When the sanctuary began to gleam with resplendent gold, Allen subconsciously let out a breath of relief.
It was enough that the goddess had responded to his prayer.
There had been times before when the goddess Melitele failed to respond for several days in a row.
It wasn't that he feared making the trip for nothing—after all, a witcher with portals could return at any time.
Rather, after witnessing the changes in the priestesses, a sense of worry had arisen in him instinctively. He feared that the goddess's sudden elevation of her devotees might mean that the White Frost eroding the divine realm had shown new abnormalities, and that the goddess was arranging the final legacy of her divine power.
It seemed that wasn't the case—and fortunately so.
"Praise be to the Mother of All Things, goddess of abundance, harvest, and childbirth, guardian of the eternal Maiden, Mother, and Crone—"
Layer upon layer of prayers echoed through the sanctuary.
The witcher, knowing that the goddess was about to descend, pulled his thoughts back, turned to face the three sacred statues, pressed a hand to his chest, and bowed his head in salute.
Yet the phenomenon did not end as he had imagined.
A sudden wind swept through the sanctuary, carrying with it the soft, lingering fragrance of wheat fields under the autumn sun.
With his head still lowered, the witcher sniffed instinctively, his body stiffening.
In the blink of an eye, the pure white marble tiles beneath his feet turned—without any warning—into fertile soil.
"Rustle~"
The sound of wind rippling through wheat rang abruptly in his ears, thick vegetal aromas surrounding him.
He instinctively raised his head.
Gold.
As far as the eye could see stretched an endless golden sea. On closer inspection, it was made entirely of ripe, full-headed wheat ears.
Radiant and warm, like precious golden brocade, spread across a boundless plain.
"Goddess—Eternal Harvest Wheatfields?" Allen froze for a moment, then immediately realized where he was.
This divine field, brimming with godhood, was Melitele's divine realm—there was no mistake.
Only, compared to the wheatfields he had seen last time when he had pried open the gate to the divine realm through [Divine Dreamwalking], the goddess's realm was now completely different.
Countless humans—or rather, heroic spirits who had once been human—were working in pairs throughout the wheatfields.
One person held a small sickle, cutting through the stalks at their roots; another bundled the wheat in large sheaves with rope; and a third transported them to ox carts along the ridges, carrying them toward the far end of the divine realm.
Everyone's face bore the sincere joy of harvest.
And once a field was harvested, before long it would grow and ripen again at a speed visible to the naked eye—this time to be harvested by the next group.
Each team seemed to have its own assigned plot. After finishing, some rested by the roadside and drank water, some ate steaming bread and other food, and some simply lay on the straw left after removing the plump wheat ears, chatting, laughing, and playing about.
From afar, he could even smell the scent of wheat beer—
Such intense vitality was something he had never felt the last time he entered the goddess's Eternal Harvest Wheatfields.
Even then, the wheat in the divine realm had borne heavy, drooping ears.
"This is what the Eternal Harvest Wheatfields should look like."
That thought suddenly surfaced in the witcher's mind.
But very quickly, he noticed a problem.
He himself was standing within the Eternal Harvest Wheatfields, not in some remote corner of the divine realm—yet the people within the realm all seemed to ignore him completely, as though he did not exist in this world at all.
Of course, that wasn't important. Perhaps it was simply some mechanism of the divine realm. What mattered was—where was the goddess Melitele?
She had brought him into the divine realm, so where was she now?
The witcher hurriedly looked around, yet could see none of the Maiden, the Mother, nor the Crone.
"Is it the Maiden… playing tricks on me?"
He did not speak right away. Instead, he recalled something else and cautiously tested it, casting his gaze toward the boundary between earth and sky within the divine realm.
The next second, his vision went black.
"Witcher, you really are no fun. Can't you play hide-and-seek with me properly just once?"
A playful, youthful female voice sounded dissatisfied in Allen's ear.
"I really don't know what Lysa sees in you."
Allen turned his head, and the soft sensation against his face immediately vanished.
A girl with delicate features was standing behind him, at some unknown point.
She wore a pure white silk dress, a wreath of green leaves and branches upon her head. Her exposed arms and neck were as fair and smooth as lamb-fat jade.
At that moment, she was standing on tiptoe, withdrawing the hand she had just extended, puffing out her cheeks as she glared up at him.
"And you've grown taller again! Hurry up and lower yourself a bit!"
