The Guardian gods Chapter 851

A profound silence descended, heavy and absolute. The Council, still recovering from the 'madness' Björn had unleashed, remained on their knees. Yuki and the Paragons exchanged glances, a grim understanding dawning in their eyes.

The prophecy cast a dark shadow. The 'Great Wolf' could only signify the werewolf godlings, and the 'Silver' clearly pointed to their rivals situated in the north. However, the cryptic 'hook of cold light' and the ominous 'Red Harvest' foretold a conflict that transcended mere territorial disputes; it signaled a slaughter destined to fundamentally reshape the continent.

Across every domain claimed by the People of Björn, the very sky seemed to weep. A dense, suffocating crimson hue bled into the clouds, and then the rain began. It wasn't water that fell, but a viscous, crimson liquid carrying the unmistakable, metallic scent of iron.

As the droplets touched the skin, they brought no sting, no discomfort, but an sensation akin to a sacred baptism.

The 'Grace of Björn' descended upon the common folk laboring in the fields, the artisans toiling at their anvils, and the sentinels standing watch on the battlements. It was a divine summons, a primal call to arms that bypassed rational thought and resonated directly with the blood. The ancient, slumbering madness, the berserker spirit dormant for years under the guise of peace and diplomacy, began to stir and awaken.

A low, collective hum emanated from the very earth. All could perceive it, a palpable certainty on their tongues: 'War was no longer a political possibility; it was a physical certainty.'

The kingdom’s atmosphere transformed instantaneously. Panic was absent, replaced by a grim, determined purpose tinged with an unsettling, bubbling excitement. In villages and isolated homesteads, men and women ventured into their backyards and beneath the floorboards of their homes. They retrieved shovels and commenced digging.

With a clang of metal against wood, chests were unearthed. From the embrace of the earth, they brought forth heavy axes, broadswords, and serrated spears – relics of a bygone, more violent era they had long since set aside. As they brushed the soil from the cold steel, the weapons seemed to thrum in their grasp, as if the very iron yearned for release.

Whetstones were brought forth. The grating sound of metal sharpening filled the air, a discordant symphony heralding the end of an age. The Björns were no longer merely farmers, merchants, or diplomats. They had become a pack, and their God had decreed it was time to hunt. The 'Red Harvest' was imminent, and they were destined to be its reapers.

Returning to the palace, the Great Hall became subjected to a searing, dry heat that caused the very air to shimmer and distort. The stone floor began to fracture, and the silver adornments on the pillars groaned under the intense temperature, melting and dripping like liquid tears.

Emerging from the shadows of the arched entrance, Leiko drifted into the chamber. He moved as if buoyant on an aura of undulating heat, his face contorted into a terrifying mask of ecstatic frenzy. His eyes were no longer human, but two voids filled with flickering, hellish embers.

In his right hand, he clasped the charred remnants of a servant's body. The flesh was already half-consumed by ash, black smoke spiraling from the blackened ribs as the ferocious heat radiating from Leiko's grip leached the last vestiges of moisture from the cadaver.

The Paragons tensed, their own energies igniting instinctively to counter the suffocating pressure Leiko exuded. His demonic essence was no longer contained; it seeped from his very pores in dark, viscous waves of pure, unadulterated bloodlust.

When he finally spoke, his voice was a fractured ruin, a guttural cacophony composed of a dozen overlapping screams, distorted by the sheer magnitude of power coursing through his vocal cords.

“Who is the enemy?”

The question was not an inquiry for information but a primal demand for a target. The 'Grace of Björn' and the scent of the iron rain pervading the outside had ignited Leiko's volatile nature like a fuse. His gaze swept the room, fixing on the melting metal and the bowed figures of the council members, his body quivering with an overwhelming urge to unleash the inferno raging within him.

Yuki slowly rose from her throne, her own aura ascending to meet and temper the blistering heat. She regarded her son, her eyes holding a cold, unwavering resolve.

“Patience, Leiko,” she commanded, her voice steady. “The Silver Kingdom has drawn the first blood. Your father has promised a Red Harvest. Soon, you will have more than enough to incinerate.”

The air within the capital throbbed with a potent mixture of adrenaline and an intense, visceral need for slaughter. Only Yuki’s words prevented Leiko from reducing the palace itself to a molten pool.

All deliberations ceased. No one could remain seated, their hearts pounding with an uncontrollable, rapid rhythm, to remotely strategize border logistics.

