In a lavish, private observatory within Chaos God City, the mood was far from celebratory. This was the designated meeting place for the demigods who had participated in the expedition to the Undead Plane. Of the thirty who had ventured, less than a dozen were present, their divine forms flickering with exhaustion and their faces grim. Their forces, like their spirits, were battered.
"The entire plane went mad in the final days," said a hawk-headed god, his voice strained. "The undead were organized. Coordinated. We were nearly overwhelmed. We lost half our believers just escaping."
"What I want to know is, where is Orton?" grumbled a bulky demigod whose body was made of granite. "He convened this disastrous affair. It is his duty to be here to debrief us. He and his inner circle are all missing."
A goddess draped in starlight sighed. "Perhaps they found a great treasure and were delayed? Orton's forces were the strongest among us. He likely pushed deeper than we did."
The granite god scoffed. "Or perhaps he and that newcomer, Christon Al, destroyed each other. No one has seen either of their forces return, have they?"
The mention of Christon Al sent a murmur through the room. They remembered the arrogant newcomer with the impossibly powerful red dragon.
As their debate grew more heated, the grand doors to the observatory hissed open. An attendant from the Teleportation Temple entered, his face pale and his posture unnaturally stiff. He bowed low.
"My Lords," the attendant's voice trembled. "I have a report from the temple. The portal to the Undead Plane has just closed."
The granite god slammed his fist on a table. "And? What of Orton's forces?"
The attendant swallowed hard, avoiding their intense gazes. "Lord Orton's forces... they have not returned. None of them. Nor have the forces of his known allies." He paused, before delivering the final, shocking piece of news.
"The last to emerge, just moments before the plane collapsed... was the army of the God of Demons and Slaughter, Christon Al."
A stunned silence fell over the room.
"His army..." the starlight goddess whispered. "What was its condition?"
The attendant looked up, his eyes filled with pure, unadulterated fear.
"They were... immaculate. Stronger and more terrifying than when they left. And they were led by five beings... five beings radiating the power of the Sanctuary rank."
The granite god's jaw fell open. The hawk-headed god stumbled back into his chair. They all stared at each other in horror, the same terrifying conclusion dawning on them all.
Orton's alliance hadn't been delayed by a treasure hunt. They hadn't destroyed Christon Al.
They had been erased by him.
At that very moment, in a vast kingdom of God where storms of lightning raged eternally, a terrifying being opened his eyes.
Lamov, the God of Thunder, sat upon his throne of solidified lightning. He had just sensed the violent erasure of his divine will from the scroll he had given Orton. His plan had failed. His proxies had been annihilated.
"CHRISTON AL!" Lamov's voice roared, a sound that shook the foundations of his own realm. "You dare to not only kill my son but to humiliate me so completely!"
The rage of a true god was a terrifying thing. He immediately began the costly and complex process of divination. "Bring me the Star-Core Compass and the Orb of Fated Sight!" he commanded.
His divine attendants brought forth two powerful god-level artifacts. Lamov poured his own divine power into them, using the faint, lingering trace of his son's extinguished divine spark as a focal point. The ritual flared, but then collapsed into nothing. His senses hit an impenetrable barrier, a mist of chaotic rules he could not comprehend. The expensive ritual had utterly failed.
"What is this?!" Lamov roared in frustration. The humiliation burned hotter than his anger. He was unable to kill him directly. Unable to find him directly. He was left with only one option: to bleed his resources and hire others to do his work, a slow and unsatisfying path to vengeance. His roar of pure, impotent fury echoed through his divine kingdom.
Back in his divine realm, Su Cheng felt the faint ripple of the failed divination attempt and smirked. His victorious believers were celebrating in their home tribe, but his thoughts were already on the future. Lamov's frustrated rage meant he would become more cunning, more insidious.
"My forces are powerful," Su Cheng thought, "But a war against a True God is not fought on the battlefield alone. It's a war of resources, of information, of strategy." He knew he couldn't just wait for the next attack. He had to be proactive.
He needed intelligence. He needed to know Lamov's plans, his allies, his weaknesses. He had heard whispers of a mysterious demigod who traded in secrets: "Oracle" Morpheus, the God of Whispers. Finding him was notoriously difficult, and his price was said to be astronomical. But for Su Cheng, no price was too high for the information he needed to survive.
With his decision made, Su Cheng's divine form materialized in his private residence in Chaos God City. He did not head to the bustling central squares. Instead, he walked towards a secluded, mist-shrouded district in the city's oldest quarter, a place most gods knew to avoid. It was said to be the territory of the God of Whispers.
It was time to meet the Oracle.