He unfastened the blood-flecked helm and mask, then tucked them into the pocket of nothing yawning behind his back.

High-grade spatial magic, the severed-persistence kind—an unfinished subspace birthed from thin air. No time there, no distance; a jar cut from midnight. People pen training beasts in it, or stash gear like shelving it in a starless cupboard.

It’s brutal to learn; even titled legendary mages stumble, like climbers on black ice. Even Bright-Dawn Gugwen, vice principal of the Hero Academy, can’t wield it.

Yet for him, it felt like breathing on a clear morning. When he studied it, no friction—knowledge flowed in like tidewater.

Other spells did the same, and so did close-quarters craft, and martial stances—the moment he touched them, they bloomed.

People say his gift for stances eclipses ordinary men, like a hawk over sparrows. But that’s not the whole thing.

In truth, all his gifts stand at that height. Every branch is a peak, every seed a blazing star.

His talent is too strong, too strange—an anomaly even within the blood of a Hero. He earns too much without sweat, like harvest without rain.

He obsessed over martial stances only because that war-art stacks through time, not through raw talent. It’s the one discipline that feels like a real climb.

He often feels apart—talent apart, rank apart—watching the diligent like observing another species, a traveler staring at fish under ice.

Of course, he never says such things aloud. He knows people already fear his talent; if he spoke like that, cold shoulders would harden into exile.

So he speaks only to a god, to the guardian of mortals, like a pilgrim whispering into a mountain wind.

At the temple of the Wisdom God, a Divine Healer waited at the great door, bowed slightly, and guided him in.

“Mr. Augustus, my god is already waiting,” the voice was soft, like light through paper.

“Mire, thank you for bridging me to the Divine Being,” he said, gratitude warm as embers.

“No, I said nothing.” Saint Mire—the Vicar—shook her head and gestured for him to walk on, her sleeves like quiet waves.

“Wisdom God Haydon knows all, so your request needs no words,” she murmured, calm as deep water.

“Then what’s the answer?” His question landed heavy, like a stone on a still pond.

“This… please speak with my god yourself.” Her reply left space, like a door ajar.

Augustus stopped hesitating. He strode into the sanctuary, and the gates sealed behind him with a hush, like night swallowing a road.

He approached the statue—Wisdom God Haydon was depicted as a radiant sphere etched with strange signs, a harvest of symbols spreading like pollen.

Augustus went down on one knee, like a tree bending in storm. “God, I ask you to watch over me.”

The statue lit, washing the inner hall in images like ripples on water. The patterns on the light-sphere turned and changed; the Divine Being’s will had stepped into the mortal world.

“Youngest son of the Creator, what weighs too heavy to tell, what binds your tongue among men?” The voice itself felt like thought sharpening, frost tracing glass. To see that light was to feel grace fall like rain.

Yet Augustus kept his brows knotted, a mountain ridge under cloud.

“God, I have a daughter. Before her birth, I never imagined I could pour so much into one person. I never imagined worry could gnaw like this.”

“She’s lovely and bright; she’s beauty like first snow. As an adventurer, I thought I could accept any death—but if Stini dies before me, I’ll shatter.”

“I love her more than I love myself, more than I love anything under heaven.”

“So I put a sword in her hand, to let her guard herself. I gave her strength, to let her guard those she loves.”

“I know I’ll leave before her—I’ll return to the supreme ‘Light Apex’ (the Demon Realm calls it the Sea of Light). I can’t walk her to the very end. She will love a man, a man who loves her.”

“Just lately, a far-off thought finally arrived—Stini fell for a young man. I admit he’s excellent, but not enough. They can’t climb to the highest peak together.”

“Tragic love, tragic vow, a future of sorrow—such burdens are a Hero’s share. I accept it. To protect my wife Ibera, I’ll push her far from me. But Stini—what about her?”

“She has resolve, but she can’t yet grasp true malice and night. She can’t picture how terrible our enemies are. Can she, like me, cut away the one she loves? God, please dispel my doubt.”

“I love Stini and want to guard her forever; I know that’s a dream written on water. Her sorrow and her future—she must bear them herself.”

“So, God…” His voice thinned like mist.

The patterns on the sphere drifted still, turning as if for a thousand years. Silence pooled in the inner hall like a deep lake.

“I govern the concept of Thought,” the god said. “I acknowledge that your idea is the first new-born Thought to appear among humankind.”

“God, you know my request. What is your answer?” His words were steady, like steps on stone.

“I know it. But you must say it yourself,” came the reply, light falling like feathers.

“All right.” Augustus lifted his head and rose to meet the will of the god.

Light too strong scorched his eyes; smoke curled from hair and beard like burnt incense. Even so, he did not look away.

He said, steady as iron: “I want to become the Eternal.”

Because Andor stepped in, the worldline bent. The idea of a God Among Men came three thousand years early this time.