power, aligning flesh and spirit with the elemental forces they could not command in spellcraft. Through rigorous discipline, they advanced—each stage a ritual of endurance and transformation. First by pushing past mortal limits. Then by bringing their bodies ever closer to the resonance of their chosen element—fire, stone, wind, steel.

By the fifth stage, their physical forms were near-miraculous. A knight of that level could cleave through armies, move with elemental speed, or endure blows that would fell monsters. But that was where the road ended.

Because the sixth stage—the threshold of true transcendence—was no longer physical. It was metaphysical. It was the domain of laws.

At that level, advancement required communion with the abstract principles that governed each element: the law of destruction in fire, the law of flow in water, the law of permanence in earth. These laws were not material—they could not be touched or shaped with muscle or will alone.

And therein lay the great limitation.

The physical body, no matter how perfected, was not meant to contain such truths. The very nature of the knight’s path became a cage—ironically crafted by their own strength. Unlike mages who used spells and runes as buffers to wield such forces, knights had no such luxuries. They became conduits, living vessels—but unstable ones.

Some few had found a breakthrough, anchoring fragments of law within themselves. But their power was volatile. Conditional. Their strength fluctuated with the environment they found themselves in. A knight aligned with fire would be unmatched on a battlefield of flame—but powerless in a dead zone, far from their element. They were mighty, yes—but never absolute.

The Ogre King knew all of this. He lived it. And yet, even knowing it, he had pressed forward. Had dared to go further.

And now, he sat at a crossroads—his old path sealed, his new one uncertain. Vellok’s scorn was not without merit. But the sting of truth did not extinguish the ember of defiance smoldering in his heart.

There was another path. The original path. A path not carved by isolated ascetics or war-forged brutes, but by visionaries—knights who sought not just strength, but meaning. Not just power, but recognition.

It began not on the battlefield, but within halls of stone and spirit: a school, an academy, a sanctum. A place where one did not merely teach techniques, but passed on a way of being. The knight would become a founder, a teacher, a leader—gathering students, disciples, and in time, followers. Their ideals, their code, their path would be transmitted like flame from torch to torch.

And as this following grew, so too did the belief in the founder. Not the blind worship of mages toward arcane principle, but a reverent belief in a person, a path, a way to live and fight.

This accumulation of belief—slow, subtle, but potent—would eventually coalesce into something greater: a recognition of one’s path by the very laws of the world.

It was at that point that the threshold to the sixth stage revealed itself: the realm of the God Knight.

A god of will, body, and belief. The knight’s power would become divine in scope, their influence bound not to mana’s abstraction but to the living hearts and convictions of their followers. Their physical form could then touch the abstract. Their laws would not be borrowed—they would become law, made manifest by faith and living practice.

But this path was delicate.

In worlds untouched by higher magical hierarchies, such ascension was pure and direct. The God Knight stood unchallenged, a pillar of their own truth. But in mage-dominated empires like this one...

Faith became a battleground.

Mages had ways—too many ways—to manipulate, corrupt, or sever that belief. They could discredit a rising knight, isolate them, spread arcane philosophies to weaken faith, or worse—bind them in soul contracts and magical oaths, turning living gods into weapons, puppets, or martyrs. The moment a God Knight’s faith was tainted or taken, their divine path would crumble beneath them.

The Ogre King’s thoughts burned with memory and rage. That had been his path. His future. Not just to be strong, but to be followed. Not just feared, but believed in.

But the Emperor and Vellok had cut that path off before it could bloom.

His fingers tightened until the thick wood of the restored dining table groaned under his grip. His voice, when it came, was low and deadly.

"If this world was mine," he growled, "your words would mean nothing."

The room fell into silence again, the weight of his statement lingering like a blade in the air.

Because the truth was clear—he hadn’t given up on that path. Not truly. He had only paused, diverted, forced into an alternate route. But the dream remained, coiled and simmering within him like a forge not yet lit.

And if ever the world changed—if the mages faltered, or the people turned—then the Ogre King would rise.

The Ogre King’s knuckles slowly uncurled from the dented table as his thoughts turned inward. His voice softened, almost reflective.

"You speak of what I lost," he said quietly, "but neither of you know what I built."

His gaze grew distant, the fire in his eyes now tempered by memory. "When you denied me the path of belief... I searched. I studied old records, I learned from the desperate. From the broken. From those who had nothing left but invention."

What he found was crude at first—scraps of theories, relics of old wars, forgotten blueprints etched into rusted steel. The art of magitech—the fusion of mana and machinery— an art that came from one of the mages owned world"

"But the mages discarded it, after all, what use were mages in a world where power could be forged and not held by one’s own hand?"

But the Ogre King was no mage. He had nothing to lose from heresy. It was then he came across a record of an exoskeletal frame designed to withstand high-density mana exposure—something no living body could endure. It had once belonged to a failed project meant to create "arcane soldiers" immune to magical feedback.

Where others saw failure, the Ogre King saw potential.

He took the frame, reforged it, and began the grueling process of adaptation. Day by day, week by week, he modified the device not just to withstand mana—but to infuse it directly into his own nervous system, merging machine with flesh, and converting pure elemental energy into something his body could absorb.

He called it the Manifold Core—a pulsing, runed engine embedded beneath his heart, regulating and redirecting mana to simulate the resonance of abstract laws. Not through belief. Not through faith. But through raw, engineered harmony.

It was not graceful. It was not elegant. It scarred him, burned him, bent him into something between knight and conduit. But it worked. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

Against all precedent, he advanced.

The Sixth Stage opened—not in a temple or a battlefield, but inside a lab, drenched in smoke and failure, lit only by the flickering hum of the Core he had built with his own hands.

"I carved a path where none should exist," he said, his voice harder now. "A brute no longer. A decent powerhouse, yes... but one forged in defiance of your rules, your limits."