The Guardian gods Chapter 838

With a sudden, crushing intensity, he unleashed the full, suffocating aura of his paragon status. It bore down upon the council members, compelling them to meet his unwavering gaze as he declared, "I have yet to discuss this with the Crown Prince, and I expect this conversation to remain confined within these chambers. Let these matters be sealed."

He surveyed the room, his eyes emanating a cold, unyielding light. "You are all aware that the Crown Prince’s sentiments are a luxury we cannot afford at this juncture. Not when weighed against the immense gains within our reach."

The council members stirred under the oppressive weight of his presence, their uneasy glances flitting between one another. A junior counselor moved to speak, perhaps in protest, but the sheer force of Ragnar’s authority silenced the words before they could escape his throat.

Ragnar let the silence stretch, allowing the gravity of his decree to permeate their very beings.

"We are the sculptors of a new epoch," Ragnar proclaimed, his tone softening minutely. "History will not commemorate the comfort of princes; it immortalizes the might of kingdoms. If the boy's heart must be fractured to ensure the realm's preservation, then so be it. He is but a single individual. We are the architects of all that is to come."

He gestured to the chamber guards, his movement both dismissive and absolute. "The motion is approved. Commence the preparations for the delegation. I require the betrothal contract to be drafted and ready for my seal by dawn. And heed this well: not a single word is to reach the Prince’s quarters. Should information leak before I deem the timing appropriate, I shall hold each of you personally answerable for the repercussions."

Ragnar pivoted sharply, his cloak swirling across the polished stone of the council chamber floor as he departed. Following in his wake were the other three paragons, each casting a look of frigid, disdainful contempt upon the visibly shaken council members before vanishing into the corridors.

Far removed from the capital’s warmth, the landscape transmuted into the Icy Expanse, a desolate, frozen expanse stretching towards the distant horizon. Here, the sky was perpetually shrouded in twilight, utterly devoid of sunlight. Relentless blizzards raged through the jagged peaks, and the air was so rarefied it could freeze the lungs of the unprepared.

Through this frigid domain, a frantic rhythm could be discerned against the profound silence—the heavy, crunching percussion of running footsteps, interspersed with the rhythmic, thunderous impact of distant explosions.

A humanoid form, slender and clad in a shimmering suit of scales, dashed through the snowdrifts. It moved with an almost supernatural grace, its entire body a blur against the white expanse. Every few seconds, it cast a desperate look over its shoulder, its movements a frantic yet precise ballet. As it pressed onward, the creature snapped its head back, its slitted, reptilian pupils dilating in the dim light.

It sensed the threat before it perceived it—a subtle disturbance in the air above. Its instincts surged, and it did not falter in its pace. A projectile whistled through the freezing atmosphere, slicing through the gloom with a lethal gleam.

Crack.

The arrow embedded itself in the ground precisely where the figure had been a millisecond prior. The impact was deafening, the force of the strike shattering the permafrost and gouging a colossal, jagged crater into the earth, sending plumes of snow and ice spiraling into the dark, churning heavens.

The scaled figure did not glance back again; it knew the hunter was rapidly closing the distance.

The barrage of projectiles persisted, relentless and deadly. Each arrow that struck the frozen ground detonated like a miniature bomb, transforming the path behind the creature into a succession of smoking fissures.

The scaled figure weaved through the unfolding chaos, an adept master of fluid motion. Whenever the pursuit intensified, it subtly altered its form, its lower body elongating into a serpentine, legless coil, enabling it to dart around obstacles and glide through the jagged drifts with impossible agility. Just as swiftly, it would revert to its bipedal stance, its heels carving deep furrows into the ice as it propelled itself forward with enough force to fracture the ground beneath, surging onward to widen the chasm between them.

Yet, the hunter proved impossible to outpace.

A chilling darkness descended, obscuring the faint, ethereal sky. High above, a colossal silhouette of the moon drifted into view, eclipsing the horizon like an unnatural twin. A figure materialized against this false moon, a bowstring drawn taut to its limit.

"Persistent," the runner rasped, a low, guttural sound vibrating in his chest. His slitted eyes narrowed as he fixed his gaze upon the distant skyline.

