The Guardian gods
Chapter 545

Chapter 545: 545

In the few short weeks since that harrowing ordeal, the Imp had undergone a remarkable transformation. Before he harbored jittering nerves and smoldering fear, there was now a measured composure. Pride tempered by discipline. And something else, something flickering behind his black eyes — clarity.

The Imp approached and bowed with the solemn grace of a veteran courtier, a massive folded map held carefully in both hands. The cloth-bound scroll was nearly as tall as he was.

"Lord Ikenga. Lord Keles," he said, his voice smoother than they remembered — controlled, yet still carrying a flicker of reverence, of awe.

Zarvok, reclining on his throne observed the exchange with a crooked smile curling beneath his mask. He leaned forward slightly, his fingers steepled.

"I would like to thank you, Ikenga," Zarvok said, the hint of genuine respect in his usually sardonic tone catching even Keles’s attention. "I don’t know precisely what you did to him... but you’ve changed the structure of how my castle — my home — now runs."

He gestured toward the Imp.

"For a formal introduction: meet Stitch. My new head of servants. A humble title, yes. One often spat on by our kind. But now? It has become one of the most coveted positions in this entire abyssal layer."

Zarvok chuckled darkly, eyes gleaming. "You see, Stitch’s story spreads like wildfire. The Imp who survived the flames of a god and emerged... refined. Controlled. Awakened. Lesser demons whisper his name in envy. Higher demons look twice when he walks past. And now, demons who once slaughtered their own kin to avoid servitude petition him for placement beneath his command."

Ikenga raised a brow, intrigued. "And what story is that?"

Stitch bowed slightly to Zarvok before speaking. "Allow me, milord."

He turned to Ikenga and Keles, eyes gleaming faintly with the memory of his transformation.

"When I was bathed in your Grace Flame," Stitch began, "I was drawn — or rather pulled — into a mindspace where all my ambitions were laid bare."

He spoke calmly, but there was a subtle tremor beneath the words, like echoes of something vast and incomprehensible.

"The flame didn’t just burn. It showed. It revealed countless paths... ways in which those ambitions could be fulfilled. The more I fed them, the deeper I was drawn into the vision. I was consumed by it — chasing, climbing, grasping at that elusive summit."

He paused, letting the memory settle.

"But then I noticed... the further I went, the dimmer the flame became. Its light no longer guided — only the hunger remained."

"I stopped," Stitch said, voice firmer now. "I pulled back before I lost myself. And in doing so, I awoke with the clarity of someone who had lived those paths — every success, every mistake. Like glimpses of a life unlived, a version of me making choices, learning, falling, rising again."

He straightened his back as he continued, no longer just speaking — confessing.

"When the flame finally died out and I was returned to reality... those paths remained. Burned into my mind. I saw what I had to do. And it began that very night."

He looked directly at Ikenga, no longer trembling, but certain.

"I dragged out my partner — the one who shared the flame with me — and I killed him. I fed on his soul. That act brought me closer to the third stage."

Zarvok leaned back, the bones of his throne groaning beneath him as Stitch’s words settled over the room like smoke. For a moment, silence reigned.

Then, a slow grin crept across the demon king’s face.

"You see now why his story spreads," Zarvok said. "But words alone do not capture the full weight of it. Let me show you what he’s done."

What followed over the next few weeks was not immediate — but it was undeniable.

At first, Stitch resumed what appeared to be a humble role. Head of servants. An insignificant title to most demons, a position reserved for the broken or the expendable. But Stitch did not wear it like a burden. He wore it like a crown.

He started small: reorganizing patrol routes, optimizing storage, ensuring each wing of Zarvok’s vast fortress was assigned its own team of watchful attendants. Demons scoffed, of course. They hissed, mocked, and threatened. Few wanted to obey a mere Imp — especially not one who had crawled his way out of divine flame. But Stitch did not demand respect — he earned it.

