*PLEASE NOTE THAT I'VE ONLY WRITTEN 5 CHAPTERS SO FAR; I WONT UPDATE IN A WHILE. JUST POSTING THESE CHAPTERS TO FIGURE OUT HOW THIS APP WORKS IN A WRITING SENSE. THINK OF IT AS A TEST RUN FOR NOW. THANK YOU FOR UPSTANDING! <3*
The temple was quiet now.
The miracle from the night before still clung to the air like the fading scent of smoke after lightning struck. Soft light poured in through the cracks in the sun-bleached ceiling, illuminating dust motes that danced slowly above worn stone and old wood. Morning birds cried in the distance, their songs cautious—as if even they felt something in the village had shifted.
Lina sat cross-legged near the statue, gently replacing the herbs she had offered with fresh ones. She hummed to herself, a shaky tune, unsure if it was a lullaby or a prayer.
Baret stood by the altar, running a cloth along the freshly carved sword now resting across his back—Final Warden. It didn't glow or radiate divine energy, but something about it felt… heavier. Not in weight. In story.
He remembered what Eydros had said:
"That sword was the first I ever held. It carries no enchantments, no blessings—just the resolve of a boy who chose to fight."
Baret didn't fully understand what a 'grandmaster' was or why the sword's shape felt strange in his hands, with its flat blade and simplistic guard. But when he held it, it felt like touching the memory of a journey. Something forged not by gods, but by pain, blood, and stubborn belief.
He respected that. He respected him.
Behind them, the statue of Eydros remained as imposing as ever. Nyxveil rested against its base once again, having been returned as instructed.
"That blade is mine," the god's voice had echoed."It is my will made manifest. When I fight, it will vanish from this place—and reappear when my hand calls it. Let its presence here remind you I am always watching."
And somehow, Baret believed him.
He adjusted his grip on Final Warden and turned toward Lina.
"Has he said anything today?"
She shook her head.
"No. But I think… he's listening."
Within the Divine Kingdom, Eydros sat on the edge of a stone platform overlooking the empty sky.
His divine realm, in truth, was barely more than a void dotted by fragments of dream. The platform he sat on resembled a broken cathedral caught mid-repair—half-formed marble pillars, a cracked staircase, faint starlight streaming from an impossible sun that flickered like a candle. Off in the distance, reality bent inward—a floating archipelago of ideas and potential waiting for shape.
It wasn't much.
But it was his.
He leaned back, resting on palms carved from radiant soul-stuff, and watched a ripple pulse across the sky like a breeze brushing silk. The quiet here was different than on Earth. It wasn't absence. It was peace.
Or perhaps waiting.
He didn't know how much time had passed. There was no time in this realm unless he willed it. That, too, was taking some getting used to.
But he felt the faint drip of belief across the tether connecting his statue to the village. 21 FP a day, now. It was humble. Modest. Yet strangely satisfying.
A divine HUD shimmered nearby, offering its data in soft light.
Faith Points: 84Daily Yield: 21 FPNext Level Cost: 1 DP (1,000 FP)
Still a long way to go. But his foundation was built.
He opened the [SANCTUM MANAGEMENT] panel and stared at the flickering options: landscape shaping, environmental themes, resource distribution, celestial design.
So much power, yet all locked behind cost. Effort. Belief.
He closed the panel.
"No shortcuts," he murmured.
His eyes drifted toward a small circular pool forming at the platform's edge—a dream-pond. Images from the mortal realm swirled inside it like watercolors in motion.
He saw the villagers again.
Lina playing with carved wooden dolls near the temple steps.
Two men rebuilding a cracked wall with prayer-threaded bricks.
An old woman tending to new herbs growing along the temple's outer ring, smiling softly for the first time in seasons.
Michael felt… something.
Not joy, exactly. But… purpose. And that, for him, was rarer than happiness.
Back in Kireya Village, Baret stepped outside the temple, his boots crunching into dry grass and frost-slick soil. The air was thinner than usual, and a weak wind swept down from the mountain pass. But despite the chill, something about the world felt warmer.
Villagers moved with cautious optimism now. Not many—but more than before. The boy who used to sleep in the grain silo was helping patch the prayer banners. A trio of elders debated planting the spring seeds early, "since the god watches now." Even the chickens seemed less suicidal.
Baret exhaled through his nose. One miracle and suddenly the world begins to shift.
He couldn't say he minded.
He walked slowly through the heart of the village, nodding at a few people. Some returned the nod. Others looked away, still unsure if this whole 'god' thing was real or just a fever dream of starvation and desperation.
Let them wonder, he thought. Let them wait. Time would teach them what faith could not.
His path took him to the forge—a ruined structure that had half-collapsed two winters ago. He paused at the threshold.
The roof was gone. Most of the tools rusted or buried in ash. But the anvil remained. Stubborn and unmoved. Like him.
He set Final Warden beside it and sat on a low bench. His muscles ached from sleep deprivation and days of tension, but this was the first time he let himself rest.
He took a piece of chalk from a pouch and began to sketch on the anvil's edge—old glyphs from his youth, a way to steady the hands.
After a while, he spoke aloud.
"You're watching, aren't you?"
He wasn't expecting a reply.
But in the wind that whistled through the forge's broken bones, there was something that almost sounded like breath.
Baret smirked.
"Yeah. That's what I thought."
That evening, Lina sat beside the statue again, whispering stories to it.
She told Eydros about her favorite flower—the nightbloom violet that only opened under moonlight. She told him about her brother, who used to protect her from nightmares before the rift swallowed him. She told him that sometimes, she still heard his laughter in dreams.
"I think he'd have liked you," she said, voice soft. "You speak like a dream. But not a scary one."
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a smooth, flat stone she'd painted with silver dye. She placed it beside the peach from yesterday.
"I made this," she said. "To make your place prettier."
She didn't know that Eydros was watching from his kingdom.
Didn't know that her words echoed through a divine mind built to forget fear.
But still… the statue pulsed once.
A faint shimmer like moonlight ran down its surface, making the paint on the stone glisten. Lina gasped and covered her mouth, but her eyes sparkled.
She didn't scream.
She smiled.
Michael watched the stars swirl in his sky once more, the edge of a grin on his lips.
He had no worshippers in the thousands. No cities chanting his name. No golden temples or soaring armies.
But he had a girl who believed.
A warrior with a will like steel.
And a world worth shaping.
That was enough—for now.
Somewhere far above the mortal plane, in a divine realm born of memory and will, a single bell rang in the distance.
Not a warning.
A promise.