The Guardian gods Chapter 913

This philosophy of unyielding trial dictated the ruling class’s stance on their kin striving to build a civilization on the surface as well. With the staggering wealth and resources at the disposal of the Menagerie’s elite, backing the humanoid faction’s quest for a sovereign kingdom would have made their rise effortless. A single decree from the high rulers could have dismantled the human fighting dens, forced the cessation of the blood sports, and flooded the surface with the backing needed to carve out a nation overnight.

Yet, the ruling class offered no such handouts.

They shared a core, uncompromising belief with their beast-form brethren, nothing of true value could be easily gained, least of all a kingdom. To the lords of the Menagerie, handing the humanoid faction a ready-made nation built on unearned charity would only breed a weak, hollow civilization incapable of standing against the harsh realities of the world. If the beastfolk of the surface wanted to claim territory and earn the genuine respect of the other realms, they had to forge it entirely through their own blood, sweat, and strategic cunning. Hence the struggles, the opposition from human authorities, and the bitter conflict of carving out a place in Nana were viewed not as tragedies, but as the necessary crucible required to forge a truly longstanding empire.

Ikenga let out a quiet, satisfied breath as his awareness withdrew from the unfolding chaos of Nana, a faint smile lingering on his lips. To any mortal eye, the world below was slowly becoming a breeding ground of exploitation, fractured factions, and simmering violence. But to him and his siblings, it was a masterpiece in motion, the exact controlled chaos they worked hard to orchestrate.

The stage was set, the friction had reached its boiling point, and the entire world was balanced on a knife-edge. All that remained was the final catalyst to ignite the powder keg. And that spark was already being forged in the hands of Ember.

Deep within the spirit realm, Ember stood on the precipice of godhood, a half-ascended deity holding back his own transcendence by sheer force of will. He refused to cross the threshold until his forging was complete, to do otherwise would leave a bitter, unfinished taste in the mouth of a master craftsman like himself. This creation was the absolute limit of his mortal existence, a monument to everything he had ever striven to shape.

His ascendance status arrived to him the moment he began working with the ten main components. These materials created by the origin gods held fragments of raw, untamed law, brimming with cosmic authority. Yet, under Ember’s skilled hands, those laws were subdued, bent to his absolute control, waiting to be hammered and beaten into the final, earth-shaking shape of the tower.

Tyrion upon his return locked the heavy oak doors of his private sanctuary, shutting out the world completely. For weeks, he did little more than sit in silence, staring down at the tome resting in his lap. He turned its pages over and over, trapped in a loop of disbelief, struggling to reconcile the impossible reality of what he held. Yet, with every passing day, he was with the book and it hasn’t disappeared, the more this unbelievable reality was accepted by him.

Along with the acceptance came an insidious, mounting temptation. As the hours blurred together, Tyrion’s mind spiraled out of control. He began to obsess over the authority the tome the could give him, the terrifying leverage it would grant him over his rivals and their great noble houses. The more he weighed the temptation, the more his plan to open direct trade with the Tide fell like it was entirely necessary.

Driven by that ambition, his sanctuary began to change. Tyrion slowly began constructing a monument, a dedicated statue honoring Tide. Something he thinks was an essential gesture if he ever hoped to secure an audience or establish a partnership, especially since his initial encounter with said deity had been nothing amicable.

Even though Tyrion was confident that the sheer value of what he intended to offer in trade would be too lucrative for a Tide to easily dismiss, he was taking no chances.

To bridge the gap and guarantee a baseline of goodwill before proposing a trade, Tyrion took matters into his own hands, initiating his own calculated form of worship toward Tide.

As a paragon, he was far beyond the point of blindly kneeling or harboring true religious devotion, instead, he approached the endeavor with a clear understanding of the god of the everflowing treasury. He unlocked a deeply personal vault, a repository of items that had held immense sentimental and personal value to him, long before he ascended to his current status.

Every single day, Tyrion would select something he genuinely treasured and lay it as an offering before the freshly carved statue of Tide. At first, the sanctuary remained entirely silent, giving no sign that the deity even noticed. Yet, he persisted, parting with one valued possession after another.

Weeks bled into a steady routine until a striking change finally manifested across his offerings. Every item he had sacrificed had lost its inner resonance, the initial spirituality, emotional weight, and intrinsic feelings attached to them had been entirely hollowed out, leaving behind nothing more than lifeless, empty husks.

When Tyrion probed the remnants with his Law, the metaphysical reality confirmed his suspicion, drawing a slow, satisfied smile across his face. He continued the ritual for two full months before finally halting his sacrifices, convinced that he had paid a sufficient spiritual toll to thoroughly offset any unfavorable impression the god might have previously held of him.

On the day he decided to make his move, like a thief dreading discovery, Tyrion slipped away from the physical world, descending into the hidden layer of reality perceptible only to higher entities of his caliber. He sought the threshold to Tide’s domain.

Because of the subtle, transactional bridge he had forged through months of sacrifices, the boundary of Tide’s realm was not difficult to locate. Soon enough, Tyrion stood before a shimmering, mirror-like wall that marked the edge of the divine territory.

Anxiety clawed at his composure. The sheer vulnerability of willingly stepping into a god’s private domain weighed heavily on him, amplified by the nagging, paranoid dread that the hidden mastermind pulling his strings might be waiting on the other side.

A thousand fearful scenarios raced through his mind, but he knew he could not linger. Every moment spent hesitating in this spectral layer increased the risk of detection by rival paragons who might be navigating through this layer.

Steeling his nerves with a heavy heart, Tyrion stepped straight through the mirror-like barrier. There was no resistance, no violent clash of energies, it was as if the boundary parted willingly, as though Tide had been expecting him all along.

In an instant, his perspective inverted, and he materialized within a vast, breathtaking chamber. It was a throne room so unimaginably opulent and grand that Tyrion could only conclude it was the singular, fitting sanctuary for a god attuned to the absolute dominion of riches.

He looked up to see Tide sitting upon a throne of pure, glistening diamond, looking down upon him with a wide, mocking grin that revealed rows of golden-plated shark-like teeth.

"And the little thief grows even bolder," Tide finally spoke, his voice dripping with condescension as he gazed down at Tyrion’s restrained figure, treating him like a misbehaving child caught in the act.

Hearing Tide’s voice, the biting mockery, and the humiliating way he was addressed ignited a blazing fury within Tyrion. A being of his stature, a true paragon was being treated like a petty criminal.

With a sharp flex of his will, Tyrion cast aside his fragile human guise. His stature swelled as his Astral form was unveiled, accompanied by the spontaneous materialization of a radiant throne of pure light behind him. Seating himself upon it, the throne rose majestically, lifting him until he was once again eye-to-eye with Tide, who merely raised a single brow at the display of defiance.

"I am Tyrion Blackwood, Paragon of the Great Sun Kingdom, Paragon and master of the conceptual Law of Luminous Logic," Tyrion’s booming voice resonated through the chamber, carrying such authority that the ambient temperature inside the grand throne room began to steadily rise.

His words were met only with silence and the bored, indifferent eyes of Tide, who merely shifted slightly on his diamond throne. With a casual flick, the oppressive heat Tyrion had summoned vanished instantly, returning the chamber’s temperature to its original state.

"Pray tell, Tyrion Blackwood, to what do I owe the honor of having a great paragon of your stature grace my realm?" Tide asked, his voice dripping with heavy sarcasm.

In response, Tyrion reached deep within his glowing form and withdrew the heavily guarded tome, which he had always kept hidden. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he hurled the book through the air, watching it clatter against the golden-plated floor of the palace.