November 3. Medith asked to return, a leaf choosing the wind; Ogathas tried to keep her, his words heavy as stone, but she refused. Resigned, he began laying out the path for her homecoming.
November 4. After farewells, Haidra and Medith sailed north, the boat cutting a silver line across the cold water. Elyu brought out ten killing blades, each one a relic drenched in old blood, iron breathing like a sleeping beast. Time had scarred most of them, yet one shone bright, its slender body gleaming, three blood-gems burning in the hilt like frozen drops of sunset. Medith chose it, traded out her greatsword, and swung; the blade sang in the salt air, and her eyes lit with quiet satisfaction.
That same afternoon, word flew from the Royal Capital like a flock of startled birds: a major announcement tomorrow, all to gather at [Cherished Moon Plaza]. The message raced through streets like wildfire; people were confused, yet they set down their chores, obeying the king like waves answering the moon, ready to converge in the square.
That night at 23:46, on the palace rooftop, inside the [Era Pavilion], moonlight pooled like water. “So, Father, what exactly are you going to announce?” Paris sat opposite Ogathas, their gazes crossing like blades.
“Tomorrow you’ll know,” Ogathas said, voice calm as deep earth. “It’s a great blessing, and it affirms the years you’ve given.” This time, no wine—only their eyes, steady as lanterns in wind.
“Are you handing me the throne?” Paris couldn’t cage his rising heartbeat; expectation flashed on his face like dawn breaking over a ridge.
Ogathas didn’t flinch. “Heh… I told you, tomorrow you’ll know.” His words fell like slow rain.
“Father.” Paris suddenly smiled, a crescent that hid shadow. “Do you know the true gap between man and god?”
Ogathas lifted a brow, a hawk watching the field. “Man must look up to god; that won’t change. Yet god is merciful, god is approachable; when you touch it, you’ll find no distance at all.” His certainty sat like a mountain in night.
A soft wind stirred; the bright moon washed the tiles, and silence held like a lake. Paris looked across the wide rooftop, then down at the thriving glow below. “Father, I see it differently.
Why should god be touchable? Why should god be kind and easy? What right do humans have to reach out? A god is feared and revered because it’s awe, it’s mystery, it’s might. Once touched, once known as no different from us, the halo cracks; reverence fades; in the end, man slays god and wears its crown. What do you think?”
Moonlight struck Ogathas’s face, carving it bright; weathered yet commanding, he looked godlike, a statue given breath. “Paris, answer me: if a god always casts its shadow side upon the world, what then? People reap only fear, only dread; offerings become a trembling reflex. When the god shows fatigue, people will slay it without hesitation, with methods brutal as wildfire.
And in the first way, yes, a god may be targeted by those with crooked hearts; yet those blessed by the god will fight for it, fiercer than the schemers, because their faith burns like a beacon.”
Paris poured a cup, eyes storm-dark; he drank in one lift, then slammed the cup to the table, a clap of thunder. “You’re right—unless the villains hold sharper weapons and greater force than the faithful. Then what? Can a god shield its people on belief alone? Can a prayer stop steel?”
“The purpose of war is peace,” Ogathas answered, voice steady as a riverbed. “Only an evil god makes slaughter its aim. Since antiquity, evil gods end badly, like comets burning out. I thought you knew.”
“Father, that misses the mark.” Paris met his lion gaze, fire to fire. “Not only evil gods love war. Gods have selfishness, like roots twisting under stone. If a god spreads its believers over the world—one kind of person, one faith, one race—isn’t that peace too, a still pond with no ripples?”
“Peace built on slaughter isn’t peace,” Ogathas said, each word a hammered nail. “Such a god will be overturned in the end, no matter how strong, like a tower toppled by united hands.”
“Don’t you hear the contradiction?” Paris’s voice cut like a cold blade. “Peace is always built on killing; which peace isn’t? If a god is strong enough that believers won’t resist and don’t dare to resist, what’s there to fear?”
“Enough,” Ogathas said, tiredness settling like dusk. “I’m weary. Be on time tomorrow.”
Paris shook his head, then bowed, his tone smooth as silk. “I won’t disturb your rest, Father.”
He walked alone down moon-washed streets, shadows stretching like long threads. The sky was boundless, a canvas without edges; the earth bore everything, a patient beast; the sun would rise on schedule, indifferent to who holds this continent. But people—people were no longer simply human, a line crossed in silence.
Paris smiled to himself, a thin, gloomy curve, and kept walking. Moonlight painted his face stark, turning his grin feral, like a mask tightening in the night.