"Goddess—" Allen had expected that Melitele in her "Maiden" aspect would be somewhat different, but he truly hadn't expected her to be so—well—childish. At a loss for words, he could only crouch slightly.
The goddess continued to stare at him with large, golden, divine eyes without saying anything. Allen glanced down, then simply sat down on the ridge of the field.
The girl seemed momentarily stunned by the witcher's sudden nonchalance, then, unconcerned about dirtying her white dress with soil, sat down beside him as well.
This ridge was slightly elevated. The nearby wheatfield seemed to have been harvested before Allen arrived, and unlike the fields a bit farther away, it did not continue growing.
As a result, the view was excellent.
He could see the wind sweeping through the wheat, waves rolling through the golden sea. He could also see humans working in orderly fashion, enjoying the joy of harvest.
It was pure joy—without oppression from any person or power. Everyone worked, but everyone worked equally. They enjoyed not only the joy brought by labor, but also fragrant soft bread, milk and wheat beer, and soft straw bedding free of lice—
It was clear that no one in the divine realm was forced to farm in order to survive. They did so willingly, and they enjoyed it—
"Well? Isn't it beautiful? Don't you really want to stay here and never go back out?"
The playful, youthful voice whispered smugly in his ear.
"It's a very enviable way of life," Allen said, glancing sideways at her before shaking his head. "But I know myself. I can't do farming and harvesting work. Compared to that, the life of a witcher in the mundane world suits me better."
He understood himself very clearly.
He believed those heroic spirits truly enjoyed farming and harvest, because compared to life in the mortal world—where they were oppressed and exploited layer upon layer by nobles, kings, and mages, where even subsistence was difficult, and where frequent wars tore families apart and destroyed homes—Melitele's Eternal Harvest divine realm was paradise to them.
Well—divine realms were paradise to begin with.
But for him, watching such pastoral life from afar—men plowing, women weaving, working at sunrise and resting at sunset—was something he could envy. If he were to live like that forever himself, to be honest, it was something he could never truly accept.
Compared to that, life as a witcher in the outside world was certainly dangerous—but it was also thrilling.
Slaying monsters and banishing evil—what young person had never dreamed of such things?
Honestly speaking, if not for the Wild Hunt and the White Frost hanging overhead, if there were contracts he would hunt monsters, and if there weren't, he could go in spring to Shaerrawedd, the last elven palace of the Aen Seidhe, to admire Aelirenn's white roses; in summer, race horses and box in the Skellige Isles; in autumn, head to Mahakam to see the dwarves' charcoal mountains; in winter, return to Kaer Morhen and drink through the night—
He could even flirt and fall in love with little priestesses, sorceresses, and elven princesses.
So what if he was a bit of a scoundrel? What witcher wasn't?
Wouldn't that be letting down the nickname "pile driver"?
At the very least, he was better than Geralt, who left romantic entanglements everywhere—so many that you couldn't even count them on both hands.
From time to time, he could also earn a hefty income through sword oils and potions.
A witcher's life could be extremely comfortable.
Unfortunately, there were no "ifs" or "what-ifs." The Wild Hunt and the White Frost were right there—you couldn't hide from them.
"Goddess Melitele, I forgot to congratulate you. You've finally begun to recover your former splendor—"
Shaking certain regrets from his mind, Allen turned his head to look at the girl sitting on the ridge, swinging her slender, fair legs.
"Have you seen my former splendor?" The girl shot him a disdainful glance and said haughtily, "This is nothing yet. Witcher, standing before you is the most ancient god of this age, and also the one with the greatest number of followers—Melitele!"
"Alright, alright, my mistake for underestimating you!" Allen hurriedly apologized in a joking tone.
"That's more like it—" The girl folded her arms proudly across her chest, then turned to gaze at the rolling wheatfields. "Of course, the fact that I've recovered to this extent—your contribution was indispensable—"
Allen took the initiative to continue, "Don't worry. I'll carry out the next Conjunction of the Spheres as soon as possible."
"Hmph, good that you know." The girl snorted haughtily again, gazing absentmindedly at her own divine realm.
Seeing that the goddess did not seem inclined to speak again for the time being, Allen did not rush to ask for the blessing of harvest. Instead, together with the goddess, he quietly appreciated the miracle of golden wheat waves being harvested and then growing again, amid the mingled fragrance of plants.
This was a rare moment of leisure for him—especially since it was within the goddess's divine realm.
