Chapter 311 – The Week of Milk and Mastery
Seven days had passed.
Seven days of unbroken rhythm.
Of morning and midnight.
Of silence and slumber.
And still, he suckled.
Even now — on the seventh night — Alex lay curled in Vira's arms, his head resting against her chest, lips sealed around her breast with quiet, rhythmic devotion. His breathing was soft. Deep. Entirely asleep.
And yet…
He was still sucking.
Gently.
Naturally.
As if it had become instinct.
Vira leaned back into her pillow, golden eyes watching him with a gaze that burned not only with pride — but with something deeper. Something only she could define.
"Look at you," she whispered, stroking his cheek.
"Even in sleep, your body remembers what you belong to."
The golden nipple clamps had long since been removed for comfort, yet her breasts remained full — warm with steady flow, her body now completely attuned to his need.
No longer did she have to wake him.
No longer did she have to whisper commands in the dark.
He needed no orders now.
His lips, his breath, his tongue — all moved in perfect rhythm, even in dreams.
Vira tilted her head back and exhaled a long, quiet breath.
"Perfect…"
She caressed the back of his head, fingers weaving through his dark hair.
"You're perfect, Alex."
"Tamed, trained… and completely mine."
There was no one else in the world she would allow to see her like this.
Vulnerable.
Exposed.
But also triumphant.
Because this wasn't just a game anymore.
It wasn't about dominance or teasing the other women.
This was bonding.
A sacred, private ritual between her and him — proof of her place in his life, and of his absolute trust in her.
She shifted slightly to kiss the top of his head.
"You made it seven days."
"And I didn't even have to say a word tonight."
She smirked, eyes half-lidded.
"I suppose I'll let you sleep for real… tomorrow."
She didn't mean it.
Not entirely.
Because the way he suckled — like he had always belonged here — told her that this wasn't just training anymore.
It was identity.
It was devotion.
It was theirs.
The divine moon of Alfheim shone gently through the crystalline windows, casting silver light across the silk sheets.
Vira, eyes gleaming with satisfaction, gently stroked Alex's hair as he continued to suckle her breast in his sleep. His body was completely relaxed, his lips moving in soft, practiced rhythm — as if his mind and soul had fused with the memory of her milk.
But now, it was time.
She tapped his cheek lightly.
"Wake up, darling."
Alex stirred, eyes fluttering open. He blinked once, then continued to suck for a moment out of habit — which made Vira smile wider.
"That's enough for now," she whispered, kissing his forehead. "Get dressed. You're coming with me."
He nodded quietly, rising from the bed as she stood and retrieved her clothes.
They dressed quickly.
And as she adjusted her belt and golden trim, she tilted her head toward him.
"Take us home."
Alex activated the teleportation sigil without question.
A pulse of light folded the space around them.
And a heartbeat later…
They reappeared in the living room of Alex's house.
It was night.
The lamps glowed with quiet warmth.
And the rest of the women — Hanabi, Airi, Ciel, Morgan, Nefertiti, and Reyne — were scattered across the cushions, chatting quietly in their nightclothes or sipping warm drinks.
All conversation stopped the moment Vira arrived with Alex at her side.
They could feel it immediately.
Something had changed.
Her presence was radiant, her posture sharp, confident — but not arrogant. The way she carried herself said everything.
"We're sleeping together tonight," Vira announced calmly. "All of us."
She didn't wait for discussion.
She simply turned toward the hallway and gave Alex a command:
"Take off my clothes. Then yours."
Alex obeyed immediately, stepping behind her and slowly removing her robe, then unclasping the ornate pieces that adorned her waist and shoulders. Her golden nipple clamps gleamed faintly in the light, already prepared.
He set each item aside with reverence — then stripped himself in silence.
The women stared.
None moved yet.
But their eyes followed every motion.
Vira turned, still bare, and walked toward the bedroom with purpose.
"Come. All of you."
There was a brief pause.
And then Ciel stood first — with a faint smile — and followed.
Then Hanabi, blushing but curious.
Airi, rolling her eyes, but clearly intrigued.
Reyne smirked and stretched before falling in line.
Morgan walked in silence.
Nefertiti came last, silent as always, but watching carefully.
They all entered the bedroom.
And Vira climbed onto the large shared bed, lounging back against the pillows like royalty, her legs elegantly crossed, her breasts full, glowing with enchantment.
Alex knelt before her — wordless.
"Now," she said, voice low but clear.
"Show them."
Alex leaned forward without hesitation and latched onto her breast, suckling with the same slow, practiced rhythm he had perfected over the last seven days.
The room fell quiet.
The other women watched — stunned.
There was no awkwardness.
No fumbling.
Just calm, obedient drinking.
