The Guardian gods
Chapter 552

Chapter 552: 552

He clenched his fists. How long had they been planning this? How had he not seen it coming?

He levitated further to meet the mages at eye level, voice sharp with restrained fury.

"What is this all about? Do you even realize who I am? You’re trespassing in my home!"

One of them floated forward — Master Korza. His eyes showing no sympathy. In his hands, he held a scroll. The imperial sigil, unmistakable, was stamped at the top. The weight of the emperor’s will.

With no emotion, Korza unfurled the scroll and began to read:

"Master Kaelen, sixth-tier knight of the realm, stands charged with insubordination. Furthermore, there exists credible evidence suggesting deliberate endangerment of imperial citizens and potential collaboration with enemy forces currently invading our lands."

His voice rang clear — not just for Kaelen, but for the soldiers below. For the people drawn to the commotion. For the ears of Kaelen’s loyal men now caught in doubt.

That was the real sting.

Kaelen’s gaze dropped briefly, just enough to see his men’s faces. Confusion. Hesitation. A flicker of disbelief. The trust they once had in him now hanging by a thread, trembling under the weight of a formal decree.

"What is this nonsense?" Kaelen roared, his voice crackling with raw power as mana surged wildly around his body. The air twisted, crackled, and grew heavy. The surrounding around him shuddered as unstable magical energy began to pulse outwards, distorting the very space around him. His aura once regal and restrained now flared like a dying star, unpredictable and dangerous.

Master Korza didn’t flinch.

He floated closer, just enough so that only Kaelen could hear him. His voice, calm but laced with venom, cut through the thickening storm of magic:

"Come with us quietly, and you might live to see another day. Resist — which I and most of the others here are hoping you’ll do — and you won’t live to see the sun rise."

His tone dipped colder.

"Whether you’re related to the Emperor or not, we’ve all grown tired of your games, Kaelen."

Kaelen’s eyes twitched, the glowing veins of mana across his arms flaring for a moment longer before settling. He said nothing in return — but the tension in his stance betrayed the battle raging inside him. Pride, fury, fear. He knew this wasn’t a bluff. Not this time.

Meanwhile, below, Rattan stood frozen.

Blank-faced. Numb. He could barely comprehend what was happening.

Kaelen... being taken?

No, that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

What would happen to him, then?

What if Kaelen was killed? He himself would be discarded and could possibly be killed.

He still hadn’t achieved his goal.

This couldn’t be happening. Not now.

Not like this.

He took a shaky step forward, about to speak, to scream, to beg—when the world around him swayed. His vision split. The sky, the floating debris, the glowing mages — it all twisted and stretched, growing faint and distant.

He fell forward, hard.

Everything went black.

Rattan didn’t know how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours? Days?

His eyes fluttered open, vision still blurry, and the first thing he registered was the dull ache in his limbs and the biting cold of stone beneath his skin. He was lying on the floor — cold, uneven, damp — the unmistakable floor of a cell. No windows. Just stone and silence.

He groaned as he pushed himself up, his joints stiff and his body heavy, as if weighed down by more than just fatigue. The iron bars across from him confirmed what he already feared.

Imprisoned.

It took time — longer than it should have — for the memories to catch up with him.

Kaelen, the floating mages, the decree, the collapse and the fall.

Last night’s events slammed into his mind like a crashing wave, and with it came a creeping sense of dread. He blinked hard, trying to force clarity into his thoughts.

The empire’s action had been swift, brutal, and decisive — something neither he nor Kaelen had ever expected.

There had been a reason they had always felt untouchable. A reason the empire had held back, even when Kaelen’s actions became too bold, too reckless. The silence of the empire had always been a firm delicate balance of power and fear.

Kaelen wasn’t just any Ogre.

To the ogres, he was more than a leader. He was a symbol. A god in flesh. The pinnacle of what they aspired to become. Every ogre even those not under his command spoke of Kaelen with reverence. He was strength, pride, and vision incarnate. To harm him would be to shake the very soul of ogrekind.

The empire knew this.

They always knew.

While ogres were largely dismissed by goblin nobles as crude brutes, the truth was more inconvenient — the ogres were the military might of the empire. Next to the mage corps, they were the beating heart of conquest and defense. And Kaelen? He held the heartstrings.

That was the problem.

He had too much power. Not just physical, but ideological. Political. A figure like that couldn’t be simply reprimanded or sidelined. There would be fallout. Riots. Maybe worse.

That’s why the empire had done nothing for so long and that’s exactly why Kaelen had grown bold — unhinged, even.

He knew they wouldn’t dare. Until last night, until they did.

Rattan’s jaw clenched as he leaned back against the wall, every breath echoing in the hollow cell.

Now with a calm mind, Rattan understood.

This—all of this—was his doing.

In his desperation to gain Vellok’s trust, he had spoken too much. He had been so focused on proving his worth, on weaving himself into the fabric of Vellok’s plans, that he never once paused to think about what those words could become when reshaped in the hands of the empire.

He had whispered truths. Half-truths. Just enough to gain favor.

But the empire didn’t need much—only a thread. And Rattan had given them more than that.

From the way things played out, they had taken those pieces and built a weapon out of them. The charges against Kaelen hadn’t appeared out of thin air. No, they were crafted—stitched with just enough truth to seem undeniable, just enough fiction to strike down even someone like him.

The empire was skilled in such things. Twisting narratives. Painting criminals out of challengers. And when backed with legality, even the proudest heads had no choice but to bow.

Even the ogres.

Especially the ogres.

Though they might fume and rage at the injustice, when confronted with official decrees, sealed with imperial authority, they would sit in silence. Swallow their pride. Their pain.

Because what else could they do?

Kaelen hadn’t even been given a proper fight.

And Rattan, watching it all happen, had felt nothing like victory.

No joy. No satisfaction. No relief.

Only the hollow ache of someone who had pushed over a monument before it was finished.

Maybe if he weren’t the one sitting in this cold, damp cell, waiting to hear what would become of him, things would feel different. Maybe he could’ve justified it.

Phanthom, in silence, had been watching.

He’d watched as Rattan sat alone in that cell, in stillness. A stillness that came from realization, from regret—not the loud, dramatic kind, but the kind that settles deep, cold, and quiet in the bones.

If it had been before his growth, before he truly understood what he was, Phanthom would have interfered. Subtly, but deliberately. A whisper in the dark, a fleeting nudge in thought. He would have turned Rattan’s heart toward the path of righteousness, molded him into an ideal an upright, moral hero. The kind of hero that the world always demanded, even when it had no place for them.

But that was before.

Now, Phanthom no longer saw the world through the eyes of a man clinging to ideals. Now he saw it through the lens of something more colder and truer. The lens of a cursed being not bound by morality, but by observation.

And as he observed, he learnt and understood more.

Was Rattan a bad person for being selfish? For wanting recognition after all he had done? For desiring to be the one in the spotlight, hailed as a savior?

Was he wrong to look at Kaelen—with his power, his presence, his fearlessness—and wish for his fall?

These questions once would have offended Phanthom’s old self. The righteous part of him still left would have condemned Rattan. Judged him, Even raise the thought of abadoning him.

But now?

Now, he only watched.

Rattan was not evil. He was not good. He was a mortal being, no matter how much he tried to transcend that. And mortal creatures were rarely pure.

Phanthom had witnessed the slow burn of Rattan’s transformation. From a boy who believed in causes to a man who bent truth to fit his purpose. From someone who once dreamed of freedom for his people to someone who was ready to discard friends and family anyone who stood in the way of that dream.

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