The silence that followed the miracle was louder than any scream. It was a void, heavy and absolute, where the memory of the golden light still hummed against my skin. The cold was back, seeping from the mud, a familiar enemy. The stench of the camp, a miasma of filth and old blood, rushed in to fill the vacuum left by the impossible scent of clean air. I remained kneeling, my hand resting on the pommel of my axe, my body a statue of calm. Inside, my mind was a whirlwind, processing the event not as a moment of religious ecstasy, but as a tactical engagement whose outcome had been wildly, unpredictably successful.
I didn't know what to say. I rarely did. Words were Kale's weapons, not mine. My weapons were steel and silence. But as I watched him stand, a slender, unassuming figure shrouded in a shimmering goblin illusion, I felt a profound and unsettling recalibration of my understanding of power. He stood over the ten goblins, who were now little more than trembling, prostrate lumps in the mud, and I knew I had witnessed something far beyond mere cleverness.
He had accomplished more in two days of talking than I could have in ten years of fighting. He hadn't just cowed them, as I could have. He had fundamentally remade them, reprogramming their brutish, fatalistic minds with a new, complex operating system of hope and ambition. The man was a genius. That much had been clear from the moment he'd started turning our pathetic cave into a fortified workshop. But this… this was different. This wasn't just intelligence. No man I had ever known, no grizzled commander or cunning politician from my former life, could have walked into a pit of vipers and convinced them to sing.
And after that last stunt, kneeling in the mud and seemingly summoning a god on a whim, I was one hundred percent certain of a new, undeniable truth: Kale Lucas was the most dangerously insane person I had ever met. The line between genius and madness wasn't just thin for him; it was a tightrope he tap-danced on with unnerving, reckless glee.
At first, his actions had been baffling. I had seen the flicker of fear in his eyes when Gnar had branded him 'Prophet'. I, a student of reactions, had recognized it instantly. It was the look of a spy whose cover was about to be blown. His immediate, theatrical humility, dropping to his knee in the filth, had seemed like a desperate, panicked move. But then the gears in my mind clicked into place, and I saw the intricate, beautiful machinery of his scheme.
He didn't want the title. He didn't want to be the foundation of their faith. A prophet can be killed. A prophet can be proven wrong. A single failure would shatter his authority. So, he built a floor above himself. He created a higher power, a 'Sky-Chief', positioning himself as a mere servant. It was brilliant. It deflected personal risk while solidifying his authority as the sole interpreter of this new god's will. He was turning them into servants of the MourningLord, and I saw the cold, hard, tactical benefit in that. A faith bound to an abstract, all-powerful goddess was infinitely more resilient than one bound to a fragile, mortal man.
What I did not expect, what was not factored into any of my risk assessments, was for the goddess to actually answer.
I was not a religious person. Back on Earth, gods were a comfort for those who lacked the strength to face the world on their own. They were a superstition, a relic of a less enlightened age. Here, in this new world governed by the hard, quantifiable rules of the System, I had seen no reason to change that assessment. I had seen the effects of this 'MourningLord' through Samuel. His golden light was real, tangible. It healed, it protected, it consecrated. But I had viewed it as just that: an ability. A level 2 Cleric skill with a fancy name attached.
I didn't attend their prayer sessions in the cave because I sought comfort. I attended because I was interested. I observed Samuel's quiet, unwavering devotion with the same analytical curiosity I might apply to studying a new type of predator. Was this goddess merely a flavor text for a set of System mechanics? Or was she a genuine, sentient entity? A power player on the board I needed to account for? My faith was in the tangible: the heft of my axe, the strength in my arms, the cold, sharp intellect of the madman I had sworn to protect. Everything else required proof.
And tonight, it seemed the goddess had been pleased to provide it, shattering my carefully constructed paradigm with a gentle, terrifying display of power.
