Two days later, the gates of Bastion opened.
Krug stood ready at the Plaza, his violet eyes scanning the horizon. The entire tribe had gathered to see what the scouts brought home.
It was a parade of triumph... mostly.
From the West came Swift-Tail, riding atop the Shell-Kin. Forty massive, gleaming tortoises lumbered into the city like living tanks. The Kobolds cheered, touching the smooth, restored metal of their shells.
From the South came the forest itself. Fifteen towering Mangrove Treants shook the ground with every step, carrying the tired scouts on their branches. Moss-Eye jumped down, looking like a hero, recounting the tale of how he bluffed a nature spirit.
And then, trailing far behind the dust of the giants, came… Iron-Scale.
He walked alone with his two guards. No army followed him. No tribute was carried on his back. He looked small compared to the Treants and the Shell-Kin.
He walked past the cheering crowds, his head lowered. He didn't stop until he reached Krug in the center of the Plaza.
Iron-Scale dropped to one knee. He placed his spear on the ground, which was a sign of submission.
"Empty," Iron-Scale rasped, his voice cracking. "I brought... nothing."
The cheering died down. The tribe looked at the empty road behind him.
"The North is strong," Iron-Scale reported, refusing to look Krug in the eye. "Troglodytes. Hundreds. They have steel. They have meat. They laughed at the name of God."
Iron-Scale looked at his hands. "They did not fear. They did not hunger. I could not convince them."
Krug looked down at his Second. He didn't strike him. He didn't rage. He looked at the North, his expression darkening.
"Fat bellies do not pray," Krug grunted quietly. He placed a hand on Iron-Scale's shoulder. "Stand. You brought news. A threat is also news."
Iron-Scale stood, but the shame didn't leave his eyes. He retreated to the edge of the crowd, watching the Treants root themselves into the defensive line and the Tortoises settle into the heavy infantry district.
He felt useless.
Red watched everything.
If he could, he would smite the one who insulted Iron-Scale, but he couldn't. The system was giving an error without any explanation.
[ TOTAL POPULATION: ~260 ]
The base was secure. The army was diverse. But as the newcomers settled in, the celebration turned into confusion.
A Grey-Fin Lizardman dragged a basket of fish to the Temple. He started stacking them in a pyramid. "For the Water-Bringer!" he chanted.
A Shell-Kin lumbered over, knocking the fish aside. "No! The God is Stone! We stack rocks!"
A Treant groaned from the wall. "The God is Fire that burns the rot! We must burn wood!"
Iron-Scale, watching from the corner, muttered, "He is War. He is the Spear."
Red watched the chaos. They were arguing.
[ SYSTEM ALERT: FAITH DIVERGENCE DETECTED ]
Red frowned. "What?! I was a fool to think they were simple minded creatures. In this world, they are just like any other human."
He opened the details. The new followers believed, yes. But they didn't know what they believed in. They were projecting their own desires onto him.
→ The Tortoises believed in a God of Stasis/Protection.
→ The Treants believed in a God of Cleansing Fire.
→ The Grey-Fins believed in a God of Harvest.
→ The Kobolds believed in a God of Conquest.
[ WARNING: CONFLICTING DOGMA ]
→ Without a unified Scripture, your Faith generation will suffer diminishing returns.
→ Current Penalty: -10% Faith Generation.
Red looked at the different species huddled in their separate districts. They were united by survival, not culture. If this continued, they would splinter into factions.
And looking at Iron-Scale's dejected figure, Red realized something else.
"I can't just be the God of Starvation," Red whispered. "Because once they are full... like the Troglodytes in the North... they stop needing me. I need to be something more than a vending machine."
He needed a code. He needed a reason for them to follow him even when their bellies were full.
"I need to write a Bible," Red muttered. "Or at least... a Rulebook."
He looked at Krug, who was currently shouting at a Shell-Kin for trying to eat the Treant's leaves.
"Krug," Red whispered through the conduit.
'COME TO THE TEMPLE. BRING THE ELDERS. WE NEED TO TALK.'
The atmosphere inside the Temple of the Bastion was intense with the smell of burning oil and damp moss.
Five figures stood around the central fire pit. Krug (High Priest/Kobold). Fin-Bar (Grey-Fin Elder). Old-Shell (Shell-Kin Elder). The Root-Father (Treant Elder). And standing in the shadows, silent and ashamed, Iron-Scale.
They weren't speaking, but they were glaring.
"The God is fluid," Fin-Bar hissed, his gills flaring. "Like the water. He fills the belly."
"The God is solid," Old-Shell argued slowly, his voice like grinding rocks. "He hardened my shell. He is the wall that does not move."
"He is the wildfire," The Root-Father creaked. "He burns the rot so new wood may grow. Pain is his touch."
Krug slammed the butt of his spear against the stone floor. "He is the Apex! He is the Hunter! Silence!"
The bickering continued. They were trying to fit an SSS-Rank trait entity into the tiny boxes of their primitive understanding.
Red watched from the Void.
[ FAITH DIVERGENCE: 12% ]→ The penalty was rising.
"They are all right," Red whispered. "And they are all wrong. If I let them pick their own version of me, I'll end up with four different religions fighting a civil war."
He needed to unify the narrative. He needed a philosophy that covered War, Defense, Growth, and Hunger.
He looked at his own name. Rubedo. The Alchemical Reddening. The final stage where matter is perfected.
"I am not the water or the stone," Red decided. "I am the Process."
He focused his will on the Temple.
[ SKILL ACTIVATED: DIVINE PRESENCE (FEAR) ]
[ COST: 1,000 DP / SEC ]
The fire in the center of the temple turned violet. The flames rose up, twisting and solidifying into a humanoid shape. It had no features, just a silhouette of burning mana.
The Elders gasped and fell to their knees. Even Old-Shell pulled his head in halfway.
"RISE."