Caroline leaned back against the door, chest rising and falling like she'd outrun the sky itself.
Her legs gave out first.
She slid down slowly, arms limp at her sides, head knocking gently against the wall. It took her a few minutes just to breathe right. Longer to speak.
Then finally—
"Why?" she asked.
The man didn't even turn his head.
He sipped from his cup. Steam curled near his face. No warmth reached his skin.
"Why what?" he said.
She stared at him, voice low, half hoarse.
"Why me. Why am I here."
A pause.
He turned toward her just enough to raise an eyebrow. Like the question hadn't occurred to him. Like she'd just asked a desk why it was made of wood.
And then he laughed.
Not loud. Not cruel. Just a single, sharp exhale laced with disbelief.
"You think you were chosen?" he asked. "You think this was fate?"
She didn't answer.
He tilted his head, smirking.
"You're here because I let you be. That's it. Luck. Timing. You stumbled onto my boredom, and now you're sitting on my floor."
He took another sip.
"You're not special. You're just the first one dumb enough to walk this far without dying."
And now we shift — the collapse after the chase, the grief after the shock. Caroline's not looking for sympathy. She's realizing she gambled everything… and there's nothing to cash out.
Evodil?
Still Evodil. No pity. Just casual disrespect dressed up like hospitality.
She didn't say anything.
Just let out a long, tired breath and pressed her hands against her face.
The sobbing started slow. No drama. No gasping. Just quiet, muffled shakes.
Not because she was scared.
But because she finally realized what she'd traded for all this.
Her money—gone, spent on gear, rations, thermal layers she didn't even use.
Her apartment—probably leveled, or worse, crawling with those fanatics screaming about gods and oaths and divine vengeance.
Her life—no leads, no way back, no one looking for her.
She had nothing left.
Not even her voice.
The man stood.
Boots silent on the wooden floor.
He stepped over, leaned back against the wall beside the door, arms crossed.
"Done wetting my hardwood yet?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
He set the coffee cup beside her.
Still hot.
Then walked off, heading for the archway at the far end of the entry hall.
"Dining room's that way," he said casually. "If you're gonna starve, might as well do it where the chairs don't squeak."
She pulled her hands away from her face, eyes landing on the cup beside her.
Steam still rolled off the surface like it hadn't cooled at all.
She touched it gently—two fingers near the rim.
Instant regret.
She hissed, shaking out her hand. It felt like the thing was boiled from inside a volcano. How the hell was he drinking it like water?
Then again, he wasn't human.
She didn't pick it up.
Just stood.
Slowly. Legs still sore. Arms still heavy.
She followed him through the archway.
The dining room looked exactly how she'd imagined it would after everything else.
Wrong.
Not in a haunted way—just in a way that made you feel like you didn't belong.
The table was too long. Oversized, like it expected royalty that never showed up.
Eight chairs. All empty.
Even though he never invited anyone to dinner.
Even though he probably never used a single one.
But they were always there.
Always eight.
A window stretched across the far wall. Dim light leaking in from a place she couldn't see.
Below it, a low dresser—half-covered in random books, some open, most not. And, of course, a can of coffee. Just sitting there like it had been waiting for someone to notice it.
And then there was him.
Not in a chair.
Sitting directly on the table, legs crossed, coat bunched behind him, sipping from another cup that she swore hadn't existed a second ago.
He didn't look at her.
Didn't need to.
He looked at her.
Or maybe past her. Hard to tell with the blindfold. His head turned just enough to give the illusion of eye contact.
Then he spoke.
"You've got questions. Now's the time."
She stayed quiet.
Not because she didn't have any.
Because she had too many.
They fought for space in her head, crashing into each other like cars in a tunnel. But eventually, one clawed its way to the front.
"Why did the gods attack the government?"
Her voice came out harsher than expected. She kept going before she lost the nerve.
"Why did everything collapse? Why's the world falling apart? Are you even a god?"
He blinked once.
Slowly.
Then stared again, his face unreadable.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then: "You remind me of someone."
She tilted her head.
"A scholar," he added. "Too many questions. Not enough patience."
He sipped.
Still sitting on the table.
Still acting like the world wasn't hanging by a thread outside this mountain.
"I don't know why the war started," he said. "James summoned me. Told me to help. So I did."
He shrugged.
"As for the collapse… the government vanished. Gods showed up. You think people weren't gonna panic? Make cults? Start fires?"
He raised the cup to his lips again. "You saw what they did with smartphones. Imagine what they'd do with proof of divine power."
She swallowed, absorbing that.
Then narrowed her eyes.
"And you? Are you a god?"
He lowered the cup.
"Yesn't."
