Ninety-Nine: History Class

In the ledgers of humankind, there’s never been a line about a transcendent thing that wasn’t a god. The page looks clean, like snow at dawn. Yet from the first breath of the gods, a peculiar kind of being has walked this continent, quiet as mist in the pines. Most eyes never catch them. Only a few lucky souls glimpse them, like fish flashing silver beneath a river’s skin.

Those few gave them a very, very ill-fitting name—Gods’ Creations. A label like a stone in the shoe.

The first to meet a so-called God’s Creation was a Necromancer Cultist from the far western edge. In today’s words, she was a ghost, cold as moonlight on old bones. Before the idea of living had a shape, the messengers of death already cast long shadows. She met the Bone Dragon King, a close companion to the Grim Reaper, the Nameless One. With that meeting, the name “Gods’ Creations” was stamped into history and legend, like a seal in wax.

The big blossom told Lilith the tale of what they were—of their birth, their slanting path into this world, and how mortal eyes found them. It sounded cross, like a cat with ruffled fur. It clearly hated the name humans slapped on it. At the end, it added with a bite:

“That ghost got snatched by the next-door Lord of the Leylines and eaten. She said the name sounded atrocious, and I agree. So don’t call me that. I have my own name—‘the Blue Blossom of Wishes and Blessings.’ You can call me Tala.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier…” the Little White Dragon muttered under her breath, prickly as a hedgehog. The big blossom hated the human name, yet never told them what to use. She’d been calling it Big Flower half the day. She hoped it wouldn’t get mad now. And Tala? What kind of name was that?

“What did you say?” Tala heard the whisper like a string plucked in silent air. It turned with a snap. A small hole opened at the center of its stamen—Lilith realized, after a long double-take, that was the flower’s mouth. Inside, there had to be organs for speech, which at least explained why a flower could talk. The little mouth opened and closed, and to Lilith it felt like a hawk’s shadow passing over her.

“It’s nothing. I was just curious if you… um, if you have a name for yourselves.” The Little White Dragon almost asked what the Gods’ Creations called themselves, then winced. That would’ve been a slap at point-blank range. She changed tack midair. “I mean, besides ‘Tala’ or that Blue Blossom title, do you have a proper… species name?”

“That,” Tala said, like wind through reeds, “is Legend. We are Legend itself.” Its tone was cool and exact. “Not legend as you civilized types tell it by the hearth. We’re a natural phenomenon. Like wind. Like fire. Your legends are records of our footsteps, ink catching echoes. Some chapters are written by those you call gods.”

“We were born later than the gods. In our mouths, the gods are the Forebears. Other phenomena became their Authorities, cloaks on divine shoulders. We Legends weren’t woven into any god’s Authority. We just keep friendly terms with different gods. I’m close to the God of Mountains. Even if those unreliable layabouts in the Divine Realm forgot His true name, I still remember.” Tala’s petals shivered with a proud rustle. Then the pride fell like dusk. “And now that fool drags me out to run errands. I can’t even nap in the mountains.”

“You remember the God of Mountains’ true name?” The Archbishop lit up, bright as a struck match. Her voice trembled with heat. “Why didn’t you say so? The Majestic Court has searched for years. The long river of history drowned every trace. In theory there shouldn’t be any clues… No—right. Legends stand outside time. You should know.”

“He won’t let me tell you. And I’ve got no obligation to sing,” Tala said, drained as a wilted leaf. “More than your scolding if I keep quiet, I fear His fist if I leak it.”

“You’re right. I was presumptuous.” The Archbishop eased her breath, a lake settling after wind. She knew she’d surged too far. Once calm, she asked, “But you might be our last hope to reclaim His true name. If it’s possible, what must we do so you’d tell us His name?”

“Why are you so fixated on Him?” Tala sighed. The mouth in the flower-face opened wider, then shut like a tide. A faint gust pushed the air before Lilith’s snout. “He’s a dead man. Even if you learn His name, what’s the point?”