The light had not been a spell. I knew what magic felt like. It was a raw, energetic thing, a manipulation of the world's unseen forces. This had been different. It hadn't burned. It hadn't felt like an attack or a tool. It had felt like a presence. A change in the fundamental nature of the space we occupied. It was like the difference between a blacksmith's fire and the sun. One is a tool, controlled and directed. The other is simply… there. A fundamental truth of the universe, serene and absolute in its power.
My mind, the cold, analytical engine that had kept me alive, was struggling to categorize the event. It was like trying to fit an ocean into a drinking glass. The data was too large, the implications too vast. And as the last motes of golden light faded, the System, as it always did, provided the cold, hard, undeniable text that anchored the miracle in reality. The notification appeared in my vision, a stark, blue-white script against the grimy backdrop of the world.
[ You are baring witness to a Blessing of Lathander! ]
Lathander. A name she already knew. . The MourningLord was her title, Lathander her name.
Another notification followed, this one confirming the outcome of Kale's insane, accidental piety.
[ Kale Lucas has been granted the title of 'Blessed One'! ]
I stared at the words, a slow, cold dread mixing with my analytical awe. He had knelt to avoid one title, only to be saddled with another, infinitely more dangerous one. 'Prophet' was a claim he made. 'Blessed One' was a fact the universe now recognized. It was a divine mark, a glowing target painted on his back for every ambitious priest, every rival god, every creature that hunted those favored by the light.
He had tried to deflect the spotlight, and had instead brought the sun down upon himself.
I rose from my kneeling position, the motion fluid and silent. The goblins were still whimpering in the mud, their world shattered and remade. Kale stood over them, the weight of his new, unwanted holiness settling around him like a shroud. He didn't look triumphant. He looked like a man who had just accidentally won a crown and was now realizing he had to defend the throne.
The air, scrubbed clean by a miracle, was slowly being reclaimed by the mundane stench of goblin life. The profound silence that had followed the divine light show was now being filled by a low, rhythmic chanting. It was a crude, guttural sound, the goblins clumsily trying to replicate the name he had given them for their new god. 'La-than-der'. They repeated it like a mantra, their voices thick with a newfound, terrified piety. They were no longer just a pack of scavengers. They were a congregation. And Kale, the architect of their faith, was now their reluctant, divinely-sanctioned icon.
He sighed.
It was a quiet sound, almost lost in the chanting, but in the hyper-aware bubble of my senses, it was as loud as a thunderclap. It was the sound of a plan spiraling beautifully out of control. The sound of a chess master who had just promoted a pawn to a queen, only to realize the piece was now sentient and had its own agenda. He turned his head, his gaze finding mine through the shimmering, illusory goblin face he wore. His eyes, the only true part of him I could see, were filled with a weary, exasperated exhaustion. This was not part of the plan, they screamed.
I offered no words of comfort. Words were not my currency. Instead, I raised my hand, my own illusion-wrapped fingers feeling strange and disconnected, and replicated the prayer sign he had taught us. Two fingers to the forehead, down to the heart, then out to the world. I performed the gesture with the cold, precise economy of motion I used to draw my axe. It was not mocking, not directly. I had just witnessed tangible proof that a god was watching, and I was not foolish enough to invite that kind of attention. But in its very perfection, in its lack of the trembling awe that now defined the goblins, it was a clear, private message to him. You wanted a church. You got one. Now deal with your new god.
He closed his eyes for a brief second, another sigh escaping him, this one silent. Then he turned back to his new flock, the reluctant shepherd forced to tend the sheep he had accidentally led to a holy mountain. My part in this particular drama was over. The stage was now his. My own performance was about to begin, in the shadows at the edge of the camp.
Besides this unexpected, divine intervention, the plan was proceeding exactly as expected. The goblins were united, their loyalty absolute, their ambition stoked and aimed like a weapon. Kale had them. Phase One was a success. Now, it was time for my part of Phase One, the part that happened while the new converts were distracted by their charismatic leader.
