The Guardian gods
Chapter 534

Chapter 534: 534

Ikenga felt the shift in Phantom ripple through his being, a tangible alteration in the very nature of his divinity. This change manifested not just in his awareness, but physically, in the network of cursed tattoos that covered his body.

But the most striking change occurred on Ikenga’s back. There, where the story of his cursed creation began, it seemed as if a new Chapter was unfolding.

The swirling patterns, normally a chaotic marking of dark purple ink, were now coalescing into a deliberate, evolving image. It began with a central vortex, a miniature maelstrom of purple energy that seemed to draw in the surrounding tattoos. From this vortex, new lines of ink snaked outwards, thick and pulsing, like veins of raw power spreading across his skin.

These lines weren’t random; they formed complex, geometric patterns, reminiscent of ancient glyphs, yet utterly alien in their design. They pulsed with a faint, internal light, a deep purple glow that hinted at the potent, volatile energy contained within. Interspersed between these glyphs were depictions of stylized flames, a contained, almost artistic representation of the flame of ambition. Behind this flame, a deeper shadow unfurled. It was the distinct, ethereal outline of Phantom, subtly integrated into the new design.

Keles, who had been lying on the bed, shifted, her gaze fixed on Ikenga’s back. She had watched the entire transformation, mesmerized by the living art appearing on his skin. Now, she sat up, a quiet intensity in her eyes, and slowly reached out, tracing a hand over the newly formed patterns.

Meanwhile, Ikenga looked down at his open palm. From its center, a swirl of deep-colored purple flame bloomed, devoid of heat, strangely cold to the touch. For a fleeting moment, one of Ikenga’s eyes went pure white, a quick, blinding flash, and in that instant, he glimpsed their original world before he was pulled back, the vision snapping away.

"Interesting," Ikenga murmured to himself, his voice a low hum. At the same precise moment, a bell, clear and resonant, chimed somewhere within the Abyss. Ikenga and Keles sat in silence, waiting.

The heavy door to the chamber creaked open, and two imp demons shuffled into the room. They both bowed low, their forms subservient. "We heard your bells, Milord," one rasped, its voice a gravelly whisper. "How can we be of service?"

Ikenga rose, the deep purple flame still dancing in his open palm. The two imp demons, who had just entered, were immediately drawn to it. A slow, hungry grin spread across their faces, as if they were witnessing the manifestation of their deepest, most primal desires.

Ikenga extended his hand, pointing the flame towards the two demons. Without a sound, the purple fire leaped from his palm, instantly latching onto their forms. There was no roar of pain, no thrashing. Ikenga and Keles watched in silence as the flame consumed them, burning without heat, without smoke, until it simply winked out.

Then, with a sudden, guttural cry, one of the demons screamed, "Nooo!" Its hands clawed forward, grasping at empty air as if trying to reclaim something vital, before it crumpled to the floor, motionless. The other demon, however, slowly opened its eyes. They glowed with an unnerving inner light, and a serene, almost beatific smile stretched its lips. To Ikenga and Keles, this demon seemed utterly, terrifyingly certain of things, its essence transformed. The one on the floor, while technically still alive, was an empty husk.

Ikenga finally spoke, his voice low and contemplative. "It seems like ambition is truly tied to one’s very life force. Losing it leaves one an empty husk."

The demon with the glowing eyes pushed itself up, its movements fluid and deliberate, utterly unlike the frantic scuttling of its former self. It knelt before Ikenga, its smile unwavering, radiating a profound, almost chilling gratitude.

"Thank you, Milord," the demon rasped, its voice no longer gravelly but clear, imbued with an eerie calm. "You have... illuminated my path. I now understand." Its gaze drifted to the inert form of its companion, then back to Ikenga, the light in its eyes intensifying. "I see the way forward with perfect clarity. The whispers, the chaos, the raw hunger... they were merely noise. Now, there is purpose."

The transformed demon stood, its serene smile never wavering, and with surprising strength, it dragged the inert form of its companion towards the door. The sound of the body scraping across the stone floor was the only disturbance in the chamber’s newfound quiet.

