The Guardian gods Chapter 969

The merged domain could not hold.

Under the absolute, feral violence of the driven beyond sanity, the reality of the realm buckled. The dark mirror floor shattered into a billion floating shards of obsidian glass, and the overhead sea of blood detonated, raining boiling, crimson torrents through the void. Space itself fractured, spider-webbing into black, jagged abysses until the merged domain tore completely apart, spilling the apex of their madness into the open sky.

Down on the surface of Nana below, every living resident, from the battered soldiers on the blood-soaked plains to the common folk cowering in distant cities felt the world tremble.

An oppressive, terrifying roar reverberated through the very crust of the planet. All it took was a single glance upward to witness the apocalyptic spectacle. High above the atmosphere, visible even in broad daylight, two monstrous silhouettes were locked in a savage, light-shattering embrace.

It was a horrific, glorious vision. One entity was the absolute embodiment of War and Madness itself, a titan who commanded the storm. The other was a young king who had been lured into that same dark abyss, his icy form now a thrashing, roaring mess of pure, untamed instinct.

Ragnar fought like a dying beast, his regenerated obsidian limbs tearing at Bj?rn’s flesh, his voice an unending, exhilarated scream that echoed across the continent. But he had traded his tactical mind for the thrill of the slaughter, and against the origin of that madness, it was a death sentence.

Bj?rn took the king’s frenzied blows without a flinch, his four eyes burning with a brilliant, terrifying light.

With a movement of brutal, predatory precision, Bj?rn’s heavy gauntlet punched directly through the shattered ribcage of the obsidian titan. His fingers dug deep into the hollow chest, closing around the pulsing, absolute-zero core that burned at the center of Ragnar’s existence.

Ragnar’s wild laughter choked in his throat.

Bj?rn didn’t just crush the core, his war-divinity flared, his own absolute law violently invading and tearing the core’s structure apart from the inside out.

The conceptual ties binding the king to his power snapped like overstretched wire. In an instant, the invisible, thick conduit of divine energy connecting Ragnar to his Mage Tower, the vast, near infinite reservoir that had been feeding him continuous, endless mana was violently severed.

The blinding light inside Ragnar’s chest flickered, cracked, and died.

Ragnar’s consciousness snapped back into focus with violent, agonizing clarity.

The intoxicating haze of madness evaporated, leaving behind a cold, terrifying reality. His eyes widened in sheer panic as he looked down at the massive, gauntleted hand buried deep inside his sternum, tightly clenching his fractured core. He could feel his body desperately trying to mend itself, but the process was consuming astronomical amounts of mana, mana he no longer possessed.

Without the reservoir of his Mage Tower, his reserves were evaporating in seconds.

The terrifying entity of the king dissolved. Ragnar began to thrash around wildly in Bj?rn’s grasp, clawing at the titan’s arm like a terrified child whose prized possession had just been torn from his hands.

"No... no... NOOOO!" he screamed, his voice cracking into a desperate, pathetic wail.

Bj?rn stared down at the trembling, desperate young king. Slowly, the radiant crimson light in the God of War’s four eyes receded, replaced by a cold, quiet sanity. He felt an intense sense of deep, profound satisfaction. He had granted the madness its fill, let it run rampant through the crucible of combat, and now the hunger was pacified.

His senses were completely his own once more. The constant, gnawing compulsion to tear the things apart quieted into a still, triumphant silence.

Looking down at the broken, sobbing king, Bj?rn spoke, his voice carrying a heavy, resonant weight in the void.

"You were born an only child," Bj?rn said calmly, his gaze piercing through Ragnar’s failing obsidian mask. "You had the privilege to be loved unconditionally by both your parents."

Ragnar’s thrashing weakened, his panicked eyes wide as the God of War laid his soul bare.

"But that privilege became your ultimate curse," Bj?rn continued, his tone devoid of rage, carrying only the absolute truth of the universe. "You became a pampered child. A sheltered prince whose soft reality shattered the moment both parents were lost, suddenly forced to play at being a man."

Bj?rn leaned in closer, his heavy shadow completely swallowing the young king.