She blinked. "That's not—what?"
"I exist," he said. "I shape things. I kill things. Sometimes I even make things. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
She didn't respond.
He didn't clarify.
He just raised the cup again.
And drank.
She was close to collapsing.
Not from exhaustion—she'd already hit that wall.
This was something else.
A realization sinking in cold: whoever—or whatever—the man in front of her was, he wasn't human. Not even close.
And worse?
He didn't have the answers she needed.
No salvation. No secret plan. No miracle waiting at the end of the road.
Just shrugs and bitterness.
So the world really was falling apart.
And no one could stop it.
Not the mortals crying in the streets, not the cults preaching salvation through blood, and definitely not the divine fools who started the whole mess and now couldn't be bothered to fix it.
But one question still clung to her mind. One last anchor in the flood.
He mentioned others.
Names.
James. Noah. Jasper.
Maybe they mattered.
Maybe they didn't.
But she had to ask.
She raised her eyes, voice thin.
"You said others… James. Noah. Jasper. Who are they?"
He didn't answer at first.
Just sighed.
Deep. Tired.
Then rubbed his forehead like the weight of her curiosity physically hurt him.
"James is the God of Law," he muttered. "And War. He doesn't sleep. Doesn't blink. Probably hasn't smiled in a hundred years unless something exploded."
He paused.
"Noah's the God of Knowledge. Minerals. Moonlight. The smart one. Carries half the world's trauma and still acts like everything's his fault."
"And Jasper…" He clicked his tongue, tilting his head slightly. "Jasper's a mortal. Drunk. Loud. Thinks he's invincible. He's not."
He glanced at her, just barely.
"But he tries. And that counts for something, I guess."
She stared.
Three names.
Three pieces of a puzzle that didn't make sense.
Three people who might be gods, monsters, or something in between.
But at least now they weren't just names.
They were real.
And the silence after said more than anything else.
The conversation was over.
At least for now.
"Can you take me to one of them?" she asked.
He didn't even glance at her.
Just smirked.
"You suicidal?"
She didn't flinch.
"There's not much to live for in this world anyway."
He gave a quiet laugh.
"Fair enough. Still would've been funnier if you lied about it."
She blinked. "What?"
"If you said you weren't suicidal," he clarified, sliding off the table with a light thud, "I could've mocked you for pretending."
He stretched his arms behind his back, spine cracking once, then walked off—back through the archway toward the entrance.
She followed. Not fast, not slow. Just enough to keep him in sight.
As they reached the corridor again, she glanced down the path ahead. The memory of the tendrils still danced behind her eyes.
"Those things," she said, "the ones on the bridge—will they come back?"
He scoffed.
"No. That was mine."
"Yours?"
"Learned a few tricks after visiting the White Palace," he said.
She opened her mouth to ask—what palace? where? what does that mean?—but he kept going.
"Doesn't matter. Not here. Not now. Just walk."
So she did.
They crossed the bridge again.
No tendrils.
No flickering lights.
No monsters in the mist.
Just silence.
And cold.
The kind that bit through clothes, skin, and thought. The crater loomed below like an open grave too old to forget its purpose.
But nothing stopped them.
Not yet.
They approached the archway.
Same as before. Open. Still.
But something was different.
Noise.
Not just a murmur. Not the usual background hum of an old, sacred place breathing in silence. There were voices. Four of them.
That was new.
Usually, it was two—three at most, and only when someone felt like arguing with themselves.
But now?
There was a fourth.
Feminine. Soft, but sharp. Familiar, somehow.
Evodil didn't slow down.
He stepped through like he owned the place.
"Helloooooo?" he called out, loud enough to shake the ceiling.
The voices stopped.
Caroline jumped behind him, startled by the sudden volume—and even more startled when the eyes met hers.
Four figures turned to face the entry.
James. Lean. Clean. Eyes sharp enough to cut through a city block. His hammer wasn't in hand, but it didn't need to be. He looked like a single breath could bring it to him.
Noah. Quiet. Worn. His coat hung loose around his frame, dark eyes behind glasses scanning her like she was a problem he was already halfway solving.
Jasper. Slouched, of course. Half a smirk, half confusion. Probably sober—barely.
And the fourth—
She was… different.
Green hair. A dress too handmade for a place like this. Clean. Earthy. And out of place in the best way. The only warmth in the room that wasn't artificial.
Caroline couldn't move.
Ariela tilted her head, calm—but concerned.
The others? Not so calm.
James stepped forward.
"You brought a human?" he asked flatly.
Noah's brow twitched. "Here?"
Jasper blinked twice, then pointed like he needed confirmation. "Wait, is that—?"