“The God of Mountains has waned, yes,” the Archbishop countered, anxious as rain before a storm. “But many of us, the Majestic Court included, still await His return. As long as a god has believers, a god does not die. If we get His true name, we may bring Him down from the Holy Mountain to the heart of Lamter.”

“No. It’s not that simple.” Tala shook its head, a blue bell swaying. “If it were, why did so many gods fade? This world doesn’t hold that many weapons that can kill a god.”

“Weapons that can kill gods?” The Little White Dragon’s eyes widened, catching the glint like a fishhook. Her old notes said a god died only when the world forgot them. She’d always wondered how the world judged forgetfulness. Now Tala tossed a new coin into the fountain—slaying by a weapon. Curiosity surged first, hot as tea. Then calculation moved, cool as chess. She had a feeling she’d cross blades with a god on her road to the Nameless One. Better to gather kindling now than strike flint in the storm. Not everyone was as kind as Eve, who’d lay out her cards for an opponent.

“Ah, seems I said too much.” Tala lifted a vine and covered its little mouth, startled like a child caught stealing fruit. Its tone drooped. “I thought you’d know. You hold the fattest book of knowledge among the people here. And you don’t. Then I can’t tell you more. Weapons that bite gods bite Legends the same way… ah.”

“…” Lilith had no words, but she tucked the shard of truth away like a blade in a sleeve. Whether on purpose or by accident, Tala had handed her something precious. At least now she knew such weapons existed—able to cut gods and Legends alike. It gave her journey a faint star to steer by. And if luck kept smiling, maybe the Ark she carried, ever-growing, would become one of those blades.

Confidence rose in her chest like a warm tide. Lately, fortune had been outrageously kind.

“Enough. If you learned a little, let it be a little. Back to the God of Mountains.” Tala swayed its head and fixed its gaze on Lilith. “You, the only one here who can touch that field—little one. You should know why gods die when everyone forgets them, right?”

“Uh?” Called out of nowhere, the Little White Dragon squeaked. Heat pricked first; then she pointed at herself. Tala tapped a vine, confirming it meant her. Lilith coughed, words tripping like pebbles. “I do know… but can I say it?”

“Of course not. Knowing is enough.” Tala shook its head and went on, voice steady as drizzle. “What matters is how we judge a god as forgotten. It’s not what most people think—not literally forgotten by every living soul. The trigger sits lower. It’s being forgotten by the Era.”

“Era?” the Little White Dragon asked. “What’s that?”

“I’ve never heard of it,” the Archbishop added, soft as a side note.

“Era is abstract,” Tala said. “It’s normal not to know. No matter. I’ll explain.”

“This world is a quilt of regions, each with its own Era. In each Era live different races and nations, walking at wildly different paces. In the southeast, human kingdoms still swing iron tools, bright as raw ore. In the northwest, the Demon Realm’s steam mechs bare their steel fangs at their neighbors.”

“What matches its Era is kept, like grain in a granary. What doesn’t match is forgotten, like footprints under blowing sand. An Era reflects what the vast majority in a region need. Restless peoples push their Eras forward, wheels biting the road. Those who crave stability let their Eras stand still, a pond unruffled by wind.”

“Kuri is special. On this whole continent, it’s almost the only truly polytheistic kingdom. Others may be diverse, but nowhere is like Lamter, where almost every city shelters a different god. That means their Era is shared on paper, but inside it splits wide, development skewed by the gods each city leans on.”

“Lamter’s Era once stalled for a long time, a clock with the hands stuck. In that stillness, the God of Mountains, Lamter’s patron, led its people to raise this city between the Holy Mountain and the Selnos Mountains, stone by stone.”

“But two centuries ago, a great inventor overhauled the power of plant magic. From that spark, Lamter’s Era changed completely, like a river finding a new bed.”

“The Era of mountains has dimmed. The new Era belongs to gold that glitters on the sea.”

Tala said it lightly, like ash drifting down, yet the words fell heavy as iron.