His hands gently cradled her hips. His eyes were closed in focus. His tongue moved in perfect rhythm.
Vira exhaled with a soft sound of victory.
"This…" she said with quiet pride, "is what seven days of true training creates."
"He can do this even in his sleep."
"All night long."
The others exchanged looks — not of disgust, not of jealousy — but silent, dawning respect.
Vira's fingers ran through Alex's hair, and she looked at the others.
"You're welcome to sleep beside us."
"But don't expect him to stop."
"This week… belongs to me."
The room remained still.
No one spoke.
No one interrupted.
The only sound was the soft, steady rhythm of Alex's breath as he suckled — devoted, focused, perfectly trained. His head rested against Vira's chest like it had always belonged there, his body relaxed but alert, responding to her every subtle shift.
Vira leaned back against the silk pillows, one leg crossed over the other, her green hair cascading over her shoulder, her bare chest proud and full.
Her fingers gently combed through his hair.
Her golden nipple clamps pulsed faintly with warm mana as her milk flowed into him.
And her smile…
It wasn't mocking.
It wasn't smug.
It was complete.
The other women stood in silence.
Watching.
Understanding.
Accepting.
There was no contest now.
No jealousy.
Only quiet respect for what Vira had achieved — not through force, but through constancy. Through rhythm. Through love delivered as command, and devotion returned without question.
She glanced once at them, her eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight.
"Good night," she said softly.
And they said nothing in return.
Because the sight said everything:
Vira Sunleaf, Princess of Alfheim — feeding her lover from her own body, cradling him in silence, victorious not through conquest… but through care.
Chapter 312 – The Morning After Mastery
The first light of morning poured through the paper windows, soft and golden.
One by one, the women began to stir.
Hanabi rubbed her eyes and stretched, yawning quietly. Airi was already sitting up, brushing her hair into place. Morgan remained curled beneath her blanket, pretending to still be asleep. Nefertiti moved like a whisper, already in the far corner sipping tea. Reyne, surprisingly, remained still — lying on her back, eyes open, silently watching the ceiling.
And Ciel… sat upright.
Poised.
Graceful.
Her golden eyes were calm, but focused.
They were all looking in the same direction.
At Alex.
Still asleep.
Still nestled in Vira's arms.
Still suckling.
His breath was slow, peaceful. His hands were resting on her hips, unmoving. And yet, his lips remained in place — nursing from her breast just as he had the night before. Not out of need.
But out of instinct.
Even in sleep.
Even now.
Vira's head was tilted against the headboard. Her hair draped like woven sunlight across the sheets, her skin bare beneath the warm covers, and her expression was one of deep, silent pride.
She didn't speak.
But she smiled.
A soft, contented smile of someone who had won — not with force, but with patience.
Her hand moved gently through Alex's hair.
"Still drinking," she whispered, just loud enough for the others to hear. "Even after dawn. Even while unconscious."
None of them replied.
They didn't have to.
Ciel, seated nearest, gave a soft breath through her nose. Then, surprisingly, she smiled as well — faint and elegant.
Vira glanced her way.
Their eyes met.
No challenge.
No rivalry.
Just understanding.
"If you ever get pregnant," Vira said quietly, "and start producing milk…"
"I'll help you train him."
Ciel raised an eyebrow. "Will you?"
Vira nodded. "You're the only one who could match me."
Ciel's smile widened — ever so slightly.
"Then… I'll look forward to that."
And with that silent alliance formed, the two women turned their eyes once more to the man they both loved — peacefully suckling in his sleep, completely unaware of the future plans being made for him.
The morning light warmed the walls as the stillness began to stir.
Alex blinked awake, his lips still resting softly at Vira's breast. His eyes were dazed from sleep, but the moment he met her gaze, everything returned.
Vira smiled down at him, glowing in the morning light.
"Good morning," she said gently, stroking his hair.
He lifted his head, still half-lost in the warmth of her skin.
But her voice changed slightly — that familiar command lacing her words again, soft and confident.
"You've done well, but your training's not over."
She sat up slightly, guiding his hand to her thigh.
"Start here. Kiss me."
Alex obeyed — not out of compulsion, but because he wanted to. His lips brushed her thigh with quiet reverence, the taste of her skin familiar now, grounding.
Vira exhaled slowly.
"Now my stomach… my collarbone…"
She guided him with quiet touches, not to dominate, but to remind.
"And yes… don't forget those," she whispered as he moved to her breasts again.
The covers shifted slightly as she leaned back, green hair fanned around her like a sunlit halo.
That's when Ciel stepped closer, quiet and composed — her golden eyes observing without judgment.
Vira glanced at her — her voice playful now, but edged with something deeper.
"Big sister…"
"He's trained now. Perfectly obedient. Perfectly gentle. Want to test the results?"