When a butcher-beast rampaged through the west kitchens, Stitch personally subdued it using a binding rune crafted from blood, bone dust, and calm words. When a squad of lesser demons refused to follow orders, he challenged their leader, tore out one of its tongues mid-sentence, and offered it back as a "reminder to listen first."

Within days, the snarling chaos of Zarvok’s castle began to... breathe. The halls, once filled with screeches and infighting, grew quiet. Tasks were completed before being commanded. Fights broke out less — or when they did, Stitch made examples swift and lasting. Even the architecture seemed to shift in harmony, as if the castle itself appreciated the newfound rhythm.

Then came the real surprise.

Zarvok had always ruled through fear and indulgence — a chaotic king in a kingdom of madness. But when he returned to his war room one night and found a freshly drawn battle map, cleaned armor arranged by enchantment type, and a list of updated supply chains with suggestions for strategic siphoning from rival territories — he stopped.

Stitch stood silently in the corner, not boasting, not begging for approval. Just watching.

Zarvok turned to him slowly. "What... is all this?"

"My duty," Stitch replied. "It is not glory I seek. Only to fulfill the ambition I saw in the flame."

Zarvok let out a short laugh. "And here I thought order would be the death of me. But I must admit... this suits me."

And so, the Imp who was once nothing — now walked the halls with demons bowing in silence. The role of servant had become a position of influence and power.

"He’s a lucky fella," Ikenga muttered, almost to himself, as his gaze shifted toward the large map now being unfolded across the stone table.

Zarvok leaned in, the bones of his spine cracking audibly as he hunched forward, eyes glinting with anticipation. His fingers twitched against the armrest — it had been too long since he moved in earnest, too long since he fought. This invasion, this slow crawl of conflict, had kept him caged.

But now, perhaps, the tide was shifting.

The map laid bare the fractured lands of the invaded world. Markings and etchings crisscrossed the terrain — strongholds, corrupted plains, siege lines.

Ikenga’s eyes narrowed. There it is.

Once Vellok had dragged Rattan to that underground, Ikenga had reached out through his phantom senses. He had seen the place through the place through phanthom. He’d already pinpointed it just in case.

This meant they had another card to play, a strategic thread to pull. A way to break the goblins, turn the war on its head, and perhaps bring this invasion to a premature end.

He and Keles had been away from home too long. The thought lingered at the edge of his mind like a bitter taste.

Ikenga placed a finger on the map, tapping a specific spot near the edge of a cracked mountain range.

"That right there," he said, voice steady, "is where Mother is."

Zarvok’s eyes widened slightly. Keles straightened.

And as for how he knew?

Ikenga’s other eye — the one planted on the moon like a watcher in the sky — gave him clarity beyond mortal vision. From its perch, it gazed down into the cracks of this world, and it had seen the outerview of the underground cave and where it was located.

Zarvok, who moments ago bore a sharp grin, now seemed calmer, more composed — a sovereign slipping into the skin of command. When it was time to act, he knew how to act.

He turned toward Stitch with quiet authority.

"Have my generals assemble in the war room," he said. "The action they’ve been itching for has arrived."

Stitch bowed low, wordlessly, and swept out of the room with the silent precision that had become his signature.

Ikenga and Keles stood.

There was something in Ikenga’s posture, in the way he moved around her — a silent protectiveness, a steadying presence. Zarvok noticed it as he turned his gaze to Keles. Their eyes met briefly, and for the first time in a while, the demon king’s smile was gentle — a rare glimpse of civility beneath his usual chaos.

"Humble congratulations to you, milady," he said with a nod.

Keles returned the nod. She said nothing, but the acknowledgment in her eyes was clear.

Ikenga’s hand remained on her back as the two of them left the chamber, their steps echoing down the quiet, empty hallway — a lull before the storm.

As they walked, Keles gently rested her hand on her stomach. Her face was partially hidden in veil covering her face, but her voice broke through the silence, soft and certain.

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