Chapter 8

A few hours ago, Mariax had overheard the humans moving cautiously on the other side of the river.

“They say those noisy thieves from before have been caught.”

“I haven’t heard anything about that.”

“My little brother works at the fortress. He told me—secretly, of course—that the thieves were northern spirits. They’re locked up in the castle dungeon now.”

“Northern spirits? What kind of campfire story is that?”

“No, I swear! He said there were two spirits in the form of giant white wolves. That’s why we’re out here on this dangerous patrol—to see if something’s happened in Heimdrix.”

Mariax hadn’t even realized she had crossed the river in a daze. Her mind only snapped back into focus when she stood face to face with the insect den. Only then did she realize she was on the verge of defying the sacred law.

She stood like a dead tree, teetering—unable to go forward or turn back—waiting desperately for a revelation from the great god. There would be only one true answer at the end of that revelation. Why did every decision she made feel so reckless and foolish? If only she had a slightly more useful power, would it be any different?

Mariax’s only ability was to make flowers bloom from her hands. Lawidy had laughed upon seeing the flowers bloom from Mariax’s palms. 

“What use is that, Mariax?”

Lawidy had been right. In Heimdrix, the law of the strong devouring the weak was absolute. The weak died, and the strong survived. Only Mariax had strayed from that merciless rule. Thanks to the grace of the Great Absolute, she had survived despite possessing such a worthless power.

That train of thought led her to a realization: she had been thoroughly mistaken. How could someone so feeble that even breathing required divine salvation waver over whether or not to help others? It wasn’t a matter of choice—it was a matter of whether she could or not.

My dear Mariax…

A gust of wind brushed past Mariax’s ear. The chill reminded her of a small, weathered temple. That was where she belonged. The place where her quiet days began and ended in repetition. Her entire world.

Mariax decided to follow the will of her god. Unfortunately, she had forgotten one thing—life rarely unfolds according to one’s own will.

“Don’t block the way, miss—”

Suddenly, humans came rushing from behind, jostling and shoving her in all directions. One step, two steps, five, eight…

Just like that, Mariax found herself stepping inside the fortress walls. Frozen in place, she turned only her head to look back at the snow-covered mountain range beyond.

She had expected something to happen the moment she passed through the gate. Maybe the mountains would tremble and split apart with crimson light bursting forth; or the sky would darken; or the great god would descend upon the insect den and personally freeze all the humans. In any case, she had braced herself for something more terrifying than any imagination.

But nothing happened.

Only then did she truly feel the weight of the great god’s slumber. It had been about a hundred years since he fell asleep. Perhaps the great god wouldn’t even notice her trespass.

Mariax turned her head again and looked at the streets filled with humans. Further beyond, she gazed at the crude, towering fortress that stood higher than any other building.

They say they’ve locked them in the dungeon.

Her pink eyes glinted.

***

“How are you feeling?”

At Three Thousandth’s question, Gart slowly stroked his chin and smiled. “As you can see.”

“So, like a dog, then.”

Gart nodded without hesitation.

“How’s the latest herbal mixture?”

“Less effective each time.”

“Looks like you’ve developed a resistance. Shall I switch it up?” After a brief moment of thought, Three Thousandth got to the point. “Did you gain anything from this journey?” By “gain,” he meant any clue related to the curse. 

But the journey had lasted only about a year. Far too short to uncover answers people had searched their whole lives for. 

Gart answered with a cold smile, “Gain?”

“So, nothing?”

“And you?”

Three Thousandth grabbed the necklace draped over his robe and gave it a little shake—a gesture that essentially meant, “Do you know who I am?”

In the beginning, only the formless force known as “Void” or “Providence” existed. Two gods were born in defiance of it. One, the god of destruction called “Father,” sealed the Void in his heart and took his own life. The fragments of his corpse gradually gathered into a single mass—today’s continent.