"Wow," Evodil cut in, loudly, stepping aside with theatrical shock, "what's this? There's a human behind me?"
He widened his eyes in the most obviously fake surprise he could manage.
"I had no idea! That's so crazy."
He even took a step away from her, hands raised like he'd just been framed.
No one bought it.
Not for a second.
Caroline didn't know what to say.
But clearly—none of them were going to stay quiet much longer.
James stepped forward.
The room changed.
Not visibly. Not loudly.
But the air—suffocating.
The cold, echoing vastness of the citadel gave way to a searing, dry weight. Heat pressed against the walls. The windows. The bones.
The warhammer hadn't even materialized yet, but its presence was there—rumbling in the floor, ticking like a fuse behind his clenched jaw.
Noah moved first, stepping back without a word.
Ariela followed, her expression tightening, arms close to her sides.
Jasper didn't flinch.
He just straightened his back, like a man who knew this scene too well and didn't feel like getting scorched today.
James didn't say anything.
Didn't need to.
He took one more step—
And in that moment, Caroline's breath caught.
A shimmer.
A blur of gold and red.
The hammer flashed into existence—
Right in front of her.
It never made contact.
A wall of tendrils snapped up between them, thick and jagged, shadows layered over shadows like armor forged from ink and will.
The hammer slammed into them with enough force to crack stone. But they held.
Evodil clicked his tongue.
Leisurely.
"Bad host," he said, stepping forward from her side. "Makes a bad guest."
His tone shifted. Less casual now. Just sharp enough to cut.
"Maybe next time let her speak before you try to turn her into a crater."
James didn't back down.
"She's human," he growled. "They almost killed Jasper. I'm not letting one walk out of this city again."
Evodil's smirk didn't falter.
He raised one hand.
Shadows coiled at his fingertips.
Crypt Blade appeared—long, serrated, its edge humming with new symbols glowing white-hot like a forgotten language finally remembered.
"Then bring it on," he said.
No sarcasm.
No jokes.
Just the quiet promise of destruction.
And for a moment, no one moved.
James didn't lower his hammer.
"Last time we fought," he said, "you couldn't hold your own for five minutes."
Evodil rolled his shoulder, the tendrils still twitching behind him.
"So what makes this time different?"
Evodil didn't answer.
Just shrugged.
"I feel lucky."
James didn't waste another breath.
He moved.
Hammer against blade—the clash cracked the air, a burst of heat knocking dust loose from the rafters.
Evodil stumbled back a step, catching his balance as a fresh wave of tendrils erupted from his back. The next strike hit them first—disintegrating several on contact, the rest curling inward like burned paper.
But it bought time.
Time Evodil didn't use wisely.
He was already raising a hand—something forming at his palm. A portal? A void? A clean cut through space and logic? It wasn't clear.
But it didn't matter.
Noah exhaled.
Then knelt.
His fingers brushed the stone floor.
The moment they touched it, the ground shuddered.
And then—without a single warning—
It erupted.
The floor beneath James and Evodil buckled, then launched both of them skyward—straight through the ceiling, punching a jagged hole in the stone like it was made of paper.
They were gone.
Launched clean out of the citadel, spiraling toward the crater's heart like two arguments given shape.
Silence followed.
Then:
Jasper stood up, brushing off his coat, staring up at the hole.
"James is gonna kill you for that," he said.
Noah didn't react. "Probably not."
He turned, adjusting his glasses.
"He usually doesn't chase me."
Ariela glanced at the ceiling, then back at the rest of the room. The light was still flickering.
And then—
Everyone looked at Caroline.
Again.
No tendrils. No shouting. Just four sets of eyes.
Three divine.
One human.
And nowhere left to hide.
Caroline inhaled sharply.
Straightened herself.
Then blurted it all out in one breath.
"Caroline Mendacium. Researcher. Civilian. I came here on my own, to investigate a blackout site off the coast. I found the gate, snuck aboard a ship, made my way through the crater. I—"
No one reacted.
Not even a nod.
They just stared.
Ariela tilted her head. Noah raised a brow.
Then both turned to Jasper.
He shrugged.
Then nodded.
The atmosphere shifted.
Not by much. But enough to breathe.
Noah stepped forward, slow and deliberate. Not towering over her—just close enough to make her feel like she was standing in front of a wall of thoughts.
"I'm Perceus," he said, voice smoother than expected. "Or rather, Noah Murk. Either works."
He gestured behind him.
"That's J.D." Jasper gave a lazy wave.
"And this is Ariela."
The green-haired woman smiled. Soft. Strange. Almost human.
"Welcome," Noah said, "to Menystria."