My main objective was to leave the group. To slip away into the deeper, more dangerous darkness of the main goblin settlement. There was a leash on me, a tether of shimmering magic that bound me to Kale. The illusion he maintained over me, the lie that made me appear as one of them, had a finite range. He had explained it to me in his typical, clinical fashion: the spell was a projection of his will, and the further the projection, the more mana it consumed and the weaker the signal became. If I strayed too far, the illusion would flicker, tear, and ultimately dissolve, leaving me exposed—a human warrior deep inside a hostile camp.
But it didn't matter. I wouldn't need to go far. And I wouldn't be seen anyway.
The darkness was my ally. The chaos of the goblin camp, with its shifting shadows, its reeking piles of refuse, and its pockets of utter blackness between cookfires, was a perfect hunting ground. My Stealth was a skill honed in the unforgiving crucible of this new world. But my Shadow Meld… that was a gift. A new, beautiful trick that Kale's madness had helped me unlock. For a few precious, stamina-draining seconds, I could become a living shadow, a patch of darkness indistinguishable from any other. It was my key, my secret door.
My mission was simple, but critical. I was an information gatherer, the predator that stalked the edges of the herd, assessing its weaknesses. I was going to find the human prisoners.
Kale's plan was a grand, complex equation, and the three captives were unknown variables. To him, they were data points he needed to complete his calculations. To me, they were potential assets or liabilities, and I needed to know which. My assessment would be cold, hard, and brutally practical.
I needed to see their Vocations. The System, in its indifferent cruelty, had granted each of us a role. Leo was a Smith. Samuel, a Cleric. Maria, a Woodworker. I was a Ranger. Kale, a Scholar. These were not just titles; they were destinies, skill sets that defined our potential. What were the prisoners? Were they fighters? Crafters? Or were they something useless, like a poet or a philosopher? Their roles would determine their utility in the chaos to come.
I needed to see their gear. The System granted starting equipment, a pathetic but vital boon. A good pair of boots, a sturdy knife, a warm cloak—these were not trivialities in a world where a broken shoe could mean a slow, agonizing death. Their gear, or what was left of it, was another measure of their potential.
Most importantly, I needed to assess their state. Not just their physical condition—I already knew that would be grim—but their mental and emotional fortitude. Were they broken? Had the horror of their captivity shattered their will to live? A broken person was a liability. They would scream at the wrong time, hesitate when they needed to run, freeze when they needed to fight. A broken person could get us all killed.
Or, were they angry? Was there a spark of defiance left in their eyes? Was there a core of hard, unyielding rage that had been forged in the fires of their suffering? Anger was a weapon. Anger could be honed. Anger could be aimed. An angry person, even a weak one, could be a valuable asset.
This was my hunt. Not for meat, but for information. Every detail I gathered would be a weapon in Kale's arsenal. Every guard's patrol route I memorized, every weakness in the cage's construction I noted, every flicker of hope or despair I saw in a captive's eyes, would be another line of code in the complex, beautiful, insane program he was writing to tear this entire camp apart from the inside out.
Kale was now speaking to the goblins, his voice low and authoritative, explaining some new tenet of their faith. The goblins were hanging on his every word, their faces a mixture of awe and fear. This was my moment. The shepherd was distracted, and the flock was mesmerized.
I didn't stand. I flowed. From my kneeling position, I sank back, letting the deep shadows cast by a pile of refuse envelop me. My movements were liquid, silent, a predator melting into the undergrowth. The shimmering goblin illusion around me seemed to thin, to become translucent as I embraced the darkness. I was a ghost, a whisper, a bad memory fading from the corner of their eyes.
The tether to Kale hummed, a faint, psychic tension. I could feel the distance growing, a subtle strain on the magic that bound us. But it held. I was still within range.
My focus narrowed. The sounds of the camp resolved into a complex symphony of data points: the crackle of a distant fire, the drunken slur of a goblin argument, the rhythmic clang of a hammer on crude metal. My world became a tactical map of light, shadow, and sound. My hunt had begun.