His relationship with the goddess Melitele was, in truth, rather strange.
He was clearly not one of Melitele's faithful.
Although he trusted her, and respected her choice to hide her transcendent existence and allow humanity to develop freely—and although before long he would even become her holy son—
He was not Melitele's believer. He never had been, and it seemed unlikely that he ever would be.
As for why?
Perhaps it was the influence of his previous life. Perhaps it was because their first meeting had been a literal "breaking in"—and the one he met was Melitele in her Maiden form, approachable and sly, smiling and laughing, yet trapped by the White Frost.
As a result, even though gods truly existed, and even though Melitele constantly demonstrated her great power, Allen still found it difficult to regard her as a purely distant deity.
Perhaps—
A friend would be a more fitting description?
At least when she was in her Maiden aspect—
"Isn't it quite nice to rest like this once in a while?"
A gentle, maternally affectionate voice suddenly sounded by his ear.
"It really does feel a lot more relaxing," Allen nodded instinctively, then suddenly realized that the timbre of the voice had changed. He hurriedly turned his head.
The girl had already become a pregnant woman, gently stroking her abdomen, smiling warmly.
"Goddess Melitele—" Allen immediately stood up from the ridge.
Although Melitele's three aspects were all Melitele, to be honest, he truly couldn't treat them all the same.
When she was in her Maiden aspect, he could treat the goddess like a friend and even joke around occasionally. But in front of the Mother and the Crone, he didn't dare do such things at all.
Especially the Crone—she was like the strictest disciplinary dean, rigid and severe, making one afraid to violate even the slightest rule.
Even though—
Melitele had never actually set down any rules.
"Sit. We are all Melitele; there is no difference," the pregnant woman said gently, patting the soil beside her. A soft cushion woven from straw appeared.
Allen could only brace himself and sit down cautiously, leaving a bit of distance between himself and the pregnant woman.
Though there was no need—the bulging belly of the Mother was merely a symbol of divinity, not the gestation of any actual new life.
"No need to listen to her urging," the pregnant woman smiled gently at the witcher's behavior. "The Conjunction of the Spheres is important, but it isn't so urgent that it must be done within these few days. You've already done very well, my holy son—but saving the world cannot be rushed."
"While proceeding step by step, you must also find time to let yourself truly rest, and not miss the people around you."
"Speaking of which—Lysa, Mary, and Francesca. Which one do you like more?"
The pregnant woman looked at the witcher with maternal concern, her tone sincere, as if she were worrying about her own child's love life.
The witcher froze for a moment, then waved his hands awkwardly. "G-Goddess, I'm still young. Right now, saving the world is more important—"
The pregnant woman gently rubbed the witcher's hair. "Saving the world is not so urgent that it leaves no room for beautiful things like love, family, and friendship. On the contrary, precisely because the apocalypse is approaching, these precious things are all the more worth cherishing—"
Allen felt a warm current seep into his scalp, instantly dispelling all fatigue. Sensing an ominous implication hidden in the goddess's words, his brow furrowed and he hurriedly asked, "Has the White Frost drawn closer again?"
"Goddess… have you also become pessimistic about the future?"
The pregnant woman shook her head and sighed softly. "The White Frost has always been drawing closer. I am neither pessimistic nor optimistic about the future—I am not human, and I do not possess such emotions."
"But reality is not always a knightly romance with a beautiful ending. The apocalypse brought by the White Frost is possible—and very likely to happen."
"Of course we must do everything we can to avert tragedy, but at the very least, do not let yourself miss too much—"
"Good child, you are not a tool to save the world. Do not turn yourself into one. Do not wait until that day arrives to regret things you never did, people you never loved, and regrets you never tried to make up for—"
Allen fell silent.
Looking at the pregnant woman's full, earnest face, meeting her eyes suffused with golden light, he suddenly did not dare to keep looking. He could only stiffly force a smile. "Those don't sound like words the goddess Melitele of humanity should be saying."
"Right—Goddess Melitele, you didn't pull me into the divine realm just to tell me to live seriously, did you? Is there some task you want to assign me?"
The witcher shifted the topic somewhat awkwardly.
"There is nothing else," the pregnant woman shook her head gently. "You called for me, so I let you come in and see the changes in the divine realm. And—"
She paused, then said with earnest, maternal affection, "I am, of course, the goddess Melitele of humanity. But you, Allen—my holy son—"
"You are also human."
.........
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