The Guardian gods
Chapter 530

Chapter 530: 530

Phantom’s messed-up state happened because of the special collection of weapons, the armory, that was sent out. Rattan has been working on these weapons for years. The last five years has been full of tricky politics and secret plans, and Rattan was right in the middle of it.

Everyone important was watching Rattan. With years passing by, it was hard for them to hide their distaste for Rattan’s plan to help the Ratmen so there was no way they would have let the weapons he crafted get to the ratmen, especially with all the secret tricks Rattan had built into them.

This is where Phantom, whose very essence was cursed with the ironically revealing moniker "Spotlight Phantom," proved invaluable. His unparalleled ability to remain hidden, to vanish into the periphery, was his greatest asset. To ensure Rattan’s grand design came to fruition, Phantom had unhesitatingly offered himself, sacrificing portions of his own being.

These fragments were then woven into the armor and weapons’ hidden mechanisms. This was how Rattan managed to get his products approved despite the intense surveillance. No one suspected the true power hidden within.

Even now, Phantom was feeling the rewards of his sacrifice. Golden threads, shimmering with energy, were already lacing through the empty spaces into his smoky body, slowly but surely healing him.

Phantom eagerly awaited the full benefits once the ratmen charged into battle. He envisioned countless ambitions igniting and more performers for the stage he has planned for Rattan.

Rattan’s fingers brushed the shimmering surface of the crystalline cube, and with a faint hum, it seemed to melt into his touch, shrinking until it was no larger than a pebble. He slipped the now miniature object into a hidden pocket within the folds of his dark, unassuming robe. Outside, the muffled murmurs of a waiting crowd hinted at the anticipation building for his appearance, for the words and confirmation only he could provide.

In a swift, almost imperceptible motion, the plain robe he wore dissolved, replaced by the rich, embroidered fabrics of a master mage’s vestments. It was a transformation Rattan had perfected over years, a seamless shift into the persona expected of him. A faint, almost unconscious smile touched his lips—a familiar expression he’d adopted, a mask of calm confidence that settled comfortably upon his features.

He laid a hand on the cool, polished wood of the door, pushing it open to reveal a long, torch-lit corridor. His footsteps echoed softly as he walked, the silence of the hallway a stark contrast to the lively sounds that drew him onward. He paused at another door, from behind which spilled the unmistakable sounds of laughter and playful teasing. A genuine warmth spread across Rattan’s face, his practiced smile giving way to an honest one.

Pushing open the door, he stepped into the room, his eyes twinkling. "What’s the joke I’m missing out on?" he asked, his voice light.

"Nixbolt!" A chorus of voices, rich with the tones of young adulthood, erupted, a mix of genuine surprise and delighted recognition. The room, a comfortable space filled with well-worn textbooks, glowing magical apparatus, and empty teacups, was indeed bustling with imperial goblin mages. Their expressions, ranging from studious concentration to lively debate, instantly brightened at his presence.

A particularly lanky goblin, with spectacles perched on his nose and ink smudged on his cheek, grinned. "Just trying to decipher the true meaning of ’mana depletion," he quipped, a twinkle in his eye. A smaller, energetic female goblin with bright green eyes and a braid woven with silver charms elbowed him playfully. "He means he tried to turn my tea into a newt again, and failed spectacularly!" she announced, to a fresh burst of laughter.

Rattan chuckled, stepping further into the room. This was it—the heart of his quiet rebellion, the vibrant proof of years spent cultivating loyalty and ambition among the empire’s brightest, yet often overlooked, minds. These were not just students; they were his burgeoning army of change, each one a testament to his vision. He moved among them, his gaze sweeping over their eager faces, a sense of deep satisfaction settling in his chest.

"Well, now," he said, his voice warm and resonant, "I’d say a newt in a teacup sounds like a fascinating magical experiment. Perhaps we can refine the spell later." He paused, his smile becoming a little more serious, a hint of the weight he carried returning to his eyes. "But for now, I have news that might be even more interesting than transforming beverages." He glanced around the room, making eye contact with each of them. "It’s time we talked about our next steps."

