The Guardian gods
Chapter 542

Chapter 542: 542

Without waiting for Rattan to recover from the crushing weight of this revelation, he continued. "To doom us even further, these mages altered our very biology, making it impossible for our race to procreate the normal way. That’s where ’Mother’ comes in."

Vellok gestured towards the fleshy organ embedded into the ground like a tumor grown from the planet itself. Tubes snaked from it into the walls. Arcane sigils glowed faintly around it, and with each slow, wet heartbeat, it breathed out magic.

It took a while before Rattan found his voice. His mind reeled, heart pounding under the weight of all he’d heard. He stood still, his thoughts trying to outrun the implications.

Finally, in a voice both cautious and heavy with realization, he said:

"Then from the current state of the world... the mages must have succeeded. We—Goblins—are now the First Child. If what you’re saying is true, then everything the Empire is now doing—the suppression of the Ratfolk, the silencing of dissent, the manipulation of public thought is all meaningless so why continue."

There was no triumph in his tone. Only a dawning horror with slight anger..

Vellok’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of amusement and disappointment crossing his face.

"Rattan... you are a mage. I thought you, of all people, would understand that magic rarely does exactly what we command. Especially when it concerns the vast and untamed things—worlds, souls, time, will. The moment we reach outside of ourselves, we step into uncertainty."

He folded his arms, his voice growing sharper. "Yes, the mages’ plan worked—and didn’t. The Ratfolk’s status as First Child was sealed, suppressed like a memory buried in the bones of the world."

"But we? The Goblins? We did not inherit that title. Not fully. Not immediately. Not by right. We are like seeds planted in sacred soil—waiting, not yet accepted."

Rattan frowned. "What do you mean... ’waiting’?"

Vellok turned, pacing slightly as if choosing his words with care.

"The mages assumed that once the original First Child was silenced, the world would simply transfer its blessing—like handing over a crown. But the truth is far more complex."

"To create a new First Child... is to replicate what is fundamentally organic—the birth of identity, culture, connection. It’s not something that can be forced or summoned by spellcraft alone."

"The world must come to accept us. Slowly. Subtly. Through generations of presence, action, and resonance. Through integration. And there is no guarantee of when—or even if—that will happen."

Rattan’s eyes widened. "So... we’re imposters? Waiting to be legitimized?"

Vellok’s chuckle was dry and hollow.

"That’s one way to put it. We are like a body growing into a borrowed soul—the fit is not yet right. And the world knows it."

"That’s why the mages grew desperate. Their expectations were time-bound, their ambition impatient. When they realized the transformation would not be instant, they turned to eradication. If the Ratfolk were gone completely—civilization, memory, spirit—then the world would have no choice but to make room for a new First Child."

Rattan felt a chill coil down his spine.

"But they stopped," he whispered. "Why?"

"Because even they underestimated the world’s will," Vellok said gravely. "To kill a First Child is no simple matter. The title may be suppressed, but the bond with the world remains. It is ancient, primal, and woven into the very roots of this realm. Destroying such a race would be like cutting out a heart still beating in the ground."

He pointed downward, as if to the soil itself.

"The world would have retaliated. Not with fire or storms—but with consequence. Mana decay. Reality folds. Time instability. Something terrible. Something unmaking."

"And so, the mages stepped back. Not out of mercy, but fear. The cost outweighed the benefit."

A long silence followed. Rattan could feel the pulse of the great organ below them—Mother—like the heartbeat of a question the world had not yet answered.

"Then what now?" Rattan asked, voice barely a whisper. "Are we just... waiting? Hoping the world eventually accepts the Goblins? And if not—what happens to our people?"

He got no answer instead Vellok laughed—not the hollow, bitter kind Rattan had heard before, but a full-bodied, almost joyous cackle. There was something unsettling about how pleased he sounded.

"That... that was the moment we realized something profound about these proud mages. Or rather—about the Sixth Stage itself."

He gestured broadly, his voice rising with each word.

"You see, beings in the Sixth Stage... they are not gods. Some gain immortality—yes. But many do not. They can reach the pinnacle of power that mortal life allows, but they are still bound by time, by flesh, by decay."