Even with his sacrifice, the Void wasn’t completely vanquished. The world remained devoid of everything. In mourning, “Mother” became a white tree and sank her roots into Father’s remains. In response to her power of creation, life sprouted across the continent—beasts with two legs, four legs, rooted plants, sea creatures, and drifting beings in the sky. Thus began what scholars now call the Ancient Divine Era.

The ancient gods, who inherited the mighty powers of the Mother and Father, were born from the remains of the Father, who had died sealing away Providence. Because they were born already intertwined with Providence, they could not escape death. Thus, the ancient gods sought a way to pass on their powers. They chose to follow the path of the Mother. The ancient gods tore off fragments of themselves and created lesser gods to inherit their power. Through continuous succession, this process repeated and fragmented them further. Time passed, as great mountains eroded into grains of sand, and from this came the current gods, humans, animals, plants, and countless other races.

It wasn’t entirely wrong when the clerics of the Allied Forces of Thul’mor referred to present-day gods as “half-gods,” “quarter-gods,” or even “one-three-thousand-six-hundred-seventy-second gods.” The shocking truth that gods, humans, and all living things shared the same origin remained hidden for a long time, buried in different forms.

The ancient gods were born not only with the powers of their divine parents but also fragments of their memories. They inscribed these memories in their own language into the land, stone, trees, rare minerals, and the depths of the sea. These became the origins of what humans today call ruins or sacred relics.

One cleric dedicated her life to pursuing these sacred traces. In time, she succeeded in deciphering the ancient language in a forest containing one of the largest relics—the sacred tree.

At a time when the dominant belief across the continent was, “Gods are omnipotent and perfect beings, and humans are flawed and pitiful beings who can only hope for salvation,” the shared origin of gods and humans was uncovered.

“Gods are stones. We are grains of sand. But we are made of the same rock. Let us, the same rock, live in harmony.”

It wasn’t just common sense or preconceived notions that were overturned—it was heaven and earth themselves. A storm of disbelief and commotion erupted. What was first dismissed as madness became the rallying cry that united humanity. What began as a small current swelled into a great river. Humanity began its separation from the mighty beings that had harmed, ruled, and subjugated them. Thus was the foundation of the Allied Forces of Thul’mor laid.

Following the legacy of that pioneering cleric, the clerics of Thul’mor evolved into scholar-like figures who studied the past, rather than blindly worshiping the gods. Three Thousandth was one of the leaders of that zealous research collective. He was said to be the person closest to uncovering the true nature of the “curse”—something clearly tied to divine power. It also meant he held the authority to forcibly enlist the cooperation of temples all across the continent.

Gart watched as Three Thousandth rummaged through his robes. He pulled out something wrapped in tanned leather—a delicately crafted white dagger.

“This is a relic from a recently discovered site in the northeastern region.”

Other temples reportedly referred to Three Thousandth as a shameless thief, or worse. They said he snatched up every artifact unearthed.

“It contains a strong essence of fire and destruction. During the excavation, three people were sent to the god’s embrace—just from a prick of the fingertip. I’ve made a few… personal modifications to enhance it.”

Gart reached out his hand, but Three Thousandth did not hand over the dagger. His face was marked more by deep conflict than fatigue. The weight of decades of emotion showed raw on his expression. But Gart had no patience left to accept it. He smiled, coldly, his eyes sharp.

“Three Thousandth.”

At that curt warning, Three Thousandth let out a long sigh and placed the dagger in Gart’s hand.

Gart reversed his grip and aimed the blade at his own heart. Three Thousandth watched him silently, his gaze heavy.

The dagger’s sharp tip pierced through cloth, sliced through skin, tore through muscle, and embedded itself in his heart. Red blood began to bloom across the white fabric. Gart, with a twisted brow, curved his lips into a smile. Time passed. The once-white tunic became drenched in blood. For an ordinary human, it would’ve been enough to return to the gods.

Unable to hold it in any longer, Three Thousandth finally spoke again. “How do you feel? Like you’re dying? Dizzy? Losing consciousness?”