"The last godmade land on Earth," Ariela added. "Maybe the last stable piece of land in the universe."
Caroline blinked.
She should've had questions.
She did.
A hundred of them.
But one beat all the rest.
Her voice cracked slightly.
"What the hell is happening?"
Jasper chuckled.
Of course he did.
"Lemme guess," he said, grinning as he leaned back in his seat again. "You're here because of the war."
Caroline didn't respond. She didn't need to.
"Right, figured." He waved a hand vaguely. "Rebellion, coup, divine rage-fest—whatever the world's calling it now. It started messier than people think."
He stretched his arms out behind his head.
"Me and my 'father'—the sun-obsessed jackass currently fighting your tour guide in the crater—were inside a government meeting."
He pointed toward the floor.
"Literal table. Suits. Papers. All that garbage."
He yawned, eyes drifting lazily to the ceiling.
"They wanted to label Menystria as a country. Get us on the maps. Make us official."
Another grin.
"Didn't go well. One of the officials called them fakes. Said they were no more divine than a good street magician."
Then his voice shifted, just a little. Sharper. Tighter.
"And then the bomb went off."
Caroline stiffened.
"Planted under the table," Jasper added. "But here's the thing—when I was dozing off mid-meeting, I almost slipped off my chair. Looked under the table, just out of habit. There was nothing there."
He paused.
"Which means it was planted during the meeting."
He looked her dead in the eye.
"Not by us."
She stared back, speechless.
"So no," he said, "the gods didn't start the war. The humans did. Because they couldn't stand the idea that someone might actually have power without their permission."
She nodded slowly, trying to absorb it.
And then her gaze narrowed.
"You're human?"
He laughed again, softer this time.
"Kind of."
He pulled his katana from beside the chair, laying it across his lap. The blade pulsed faintly, heat rising from small vents etched into the metal.
"This thing? Weirdest artifact you'll ever see. Gave me powers. Reflexes. Strength. I can tank a few things now that'd kill most people."
He scratched the back of his neck.
"So, sure. I guess I'm divine-adjacent now."
"But I still age like everyone else. No glowing eyes. No immortality. Just a very unlucky dude with a cursed sword and a violent dad."
He shrugged.
"Welcome to the family."
Caroline exhaled, slow and tired.
"Not family," she muttered. "Not yet. Maybe not ever."
She looked around the room. At the cracked ceiling. The dust. The leftover heat.
"I'm not here to settle in," she said. "I'm not here to play mortal guest in a divine city."
Her voice steadied.
"I'm here because the world outside is breaking. I want to understand why. I want to help humanity return to something—anything—that isn't fire and rubble."
Her gaze locked briefly with Jasper's.
"If you're gods," she said, "then act like it."
Ariela didn't look at her. Neither did Noah.
But their silence wasn't empty.
It acknowledged something.
Not approval.
But... awareness.
Jasper scratched at his jaw. Rolled the katana back into its sheath. His eyes didn't say much. But they didn't argue.
"Don't trust most humans," he said plainly. "Don't really trust this sword either."
He looked at her again. "But you're not an idiot. And you're still breathing. So there's that."
She didn't respond.
She just walked further into the citadel.
Took a seat at the long, empty table.
And for now—
She waited.
Noah rubbed his temples.
A slow, circular motion—like trying to press something out of his skull that didn't belong there.
Ariela watched him, sensing the shift in the air.
"Do you need to sit?" she asked gently.
He didn't answer.
Didn't look at her.
Just stepped once—precisely—to the left.
She didn't question it.
Just followed.
She always followed Noah when he did things like this.
Jasper leaned back, eyes on the ceiling.
Already saw it coming.
"Hey," he called out toward Caroline without looking down. "Better be ready to meet your judge."
She blinked, confused.
"What?"
"Depending how their tantrum ends," he said, "you're either getting your way—"
He tapped the table.
"—or you're getting buried under it."
She didn't reply.
Didn't move.
Just stayed seated, trying not to let the weight of whatever he meant crush her curiosity.
And then—
It happened.
The noise came first.
Faint, like distant thunder through broken walls.
Then louder. Shouting. Insults. Metal against metal. Fire cutting through air. Reality breaking like glass under a boot.
And then—
Crash.
A fresh hole exploded through the ceiling, stone and light raining down into the Citadel like divine confetti.
Two bodies followed.
Evodil hit the floor sideways, tendrils dragging behind him, his coat in flames.
James came down next—less falling, more slamming—his shirt nearly shredded off his frame, golden blood dripping down from two black tendrils drilled deep into his shoulders.
He landed hard.
And didn't flinch.
Caroline couldn't breathe.
She couldn't move.