That night, the Great Colosseum, a colossal structure that had stood as a silent, moss-laden monument to their violent past, roared back to life, its vast expanse overflowing.

Thousands converged, not for mere sport, but for a cathartic release. Men and women hurled themselves into the arenas, seeking the brutal, visceral impact of bone against bone.

Amidst the eerie crimson rain that fell upon the arena's red sands, a low, pervasive growl from the crowd pulsed, shaking the city's foundations under the dying sky's crimson hue.

The revelry continued unabated through the night and into the subsequent dawn. However, as the sun began to ascend through the lingering, iron-scented mist, a palpable shift occurred in the atmosphere's tension.

From a high vantage point on the palace balcony, Yuki experienced a sudden stiffening. Simultaneously, in their respective quarters, Olaf and Finn instinctively reached for their armaments.

A profound presence ignited somewhere in the distance. Far from attempting concealment or covert infiltration across the border, this manifestation was utterly overt. It radiated as a powerful beacon, pulsing with a deliberate rhythm, crafted for detection by those with the acuity to perceive it – a distinct signal beckoning the Paragons of Björn.

And they answered. The interdimensional space separating the two realms contorted and folded, intricately weaving itself into a stable pocket dimension. This neutral 'gray zone' was designated for a clandestine meeting between the two potent forces, shielded from external observation.

As the boundaries of this pocket dimension stabilized, a form coalesced from a swirling vortex of silver mist. The Paragons of Björn reacted instantaneously upon discerning the figure, their entire beings tensing.

Confronting them stood a Werewolf Paragon. Unperturbed by the palpable bloodlust emanating from the assembled group, he offered a placid, almost apologetic smile that failed to truly mask the shrewd calculation within his eyes.

"I bear a letter from my King," the werewolf stated, his voice resonating with a smooth, unwavering timbre. He deliberately displayed his empty hands, devoid of any weaponry, signaling his non-hostile intent. "Circumstances of a… delicate nature prohibited my appearance before the broader populace. In this era, words disseminate with exceptional speed, and my presence within your capital would have undoubtedly ignited a conflict neither of our nations is presently equipped to handle. Thus, this covert rendezvous."

With a subtle, deferential bow, he produced a scroll, its seal bearing the unmistakable crest of the Great Wolf. A swift flick of his wrist sent the letter gliding through the air, where it was expertly caught by Yuki.

Yuki's gaze traversed the parchment with rapid intensity. As her eyes absorbed the contents, the icy tension in her shoulders underwent a transformation. Her initial frown of suspicion deepened, morphing into one of grim comprehension. She finally grasped the meaning of the 'hook of cold light' that Björn had forewarned them about.

She promptly passed the missive to Finn. Upon perusing it, his jaw clenched so severely that his beard seemed to stiffen, before he, in turn, forwarded it to the other Paragons.

Olaf's laughter erupted, a harsh sound slicing through the pocket dimension's silence. "So that was their stratagem," he derided.

Yuki's gaze remained fixed upon the Werewolf Paragon, her expression utterly inscrutable. "It is far too premature to declare a victor, Olaf," she countered, her voice cutting through his indignant outburst.

She then addressed the messenger. "Inform Wulv that we acknowledge his provided intelligence. Convey to him that the People of Björn have received his message and are preparing a commensurate response."

The Werewolf Paragon keenly perceived the unspoken significance embedded within the word 'commensurate.' It was a diplomatic euphemism signifying compliance with a pretense of agreement, while subtly asserting their unwavering resolve not to be exploited. Maintaining his composed demeanor, he executed a final, shallow bow. "I am gratified to deliver such auspicious news to my King. May the stars illuminate your path, Lady Yuki."

With a swift effulgence of silver light, the werewolf dissolved from view, his presence abruptly extinguished as he returned to the frigid expanse.

Instantly, the pocket dimension began to emit groaning sounds. Deprived of the unified will of the Paragons maintaining its integrity, the dimensional walls commenced to fray and dissipate into the encompassing void. The familiar celestial panorama of their own kingdom gradually bled back into their perception.

"It is time," Yuki declared, her gaze now directed towards the palace spires, specifically the prince's chambers. The residual fervor of the 'Grace' still thrummed within her veins, yet she intentionally suppressed it, asserting her will and status as a paragon. "I must confer with my son."