"What a frail world."
Within the heart of the infant's chest, a pair of radiant golden eyes opened. Muria carefully sensed the situation upon his descent into the world and was met with a suppression force so feeble it was nearly laughable.
"I could unleash my true form here," Muria assessed. This was a world more fragile than any he had ever encountered. The thin suppression he felt signaled that the world was teetering on the brink of collapse.
For any world, a hostile being at the level of a True God—like a Titan or a heretic god—represents an extraordinary threat. The smaller the world, the greater the relative threat such a presence poses. Small worlds are generally unable to withstand the arrival of such beings.
The state of this small world, its frailty, and its dimming vitality only meant one thing: the heretic god's corruption had advanced to near-completion. Even a small world wasn't so easily destroyed. Without the overwhelming strength of a being vastly surpassing it, a world couldn't be instantly crushed.
However, such powerful entities typically had no interest in small worlds. They instead sought higher-grade worlds, where the returns on their efforts were far greater.
As for the heretic gods with relatively limited strength, their methods were more insidious. They would send their minions to infiltrate a world, weakening its protective barriers by slaughtering its inhabitants. Once the barrier was sufficiently eroded, the heretic god would break through it and descend to devour the world.
This was the state of the world Muria now found himself in—deeply corrupted and on the verge of being consumed. To the heretic god, this world was now ripe for harvest.
"Let's see how things stand first," Muria decided, letting his golden eyes slowly close. While his newly reincarnated body might find this world perilous, his true form would not. A world with only the minions of a heretic god posed no danger to him.
The world's protective barrier, though on the verge of collapse, was still intact. This signaled that the world was still resisting, still struggling to survive. In such a situation, Muria chose not to descend in his true form, as doing so would hasten the world's destruction or provoke its desperate resistance.
Heretic gods, after all, were essentially predators in the void—much like Titans or True Gods—feeding on worlds to grow stronger. Without preparation, if Muria were to suddenly descend, the dying world might mistake him for the heretic god it was resisting, or even consider him a more dangerous foe.
Muria had no interest in being mistaken for the enemy and taking the blame for the heretic god's atrocities. His goal was to position himself as this world's savior.
Even a dying world still possessed some strength. Its lingering vitality might aid him in the battle against the heretic god. Additionally, the battlefield for his eventual confrontation with the heretic god was likely to be either within or near this world.
Moreover, the world was already swarming with the heretic god's minions. Clearing them all out wasn't something Muria could do alone.
The best strategy would be to deploy his own legion of followers to cleanse the world. However, whether the world would support or suppress his forces depended on how it perceived him. Thus, Muria's next moves were crucial.
Another powerful wild beast had attacked the caravan struggling to reach the nearest base city. Human firepower proved utterly ineffective against the creature, unable to inflict even the slightest damage.
Faced with such overwhelming odds, the caravan once again left a rear guard behind to delay the beast while the rest fled. The group, already dwindling in numbers, shrank further as it continued its desperate escape.
Muria watched these tragic yet heroic events unfold time and again, refraining from intervening. He needed to observe and understand this world, and these situations, while heart-wrenching, were not worth his involvement.
In this caravan, Muria's reincarnated form held the highest status and was of paramount importance. His life outweighed the lives of everyone else combined.
Regardless of their personal feelings toward him, the caravan members had no choice but to protect him with their lives. To them, Muria represented hope—the chance to end their nomadic struggle for survival.
There were no lofty ideals like preserving humanity for the greater good. Their sacrifices were driven purely by self-interest: the desire for a better life.
Muria saw this clearly. The social order of this world had been shattered by the heretic god's invasion. While humanity as a species hadn't gone extinct, its civilization had collapsed. The world was now in a state of moral decay and lawless chaos.
In this harsh, resource-starved world, the caravan existed because banding together offered a better chance of survival. Muria's birth was a result of this necessity.
Each newborn was a gamble for the caravan. If the child was born with "the gift," their fortunes would change. If not, the child would likely meet a grim end, as there was no place for ordinary infants in this cruel world.
"Hey, the patrol squad's returning. Strange—they're back earlier than usual."
From atop a steel fortress's turret, a gunner peered through the sights of a laser cannon at a column of vehicles kicking up a cloud of dust in the distance.
"Looks like they ran into trouble. Let me take a look," another gunner said, adjusting the scope of his weapon to zoom in on the convoy.
"Oh, I see it now. They've brought back some 'wild dogs,'" the second gunner remarked, spotting several battered, heavily modified trucks among the military vehicles.
"Wild dogs? Oh, I see them too. Looks like we've got another potential god-machine user," the first gunner speculated, nodding knowingly. He'd seen this scenario play out before.
In this world, only one circumstance allowed wandering survivors to approach a base city: the presence of a child with the "gift." Otherwise, any attempt to disrupt the city's defenses would be met with lethal force.
Held in the arms of a rugged woman, Muria observed the metal fortress before him. After three harrowing days of being escorted through the wilderness, he had finally glimpsed a remnant of civilization.
The world's light of progress, dim as it was, had not been extinguished. There were still those resisting, holding onto the fragments of their shattered society.
"This is the gifted infant?"
A burly man in a pristine white military uniform strode into the reception hall. With a single glance, he ignored the twenty-some ragged survivors and focused entirely on Muria.
"Yes, we've already tested him," the woman holding Muria—his current "mother"—answered with barely concealed excitement.
Reaching this base meant their three-day nightmare, during which their group had lost over two-thirds of its members, was finally over.
"We'll need to verify that," the man said, gesturing for a female officer to take Muria.
"But…" Muria's "mother" hesitated, but under the commanding officer's stern gaze, she reluctantly handed over her child.
"The child has the gift to operate a god machine," the officer soon confirmed after running tests.
"Good. From this moment, you are citizens of Radiant Base City. Welcome," the commanding officer announced, a rare smile gracing his face as he addressed the survivors.
"Finally…"
Hearing those words, the group's tension melted into relief. Even Muria's "mother" beamed with joy. Their ordeal was over—they had reached safety.
"So, they've sold me off, huh?" Muria thought to himself, watching the joyful scene unfold. It was an outcome he had already anticipated.
"This child will be under your care. Ensure he begins training as soon as possible," the officer instructed.
"Understood."
…
"Fenrir, get up. You can't just lie around in bed all day," the woman assigned to care for Muria said, attempting to rouse him.
The newborn Muria, expressionless, rolled over and turned his back to her, mentally remarking how ridiculous it was to expect an infant to walk.
"It's not time to rest," she said firmly, lifting him up by his arms and setting him on his feet.
If not for maintaining his cover, Muria might've retorted, I'm not some beast that can walk hours after being born.
Yet, to his surprise, he found that his newborn body could indeed support his weight and even take a few unsteady steps.
The next chapter hinted at the battles to come: a clash of armies, the destruction of heretic god minions, and the rising crescendo of war. The world's thin hope rested on the shoulders of those chosen to wield the god machines. Yet behind it all loomed the shadow of the heretic god, waiting for its moment to strike.
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