The Guardian gods
Chapter 532

Chapter 532: 532

A flash of recognition flickered in the eyes of the old mage. He picked up the cup, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. "Hmm, cheeky boy. But you are, indeed, right. My Lord has plans for holding off the empire’s interference for some time. This broadcast serves a far greater goal for his future plans."

Before Rattan could respond, the old mage’s voice cut through the air, sharp and direct. "Why did you lie to your friends?"

Rattan’s smile remained fixed, an unreadable mask as he looked at the old man, but he said nothing. The older mage, undeterred, continued, "You know my Lord can’t guarantee the safety of your friends’ families and those they know if the empire decides on retaliating." He leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "You know of this, yet you promised them safety. Even I, who was listening, was convinced you had plans. If I didn’t know what I knew, I would have been like those friends of yours who are now heading for their demise and horror with a promised conviction on everything being alright."

Rattan’s smile finally faltered, replaced by a subtle hardening of his features. He didn’t deny the accusation, nor did he offer an immediate defense. He simply met the older mage’s unflinching stare, a silent acknowledgment of the truth in his words. The air in the room, once thick with strategic planning and ambition, now crackled with a different kind of tension – one born of hard choices and moral compromises.

He took a slow breath, his gaze drifting from the old mage to the discarded scrolls on the workbench, as if searching for answers in their complex runes. "Hope," Rattan began, his voice low and deliberate, "is a powerful motivator. Fear, on the other hand, is a crippling one. If I had laid bare the full extent of the risks, if I had spoken of the very real possibility of imperial retribution against their loved ones... how many would have truly walked out that door tonight?"

He turned back to the older mage, his expression now resolute. "They needed conviction. They needed to believe in a tangible safety net, a shield against the empire’s wrath, even if that shield is, for now, more concept than concrete. Their belief in our cause, in His Grace’s influence, is what will drive them forward. It is what will give them the courage to face the Abyss, and in doing so, expose the empire’s failures."

Rattan paused, his gaze darkening slightly. "Sometimes, the truth, unvarnished, paralyzes. A carefully constructed hope, however, empowers. They are heading into a storm, yes, but they go with purpose, believing their sacrifice is meaningful and their loved ones are protected. That belief, even if subtly manipulated, is what will make this ’broadcast’ a success. The alternative was inaction, and that, my friend, is a far greater horror than any potential retribution."

The old mage listened, his head slowly nodding, a flicker of something unreadable in his ancient eyes. He took a sip from the tea Rattan had poured, the steam momentarily clouding his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, tinged with a melancholic curiosity.

"I understand the necessity, boy. I’ve seen enough of this world to know that grand visions often demand... difficult truths." He set the teacup down with a soft clink. "But it makes me wonder, Rattan. What kind of person have you become? I remember the innocent child, the one who saw the injustices and burned with a quiet, undeniable compassion. The young mage who worried over every stray and every slight."

His gaze sharpened, but it was not accusatory; rather, it was deeply contemplative. "Most mages, once they gain power, they shed such sentiments. They become cold, calculating. You, however, were an exception. Your compassion was a rare, surprising thing among those I’ve seen rise. And now... now it’s a disappointment to see that you, too, are beginning to lose it, aren’t you?"

Rattan met the older mage’s gaze, the subtle smile that had graced his lips moments before now completely gone. The question hung in the air, a stark mirror reflecting the choices he had made. He ran a hand over his shaven head, a gesture of quiet contemplation.

"Compassion," Rattan finally said, his voice devoid of its earlier confidence, replaced by a weary honesty, "is a luxury. A luxury I cannot afford if I am to achieve what is necessary. The child who burned with injustice, yes, he existed. But that child also watched, helpless, as the empire crushed those who showed any weakness, any sentiment that didn’t serve its purpose."

He picked up the discarded teacup, turning it slowly in his fingers. "The ’compassion’ you speak of, Master Gorok," Rattan continued, using the old mage’s given name, a rare gesture of intimacy. "It nearly got me killed. It nearly got us all killed. It made me hesitate when swift action was required. It made me mourn for individuals when the fate of a multitude hung in the balance."

His eyes, when they met Gorok’s again, were filled with a cold, clear resolve. "I have not lost my compassion, Master Gorok. I have simply learned to direct it, to focus it on the greater good, on the ultimate liberation of our people. If a few innocent hearts must be weighed down by a temporary deception, if their families must face a perceived threat in the short term, so that thousands, millions, might truly be free from the empire’s tyranny and the Abyss’s hunger... then it is a price I am willing to pay."

He set the cup down with a soft clink. "The child you knew, Master Gorok, he learned. He adapted. He understood that to win this war, one must sometimes sacrifice a part of oneself on the altar of strategy. The question is not whether I have changed, but whether that change is ultimately for the benefit of all we fight for."

Rattan finished speaking, his gaze firm, expecting a retort, a challenge, perhaps even an acknowledgment of his cold logic. Instead, the old mage said nothing. His old eyes held Rattan’s for a long, unsettling moment, their depth unreadable. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he set his teacup down. As it met the table, the mana in the room began to fluctuate, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air around him. Shadows in the corners of the room deepened, stretching and twisting as if drawn to the mage’s presence.

A profound stillness fell, broken only by the faint, distant hum of the city beyond the walls. The mage’s form seemed to grow indistinct, swallowed by the encroaching darkness. His last words, laced with an unnerving calm, spread through the room, echoing the very question Rattan has always posed to himself. "Is that truly the truth, or words you say to yourself to hide from what you are becoming?"

Then, the shadows consumed him entirely, and he was gone, leaving Rattan utterly alone in the silent, now truly empty room, the question hanging heavy, demanding an answer.

Rattan sat in silence once again, the echo of the old mage’s words reverberating in the quiet room. He looked down at the teacup, its dark liquid offering a distorted reflection. A goblin face stared back at him. There was no recoil, no flicker of the initial shock or disgust that had accompanied his first glimpse of this new visage in a mirror. That raw emotional turmoil had long since faded, replaced by a cold, unsettling familiarity.

The memory of past whispers, those mocking questions that had once been distant, now clawed at him from within the depths of his own mind: "Was he wearing a skin, or was the skin wearing him?"

Hearing those last words from those he had so carefully, so secretly, marked as his adversaries, truly wounded him more deeply than he had ever anticipated.

When Rattan spoke of "our people," he meant his own, the ratfolk. To outsiders, to the empire, he presented "our people" as the goblins and ogres, the other subjugated races he championed. His entire intricate plan had been built on this deception, on the secure knowledge that watching the goblin empire turn against itself, fuelled by internal strife, would divert their attention. It would allow his own kin, the ratfolk, to escape the empire’s watchful, oppressive eye.

But now, his secret enemy, had made a comment that stripped away all his carefully constructed layers of self-deception. It had made Rattan feel like one of them, a manipulative, cold-blooded puppet master. The worst part was, Rattan could not deny any of it. The chilling truth was, Gorok was right. He had become precisely what he had sought to defeat.

Rattan gasped, his hand flying to his mouth, a sudden wave of nausea churning in his stomach. The carefully constructed calm shattered, replaced by a visceral horror. In a brutal flash, his mind replayed the cold calculations from just a few hours prior—the chilling realization that he had, by his own design, doomed hundreds of thousands of his own people, the ratfolk, to die on the battlefield tomorrow. All of it, a gruesome sacrifice to secure his future plans, his grand vision of a liberated race.