Ciel raised a brow, amused.
"Are you offering to share your pet?"
Vira chuckled. "Not share. Invite."
Alex, between soft kisses, looked up at Ciel — uncertain but willing.
Ciel studied the scene in silence for a moment.
Then, with graceful steps, she knelt beside them.
"Then let's see."
She reached out — not with force, but with affection — and cupped Alex's cheek, guiding him gently.
"Come here," she whispered.
"Let me see what she's taught you."
Vira leaned back, smiling faintly with pride.
The morning continued not with rivalry…
…but with quiet harmony.
Each woman touching him in her own way.
One with authority.
One with elegance.
And Alex — at the center of their affection — moved not as a servant, but as a man trusted deeply by both.
Ciel's touch was light.
Not forceful.
Not demanding.
Just present — like moonlight guiding someone home.
She brought Alex's face gently toward her shoulder, her voice soft, barely above a breath.
"You don't have to rush," she said. "Just stay close to me."
Alex leaned in, his lips brushing her skin with slow reverence — the same way he had done for Vira, but different somehow. His movements, though practiced, became slower, more thoughtful in her presence.
Vira watched from beside them, golden eyes gleaming — not with jealousy, but with something almost like pride.
Because Ciel didn't need to command.
She simply was.
Alex kissed up her neck, then to the edge of her collarbone, and she smiled faintly, brushing her hand along the side of his face.
"You've become very good at this," she whispered. "But it's alright if you're not perfect."
"I don't need control. I just want to feel you… choosing me."
Alex paused — just briefly — then kissed her again, slower this time, almost tender.
Her breath caught for just a moment, and she smiled again, deeper this time.
She gently guided him down to rest his head in her lap.
"Stay here," she said. "Don't move."
He rested his cheek against her thigh, eyes closed now — not asleep, but completely at peace.
Her fingers slid into his hair, stroking slowly. The rhythm matched her breath. Everything about her touch was soft.
"You don't belong to me," she whispered.
"But you are part of me."
Vira, still lounging nearby, raised a brow but said nothing. There was no need.
Ciel glanced at her.
"We love him differently."
Vira smiled. "And he accepts us both."
Ciel nodded.
"Then… there's nothing more to say."
The light grew brighter outside.
The moment lingered in the warmth of their shared space.
No commands.
No teasing.
Only touch.
Only breath.
Only trust.
The room remained wrapped in calm light.
Alex still rested quietly in Ciel's lap, but when Vira extended her hand — not snapping, not demanding, just reaching — he instinctively turned to her.
"Come here," she said, voice low and soft.
He obeyed.
Not because he was trained.
But because he wanted to.
She opened her arms, and he walked straight into them.
Vira wrapped him in a deep hug — her bare skin warm against his chest, her chin resting gently on his shoulder. She held him tightly, protectively.
Then, in a voice that wasn't proud or commanding…
But simply herself…
"Alex… all of that… the orders, the commands… the way I made you act…"
She swallowed quietly.
"It's just an act. Just to set the mood — to keep myself feeling proud, playful, powerful."
"But it was never meant to hurt you."
Her voice trembled slightly, honest and human.
"I still love you. Not as a servant… but as my equal. As the only man I've ever truly chosen."
"So I'm sorry."
She leaned her forehead against his.
"And thank you… for letting me do all that."
"Thank you for playing along just to make me happy."
Before she could say more, Alex leaned in and kissed her — without needing to be told, without being asked.
It was soft.
It was slow.
And it carried no hesitation.
Vira blinked in surprise — then smiled against his lips, her arms tightening around him as she returned the kiss, melting into it without restraint.
When they pulled apart, Alex whispered:
"I forgive you."
He smiled faintly, brushing his fingers along her cheek.
"And I'm glad."
"Because when you're happy like this… I feel like I've done something right."
Vira's eyes shimmered faintly, and she tucked herself into his embrace, sighing quietly into his chest.
"Then let's stay like this."
"Just a little longer."
And so they did — Vira resting against him, no throne, no crown, no pride in her voice.
Only love.
The bed was large — made for more than two — and each of them, in their own corner or spot, had stayed.
They hadn't left.
Not out of politeness.
But because they wanted to witness it.
Every moment.
Ciel, still seated beside them, watched with serene calm. Her golden eyes didn't blink as Vira broke her dominant mask to reveal the truth. She saw the woman, not the princess.
And she smiled faintly — a silent approval.
Hanabi, lying belly-down near the foot of the bed with her tail curled around her legs, had gone still sometime during the confession. Her wide eyes were full of emotion, and though she usually teased or giggled, now she only whispered:
"They really do love each other…"
Airi, seated upright with her arms crossed and back against the bedpost, gave a quiet sigh — not annoyed this time, but almost… impressed.