Rattan found a spot on the edge of a sturdy, enchanted workbench, perching himself amidst bubbling beakers and discarded scrolls. The playful atmosphere in the room had vanished, replaced by an immediate, almost palpable shift to serious, focused attention as his gaze met theirs. The young mages, who moments ago had been jesting about transfiguration failures, now leaned forward, their expressions etched with a shared concern.

"The ratmen," Rattan began, his voice dropping to a low, grave tone that commanded absolute silence, "have finally gotten their hands on the project we’ve been cultivating these past years." A ripple of controlled excited emotions went through the room, murmurs of "Finallt" and sharp intakes of breath. He let the news sink in, letting their reactions fuel the fire he was about to stoke.

He pushed off the workbench, his form now radiating a quiet intensity. "We’ve been scorned for our ambitions and dismissed for our ’pitiful’ goals," he continued, his voice gaining a hard edge. "But tomorrow, that changes. Tomorrow is the time we show everyone, from the lowliest street vendor to the highest-seated Archons, that we are not to be underestimated." He swept his gaze across each face, seeing the flickering embers of their own suppressed frustrations and hopes. "It’s time to light the fire of ambition under our fellow mages, those whose flames have been cruelly suppressed under the crushing weight of this empire."

Rattan’s gaze, sharp and strong, swept across the faces of the mages. He didn’t need to ask for their attention; he already had it. "How many of you," he continued, his voice dropping to a low, challenging whisper, "are willing to leave this room under the cloak of the night sky, to head into the battlefield, and wait for tomorrow’s first light?"

A tense silence filled the space, broken only by the faint hum of a nearby arcane device. Each mage met his gaze, their expressions a mixture of apprehension and unwavering resolve. They understood the unspoken weight of his words: this wasn’t merely a tactical maneuver, but a profound commitment, a step into the unknown.

"Tomorrow," Rattan articulated, his voice gaining a steely edge, "those ratmen, whom the empire carelessly throws against the abyss demons, will finally be equipped. They’ll make use of the very armor and weapons we have built — weaponry designed not for internal conflict, but to turn the tide against the demonic invasion itself."

He paused, letting the full gravity of his declaration settle. "Through your hands, through your amplified magic, the images of what is happening will be transmitted throughout every corner of the empire. The common folk, safe in their homes, will witness firsthand the horrors of the invasion in their own backyards. And they will see, with undeniable clarity, the ones who have truly been fighting to keep them safe, the ones the empire cast aside." He paused, a grim satisfaction playing on his lips. "This is not just a battle; it’s a broadcast. A declaration that the age of the suppressed is over, and we are the ones who truly protect."

A wave of murmurs swept through the room as Rattan’s challenging words hung in the air. A few of the mages, their eyes burning with defiance, immediately straightened, a silent nod of unwavering commitment passing between them and Rattan. Among them was the lanky goblin from before, his hand instinctively gripping a staff propped beside him, and the energetic female mage, her gaze sharp and resolute.

But others shifted uneasily, their initial resolve faltering under the weight of his declaration. "Nixbolt," one goblin mage, his usually confident posture now slightly hunched, spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "The empire... they’ll know it’s us. They’ll know we intervened. The reprisals... they could be catastrophic."

Another, a stocky goblin with scars crisscrossing his forehead, added, "What if the broadcast fails? What if the empire interfers with higher level mages, and our work will be for nothing? The empire’s wrath... it’s well-known for being indiscriminate." A few more heads nodded in agreement, the fear of imperial retribution a cold, undeniable presence in the room.

Rattan let their fears linger for a moment, his expression unreadable. He had anticipated this. It was the natural response of those who had lived under the empire’s shadow for so long. "And what," he finally asked, his voice cutting through the apprehension, "is the alternative? To continue to watch as the abyss consumes all, while the empire idly lets our people perish? To remain unseen, unheard, and ultimately, powerless?" He swept his gaze around the room, making eye contact with every single mage, challenging their fear with his conviction. "Tell me, my friends, is that truly a future you are willing to embrace?"