The Guardian gods
Chapter 553

Chapter 553: 553

Rattan’s only justification had always been the same: liberation.

And while the world may not agree with his choices, while others may call him traitor, coward, opportunist Phanthom no longer did.

He saw the truth: Rattan was merely a man chasing a light, and in the darkness, he had done what he thought necessary to reach it.

The old Phanthom would have tried to change him.

But now, there was no judgment.

"Mortal creatures are interesting, aren’t they?" Ikenga’s voice drifted, a calm observation that seemed to hang in the air between them.

"Do you always view things with such a detached view, my lord?" Phanthom asked, a hint of curiosity and respect to his tone.

"To witness their intricate struggles, their ambitions, the tapestry of good and ill woven by such fleeting lives... and remain so unburdened by judgment? It’s a perspective I find both fascinating and, if I’m honest, a little unnerving."

Ikenga turned, a subtle smile playing on his lips. "Detachment, Phanthom, is merely a different kind of engagement. If one is too deeply immersed in the immediate currents of their joys and sorrows, how can one truly perceive the river’s course?"

"But we are Immortal, Phanthom. When you live long enough, you realize the difference between patterns and anomalies. Mortals like him... they believe they’re unique in their fall, in their rise. But I’ve seen thousands like Rattan—burning with purpose, torn by contradiction. They call it growth. I call it motion."

Phanthom closed his eyes for a moment, letting the words linger. He wasn’t sure if he agreed. Not fully.

"You speak as though the shape of a soul is predetermined," he said. "That choice is nothing more than ornament."

"And yet you watch him as if he might do something new," Ikenga said, with a note of curiosity. "You speak of choice, but you no longer interfere. Why is that, Phanthom?"

Phanthom turned slightly, enough to face the intangible shape of the god that lingered in the room like a heatless flame. His form was indistinct—half-man, half-force—but the weight of his presence was undeniable.

"I used to believe I was meant to shape them," Phanthom said. "That my task was to sculpt righteousness into mortals who teetered near the edge. But the more I tried, the more I saw how shallow my understanding was."

He looked back to Rattan. "Now I simply try to understand. It’s not detachment. It’s restraint."

A recognition that perhaps their struggles, their perceived imperfections, are not flaws to be corrected, but inherent aspects of their existence. A necessary chaos that allows for genuine transformation, if it is to occur at all."

Ikenga remained silent for a moment, simply observing Phanthom. "A profound shift, Phanthom," he finally said. "To move from the sculptor to the observer. To allow the clay to shape itself. And what have you learned from this newfound restraint?"

Phanthom looked away from Ikenga, his gaze sweeping towards Rattan. The question hung in the air, vast and unanswerable. He had anticipated the quiet acceptance, perhaps even the subtle nod of understanding from Ikenga, but not a direct challenge to articulate what he was still living through.

"Learned?" Phanthom echoed, the word feeling too definitive, too complete for the swirling uncertainty within him. He found himself grappling with the very act of defining this new path. "I... I don’t know that I’ve ’learned’ anything yet, my lord. Not in the way one learns a truth or masters a skill."

He clenched a fist, then relaxed it. "It’s more like... a continuous unlearning. Unlearning the impulse to judge, to fix, to intervene. Unlearning the comfortable certainty that I knew what was best for them. Every flicker of doubt, every contradiction I see in their actions, every unexpected turn in their brief lives—it all strips away another layer of what I thought I understood."

Ikenga’s form seemed to ripple, the very air around him shifting as he spoke. "Clarity of sight and understanding is ample reward," he mused, his voice carrying an echo of distant prophecy. "The final act approaches. When it unfolds, I’ll be eager to hear your thoughts."

Meanwhile, Kaelen found himself brought low, shackled and forced to his knees within a grand, imposing courtroom. He was encircled by the Empire’s most formidable mages, each one a silent, gleeful witness to his perceived downfall. A goblin mage, not far off, meticulously adjusted a peculiar device, ready to capture every moment of the proceedings. Yet, Kaelen, the accused, offered no reaction. He remained utterly silent, his eyes closed as if in deep meditation, a picture of serene resignation in the face of his impending judgment.