"You look like a man. You speak like a man. But it is blindingly clear to me that you are nothing but a child. Your conceptual law, the ultimate reflection of your inner truth proves it. A child who hides in a womb, throwing tantrums, desperately wanting the world to go his way."

With measured, effortless force, one of Bj?rn’s massive lower arms reached out and wrapped around the hilt of the ancient blade fused to Ragnar’s arm. With a brutal wrench, he pried his former rival’s relic straight out of the king’s grip, snapping the crystalline tendons like brittle twigs.

"Now your father’s relic belongs to me as well," Bj?rn murmured softly.

His remaining gauntleted hand reached upward, his clawed fingers clamping tightly around Ragnar’s skull.

Ragnar let out a sharp, ear-splitting scream of pure agony, kicking his legs helplessly against the void. He burned through the absolute last drop of his mana pool, but it was useless. He was completely dry, totally helpless, and entirely at the mercy of the titan holding him.

Bj?rn pulled.

With a sickening, wet tear, Ragnar’s head was violently ripped from its roots, shattering the remains of his core into a spray of dying, blue light.

Holding the severed skull aloft, fresh crimson blood dripping down his gauntlet and floating into the zero-gravity void, Bj?rn threw his head back and unleashed a thunderous, triumphant roar that shook the very atmosphere of the world below.

Down on the surface of Nana, millions of eyes watched the sky. The sight of the God of War holding the severed head of the Silver King ignited something primal in the hearts of his followers. The armies of Bj?rn erupted into a deafening, terrifying roar that echoed across the continents.

"The gift of Bj?rn is the gift of blood! ALL HAIL BJ?RN!"

The war cry resounded through every valley, city, and battlefield across the world.

And just as quickly as the spectacle had reached its climax, Bj?rn’s massive figure faded from the sky, vanishing seamlessly back into his divine realm.

High above the world, in the cold, silent expanse of space, Ragnar’s headless, hollow body was left behind floating endlessly and aimlessly in the quiet void.

The moment Ragnar’s head was torn from his shoulders, a shift rippled across the northern continent.

It was a sudden heavy, terrifying pressure that rose from far beyond the sunny, civilized reaches of the realm originating deep within the endless, snow-white wastes belonging to the godlings. The presence swelled with a heavy weight, instantly drawing the attention of every higher being on the continent.

Down on the ground, the common soldiers of Bj?rn’s marching army remained blissfully ignorant, high on victory as they pushed deeper into enemy territory, burning and claiming what remained of the Silver Kingdom.

But up above, the Paragons felt it. Even those currently locked in desperate, bloody skirmishes across the sky froze for a fraction of a second, their senses turning toward the frozen north with a sudden spike of dread.

Down in the heart of the Silver Kingdom, mere moments before Ragnar’s absolute defeat...

Magnus, the acting king and husband of Lunara, sat alone in the vast, quiet expanse of the throne room.

The heavy stone room was bathed in the dim, cool light of dusk, illuminated only by a few flickering mana-lamps. Spread across the massive wooden desk before him were stacks upon stacks of official scrolls, casualty reports, supply requests, and desperate missives from regional lords demanding instructions for the ongoing war.

Magnus’s shoulders sloped forward, his posture burdened by an overwhelming, crushing exhaustion. He pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes bloodshot from days without sleep. Every hour brought another wave of grim feedback from the frontlines, and every official in the palace looked to him with wide, frightened eyes, begging for answers he simply did not have.

He was a warrior, a leader in his own right, but holding together the fraying seams of a dying kingdom while its god like leader fought for his life in the sky above was a agony he had never truly been prepared for.

He hated it. He hated this cold, unforgiving throne.

He hated the impossible position he had been shoved into. Once, perhaps in his youth, sitting upon this golden seat might have been a quiet, ambitious dream. But now, actually trapped here under the crushing weight of a collapsing realm, he felt nothing but bitter regret.

How much better would his life have been if he were still back in the endless, snow-white plains, hunting under the frost-bitten sky alongside his beautiful wife, Lunara? That had been real. That had been freedom.