There they stood: the Frozen Pillars. Ancient, monolithic spires of obsidian ice that pierced the very clouds. They marked the threshold of sanctuary, the sole location where the malevolent laws of this cursed expanse could no longer exert their influence.

He did not decelerate. If anything, he increased his speed, his muscles burning as he accelerated towards the gateway formed by the pillars.

Swiftly, the archer loosed his shot. The arrow materialized just moments before the fleeing figure, its arrival as sudden as lightning. For a fleeting instant, the scaled being appeared assured, reacting with practiced speed. However, the projectile then fractured into a thousand pieces, multiplying into a dense cloud of whistling, dark shafts that all converged on his location.

Entrapped by the archer's formidable technique, he raised his hand, his clawed fingers slicing through the air as if parting a thick curtain. His corporeal form evaporated, replaced instantaneously by a shimmering, crystalline shield, a cascading barrier of reflective surfaces that mimicked the desolate, icy landscape.

As the barrage of arrows rained down, the mirror-like surface began to undulate. In perfect unison, hundreds of duplicates, arrows forged from pure kinetic energy, erupted from the glass, hurtling outward to intercept the descending volley. The atmosphere erupted in a dazzling spectacle of clashing powers, transforming the sky above the frozen wilderness into a chaotic display of explosive force.

While the explosions served to conceal his escape, the true quarry sprang from the base of the mirror-illusion, keeping low and moving with desperate urgency towards the safety of the Pillars.

He had anticipated the archer's move. He had prepared for aerial assaults. What he had failed to account for, however, was the crimson streak.

The world seemed to stretch, time itself slowing. Before the fleeing entity could build any significant speed, a blur of fiery red sliced through the swirling snow. A figure clad in the color of fresh blood appeared directly in his escape route. The motion was so seamless, so impossibly rapid, that the runner's mind failed to register the imminent danger until it was far too late.

A chilling sensation, the unmistakable touch of cold steel, traced a line across his throat. The sword, aglow with a crimson light, had already completed its deadly arc. As the runner's own momentum propelled him forward, the blade concluded its sweep.

The scaled being's head detached and tumbled into the snow. The momentum of his sprint ended abruptly in a ghastly collapse, his headless torso skidding across the ice.

Upon contact with the snow, the decapitated corpse did not bleed. Instead, it disintegrated into countless fragments of transparent glass that chimed against the frozen ground, dispersing into glittering dust carried by the harsh wind.

The figure clad in red remained motionless, his sword held in a mid-swing position, the force of his powerful strike expended on a mere illusion. He made a sharp, audible clicking sound with his tongue, a noise of grating irritation that cut through the howling gale. He tilted his head, his gaze sharp, tracking a faint movement in the far distance. The actual runner, now a diminutive dark shape, was rapidly increasing the distance between them.

Landing beside him, the archer descended from the sky. The celestial 'moon' that had hovered above him vanished, revealing itself as the illusion it was. He touched down with a heavy, crunching thud and immediately aimed his bow at the figure in red. His eyes, narrowed behind his visor, appeared cold and predatory.

"What in the blazes was that?" the archer demanded, a furious tremor in his voice causing the very air to vibrate. "You nearly snatched my prey, you crimson moron. That was my target."

Leiko cast a contemptuous glance at the arrow aimed his way, then leaned forward, using the arrow's razor-sharp tip to idly scratch at the base of his horns. "And so what if I did? It's only fitting, as I possess greater strength, wouldn't you agree, Magnus?" He let out a smirk, his eyes alight with defiance.

Magnus glared at the insolent prince before him. Despite the brutal, biting cold of the Icy Expanse, Leiko stood unperturbed, adorned only in a fur-lined cloak over his bare chest. His sword rested casually on his shoulder, his expression one of effortless, infuriating superiority.

Leiko returned the gaze, his eyes sweeping over Magnus's attire with mocking curiosity. Magnus, with his long, flowing pale hair cascading down his back against heavy, layered furs, appeared almost frail in comparison. To Leiko, Magnus's thick, protective garments were a pathetic admission of weakness, a clear indication of his fear towards the very cold that Leiko seemed to revel in.

Magnus's jaw clenched. He drew the arrow back further, his knuckles turning white against the taut bowstring. He seemed poised to release the projectile, but then his gaze fell upon the spot where Leiko had been scratching his horns. A look of profound disgust contorted his features.