He turned, eyes gleaming with cruel delight.

"And that is where their grand experiment failed. They couldn’t wait. Couldn’t afford to spend centuries—millennia—waiting for their fabricated First Child to be accepted. Their lives, their ambitions, their legacies... too short, too fragile."

His hand swept toward the massive pulsing organ beneath them—Mother.

"So they created her. Mother. Our womb, our god, our directive. They began to engineer the process of integration. Not just biologically—but psychologically. They didn’t just give us strength—they gave us purpose, instincts, desires tailored to quicken the world’s acceptance."

"Talents were hard-coded into our blood. Behavioral patterns etched into our minds. We were designed not just to thrive—but to dominate."

Rattan’s stomach twisted. It was a dark mirror of everything he knew about free will.

"And so it became an accepted truth," Vellok continued, his voice now low and dangerous, "that the Ratfolk could not be wiped out—not until the world truly, fully accepted us as its First Child. Not until the transition was complete."

"Hence the Empire’s current shape—its subtle tyranny, its twisted ideology. For the plan to work, the Goblins had to be seen as superior. Treated as superior. Believe—down to our marrow—that we are superior."

His lip curled into a sneer.

"And the Ratfolk... your people... they had to be crushed. Spiritually, intellectually, culturally. The weight of inferiority had to be carved into them until it became their truth."

"Only then would the world begin to reweave its loyalty, to accept the new child and let the old one fade."

Rattan’s hands balled into fists, his breathing shallow. So many pieces of history, of policy, of unspoken rules now made sense. And yet, it was all so grotesquely calculated.

Then Vellok’s tone shifted. The joy drained from his voice, replaced by frustration—and something close to fear.

"But then... the Abyssal Invasion happened."

His words hung like a curse in the air.

"Somehow, amidst the chaos, the seal on the Ratfolk broke. By what we suspect to be gods working with the demons. And now, their old essence is stirring."

"The strength that once made them the First Child—their talents, their connection to the world, their resilience—it’s all waking up. Slowly. Like a sleeping beast, stretching after centuries of silence."

Vellok’s voice dropped low—flat and cold as steel.

"Action had to be taken. We were so close, Rattan. So painfully close after centuries of waiting, scheming, and bleeding in the dark. The final threads of integration were nearly woven."

He began pacing, slowly, deliberately.

"But then the seal on the Ratfolk began to crack. And we knew—we knew—that once they fully awakened, everything we’d built would unravel like rotten cloth. We’re outnumbered. We always have been. And the moment they remember what they were... the moment the world remembers... it’s over."

He turned, eyes flashing with grim resolve.

"So we used the invasion. It was a curse—but also an opportunity. All we’ve done since it began is stall, delay, buy ourselves more time. And the Ratfolk, in their masses, were the perfect answer. They were brave, capable, disposable. We sent them wave after wave into the jaws of the Abyss."

His lip twitched bitterly.

"The world thinks it’s a war for survival. For us, it was a countdown. A buffer. The longer the war drags on, the more we inch toward final integration."

Vellok’s footsteps stopped just in front of Rattan. The air between them crackled with tension. His voice, once steady, now carried a harsh undercurrent of fury.

"Do you understand now, boy?"

He jabbed a finger toward the massive, heaving mass of flesh beneath them—Mother.

"That thing... that womb, that blessing, that curse—is the crucible of our kind. She gives us life, she sustains us, she made us what we are now. But to the world itself, she is a disease. An infection. Something it tolerates only because of our tenuous hold as First Child."

Vellok’s voice trembled—not with fear, but with something deeper. Rage... and a terrible sorrow.

"But the moment—the very instant—the Ratfolk reclaim their rightful place, this world will turn on us. It will snuff out Mother without mercy. And then it will come for us—every last one of us born from her flesh."

He took a deep breath, his eyes burning into Rattan’s.

"And now, because of you and Kaelen—because of your reckless meddling, your naive ideals, and your inability to see the scope of what’s at stake—you are accelerating that future."

Vellok’s words came slow and heavy, each syllable like a blow.

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