Yet, a palpable tension hung in the air. The higher-ups, those who orchestrated this spectacle, weren’t pleased with Kaelen’s stoic silence. This wasn’t how their plan was supposed to unfold. They had expected him to be riled up, demanding evidence, protesting his innocence, or anything that would allow them to unleash their meticulously crafted accusations. Their goal was to produce a damning array of evidence, painting Kaelen as a truly despicable figure, and then broadcast that narrative across the entire Empire via the recorded session.

Kaelen, however, seemed to grasp their insidious strategy. He remained utterly silent, his eyes closed as if in deep meditation, a picture of serene resignation as he awaited the final verdict. Internally, his blood was boiling. Every fiber of his being screamed to rise, to strike out at the smug old men and women who surrounded him. But he knew that was precisely what they craved, the outburst that would further condemn him.

The Empire wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to get him in this position if they weren’t prepared for anything he might throw at them. Nothing he could do here would break him free. Yet, while direct action was impossible, he wouldn’t make their job easy. They might have him, but they wouldn’t have a clean victory.

A old goblin woman, her robes adorned with more arcane symbols than Kaelen cared to count, stepped forward. Her voice, sharp as a freshly honed blade, cut through the silence. "Kaelen of the Ogres, you stand accused of treason against the glorious Empire, of consorting with forbidden powers, and of crimes against the very fabric of our society!"

Kaelen didn’t stir. His eyelids remained stubbornly shut.

Another mage, a burly goblin with a burning scalp, grunted. "Speak, dog! Do you deny these charges?"

Still, Kaelen offered nothing. The only sound was the faint whirring of the goblin mage’s recording device.

The old woman’s patience thinned. "Your silence will not serve you, Kaelen. It will only condemn you further. We have witnesses. We have proof beyond any doubt. Confess your transgressions, and perhaps, perhaps, the Empire will show a modicum of mercy."

A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passed through Kaelen’s shackled hands, quickly suppressed. He imagined the detailed, fabricated evidence they were so eager to present. He could almost hear the grand pronouncements, the staged gasps from the carefully selected audience.

"So be it," the old woman declared, her voice ringing with false disappointment, though a flicker of cold satisfaction gleamed in her eyes. "Since the accused refuses to engage, we shall proceed."

At her words, Kaelen’s eyelids finally parted, revealing eyes that held neither fear nor desperation, but a quiet, calculating intensity. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. He simply waited for the inevitable decree.

"Due to your status, under the normal workings of our law," she continued, her voice shifting to a formal, pronouncement, "your practice of power to your current stage would be abolished, stripped from your very being, and you would then be cast into prison for life, or in the gravest of cases, be sentenced to death." A murmur rippled through the surrounding mages, a silent agreement with the harshness of the traditional judgment.

"However," the old woman’s voice sharpened, "as the Empire is currently under a dire state of war, the Emperor, in his boundless, benevolent grace, has seen fit to offer an alternative. You, Sir Kaelen, are hereby ordered to head directly to the front lines. Your mission is to bring back the severed head of a prominent figure amongst the invading demons."

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the faint whir of the goblin’s recording device. Kaelen’s gaze remained steady, fixed on the old woman.

a silent question in his eyes: Is that all you’ve got?

"You have a period of four months to achieve this impossible feat," she concluded, a hint of a sneer now evident, the pretense of mercy finally dropping away. "Succeed, and this act will serve as undeniable proof of your enduring loyalty to the Empire and demonstrate to its people that even the most corrupted soul can be redeemed through service." Her words trailed off, the unspoken threat clear: Fail, and your reputation, and your life, will be utterly destroyed. But Kaelen sensed another, more insidious layer: Succeed, and you’ll merely be a convenient tool, used and discarded.