And she had no idea what the hell came next.
They both got up at the same time.
Evodil did a completely unnecessary backflip, landing on one hand, smirking like he'd just won something.
James rolled to his feet with a grunt, using only his arms, tendrils still stuck in his shoulders, golden blood trailing behind him like pissed-off starlight.
They didn't speak.
They just launched.
Straight at each other.
Caroline didn't even have time to blink before the shockwave hit.
It wasn't massive—but enough.
She flew back, slammed into the wall, gasping as dust and air knocked out of her lungs.
At the edge of the room, Jasper walked over to a dresser, yanked open a drawer, and pulled out a bottle.
Noah glanced over.
Paused.
Then summoned his bow and shot the damn thing clean out of Jasper's hand.
"You killed one person, not a continent!" he snapped. "That doesn't mean you get to start trauma-drinking!"
Jasper gave him the middle finger without missing a beat.
Back in the center of the Citadel, Evodil and James collided again—shoulders crashing, their fists clashing with the kind of force that cracked light and bent space.
"Fire is too little to kill me!" Evodil yelled, sparks flying around his blindfold.
"I'll finally taste peace when I put chaos into the grave!" James snarled.
They reached for their weapons.
Crypt Blade began to form.
James's hammer surged with molten light—
And then they stopped.
Just like that.
Roots.
From the stone floor itself.
Thick. Alive. Coated in soft green light.
They shot up and wrapped around their arms, legs, torsos—pinning both gods to the floor with the force of the earth itself.
Noah looked down, mildly satisfied.
Ariela stood just beside him, one hand extended, fingertips still glowing.
He gave her a small elbow to the side.
She nodded, quiet but firm.
Enough.
Evodil thrashed against the roots.
Bit them.
Literally sank his teeth in like a starved animal.
"RELEASE MEEEEE!" he howled, voice cracked and echoing through the chamber. "I SWEAR TO EVERY FORGOTTEN NAME IN THE VOID, I WILL BURN THIS ENTIRE FUCKING TREE TO A CINDER!"
A pause.
"NOAH! I KNOW YOU'RE BEHIND THIS, YOU GRASS-OBSESSED FUNERAL WORM!"
Ariela blinked.
Noah exhaled through his nose and muttered, "We're not in a relationship."
A single root immediately curved up from the ground and slapped him across the cheek.
Not hard.
Just enough.
He sighed louder.
Meanwhile, James didn't move. Just lay flat on his back, arms spread, staring at the half-destroyed ceiling as his hammer vanished into smoke.
For once?
He looked calm.
Calmer than he'd been in weeks. Maybe months. Maybe since Evodil's dumb ass woke up from that ridiculous 14-billion-year nap.
Jasper walked over to Caroline, who was still crumpled near the wall.
He offered a hand.
She took it.
He helped her up, steadying her for the first few steps as she limped forward.
"Come on," he muttered. "Time to get used to this."
She gritted her teeth, walking straighter with each step.
"What is this exactly?"
Jasper didn't answer.
He just gestured toward the chaos:
Gods pinned down by roots.
One screaming.
One groaning.
Noah rubbing his cheek.
Ariela sipping tea she definitely didn't have five seconds ago.
"This," Jasper said flatly, "is a Tuesday."
Caroline glanced sideways at Jasper.
"It's Friday."
He stopped walking.
Turned.
Stared at her like she'd just murdered someone very important to him.
His father, maybe.
Who, ironically, was currently half-dead on the floor behind them.
"...Tomato," Jasper muttered. "To-ma-to."
He kept moving, stepping over broken floor panels and flickering light to reach the two gods still pinned to the stone by glowing roots.
He sat down beside James.
Gave his forehead a light flick.
"Shockingly built for a god who spends ninety percent of his time writing legal drafts."
James grunted.
Didn't even open his eyes.
Evodil paused mid-thrashing, upside down somehow, limbs tangled like a drunk spider.
"Actually, yeah," he muttered. "Kind of impressive."
Then immediately began thrashing again.
More dramatically this time.
Everyone in the room—including Caroline, now limping quietly behind Jasper—could tell.
He could teleport out whenever he wanted.
He just wasn't.
He was doing it for attention.
Noah rolled his eyes. Ariela didn't even bother reacting anymore.
Jasper leaned back on his hands and looked at James.
"So," he asked, "can the human stay in the city for a while?"
James sighed like the question physically hurt him.
He lifted one hand to his shoulder, glowing heat building in his palm.
Then pressed it into the tendrils.
The wound hissed.
Burned.
Cauterized.
He didn't even flinch.
"Fine," he muttered. "She dies, not my problem. She lives, not my paperwork."