"Curious," Ikenga murmured, watching the demon. He was intrigued by its newfound clarity, this "purpose" it spoke of, but he didn’t press. Instead, he simply waved a hand, a dismissive gesture. The demon bowed once more, then pulled its companion’s body out of the room, the heavy door thudding shut behind them.

The predawn chill was usually Bolthrower’s least favorite part of the day, a constant reminder of the crushing weight of his armor and the even heavier burden of the war. But this morning, something was different. He stirred, eyes fluttering open, moments before the insistent clang of the morning bell ripped through the camp. A strange lightness permeated his limbs. He sat up, flexing his shoulders, and a jolt of surprise shot through him. The new armor, donned only yesterday, that had pressed down on him like a weight, now felt like nothing at all. It was as if he wore a second skin, or perhaps, no skin at all. The metal plates, the reinforced gauntlets, the heavy helm—all were there, visible to his eyes, yet utterly without weight.

He shook his head, pushing the thought aside. There was no time for contemplation. The bell’s second, more urgent peal, signaled the start of the daily routine. Rattan, the scent of stale sweat and fear, filled the air as the warriors of his company began to stir. Bolthrower fell into the familiar, shuffling line, his mind already drifting to the battlefield. Today felt different, yet there was soemthing familiar which is his frequent thought to himself before heading for the battlefield "Maybe this would be my last meal"

The line shuffled forward, agonizingly slow. Whispers of fresh casualties from the night’s skirmishes snaked through the ranks, adding to the grim atmosphere. When it was finally his turn, Bolthrower presented his standard, dented bowl. The ratman serving the rations, usually a scowling, efficient blur, paused. Bolthrower watched, bewildered, as the ratman ladled out a portion that was significantly larger than anything he’d ever received. The bowl, too, seemed to have grown, accommodating a veritable mountain of gruel. He looked up, meeting the ratman’s beady eyes, expecting a rebuke or a cruel jest. Instead, he received only a slight, unsettling smile and a quick nod.

A flicker of something—recognition? approval?—passed between them. Bolthrower’s jaw tightened. He nodded back, a silent acknowledgment, and quickly grabbed the overflowing bowl. He turned, seeking the most secluded corner he could find, the strange weightlessness of his armor, the generous portion, and the ratman’s enigmatic smile swirling in his mind. He needed to eat, to gather his strength. Whatever today held, he would face it.

The effect of the meal was immediate and profound. As the green paste slid down his throat, the usual hunger pangs, a dull ache that had become a constant companion, vanished instantly. But that was only the beginning. A warmth, not unlike a gentle massage, spread through his muscles, easing the knots of tension that had resided there for months. It wasn’t just warmth; it was a surge of invigorating energy, a feeling of his very cells expanding and tightening. Bolthrower even had the startling illusion that he was getting stronger, his limbs feeling denser, more powerful.

This routine—eat, fall into line, march to the battlefield—had been performed over a hundred times. Yet, this morning, the silent procession felt different. No words were exchanged, but a subtle shift rippled through the ranks. Bolthrower, always observant, noticed it first in the ratmen around him. Their usually dull, resigned eyes now held a faint, almost imperceptible glow. Not the wild gleam of madness or desperation, but something else entirely. "Hope," he thought, a potent realization blooming in his chest. There was a newfound will in their gaze, and their steps, once shuffling and weary, now bore a heavier, more purposeful tread.

This subtle transformation, coupled with his own inexplicable surge of strength and the bizarre lightness of his armor, solidified a growing conviction within Bolthrower. The voice he had heard, the one promising a way out, was real. There was indeed someone in the empire looking out for them, someone powerful enough to touch them even here, in this desolate, war-torn world.

The battlefield was closer this time, this was no surprise to him as he knew this was how it was battling the demons. Each battle whether won or lost meant more ground gained for the demons, also meaning their camp may be moved very soon.

As they reached the chaotic perimeter, a wave of exhaustion-etched faces met them. The warriors who had endured the night’s relentless fighting were falling back, their movements sluggish, their eyes hollow. Yet, amidst their weary retreat, a flicker of raw surprise ignited in their gaze.

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