"She actually apologized," she murmured. "That's rare."
Reyne, sprawled with her arms behind her head, grinned without mockery.
"I never thought I'd say this, but… it suits her."
Morgan, wrapped in a thin blanket at the edge of the bed, kept her eyes half-closed — but a faint warmth lingered at the corners of her lips.
Nefertiti, who had said nothing all morning, tilted her head slightly and softly whispered:
"That's what devotion looks like."
They had all been here.
They had all seen.
Not just the playful dominance.
Not just the training.
But the heart underneath.
And none of them moved away.
Because in that bed, they were more than rivals.
They were his.
And somehow, more and more…
They were beginning to become each other's as well.
A harem, yes.
But a family forming piece by piece.
And as Alex held Vira close — her face buried against his neck, her pride and vulnerability exposed in equal measure — none of the women spoke again.
They simply remained.
In peace.
Together.
Chapter 313 – The Whisper Behind the Name
The world beyond Alex's home was beginning to stir.
Not from war.
Not from prophecy.
But from rumor.
It began in hushed circles.
Among divine courtiers, spirit clan elders, magical syndicates, and hidden pantheons who moved behind the veil of the human world. Whispers flowed like smoke through Asgard, Olympus, the deep roots of Alfheim, and even the secret archives of the Magic Association.
"A mortal…? He defeated Apollo?"
"And Fenrir too — with one punch?"
"They say he impregnated Amaterasu herself."
"And the princess of Alfheim."
"Who is this man?"
No one had an answer.
Only fragments.
Some knew his name: Alex Elwood.
It had begun to circulate among upper echelons of supernatural societies — not with fear, but with disbelief. His name was not written in prophecies. He held no divine title, no throne. He belonged to no noble house of gods or demons. And yet…
He had won.
Against Apollo — the radiant son of Olympus.
And Fenrir — the primal wolf that even Odin himself feared.
There was no official record of these fights. No sanctioned judgment. Only witnesses — divine and otherwise — who spoke in low voices of what they saw:
"He didn't use spells."
"No artifacts. No sacred relics."
"He used his fists."
"He moved like light — and hit like the collapse of stars."
Still… the world did not connect him to the Man in the Black Armor — the figure who appeared at the Second Light Fortress, who built a spacefaring citadel and annihilated the incoming meteorites filled with 20,000 corruptions.
That man — that mysterious, untouchable entity — was something else entirely in their minds.
A different legend.
A ghost.
A myth.
"He's a godkiller…"
"No — something beyond. A being outside of fate."
Only his harem and his family knew the truth.
That the man who cuddled sleepy foxgirls and cooked breakfast with a smile…
…was the same being who shattered divine pride and erased threats meant to end the world.
The contrast was too great.
Too human.
Too humble.
The gods did not — could not — make the connection.
Even now, Olympus still stood.
Apollo had vanished from public sight, licking his wounds and pride in silence. The wedding was dismissed quietly as a diplomatic mishap. No one spoke of the battle, only the "abduction" of the bride.
As for the gods?
They remembered the man's fists.
Not his face.
Not his voice.
Just that impossible, overwhelming power — delivered without magic, without drama.
A punch.
A single strike.
And even the Divine Beast of Ragnarok had knelt.
And now?
There were whispers of something else.
"He got Amaterasu pregnant."
"He lives with the vampire queen and her daughter."
"He's loved by Alfheim's heir."
But still…
No one knew.
Because none could believe that the same man — the quiet one with no divine title — could also be the one who stood alone in orbit… building fortresses in silence, saving the world without seeking credit.
Even as rumors of Alex Elwood spread quietly through the supernatural world, the divine circles continued to hold their own separate theory.
The gods — proud, ancient, and deeply bound by history — were not so easily swayed by whispers alone.
Yes, they had seen Alex.
The man who fought Apollo in a shattered wedding hall.
The mortal who brought Fenrir, the Wolf of Endings, to his knees with a single strike.
They remembered his form: unarmored, calm, dressed in simple clothes.
They remembered his method: no weapons, no divine aura, no storm of spells.
Just skill.
And fists.
But to the gods, that kind of power — while terrifying — could still be understood.
It could be measured.
Categorized.
Alex Elwood was strong, yes.
But he was still "a mortal who overcame gods."
An anomaly, not an enigma.
But the Man in Black Armor?
He was something else entirely.
A presence that had no beginning.
No traceable lineage.
No spiritual origin.
No divine backing.
No name.
Only impact.
A myth already feared more than the gods themselves.
"He built a fortress in space."
"He destroyed more than twenty thousand corrupted meteor-entities… in seconds."
"His armor defied scanning."
"He moved through planetary defense grids like they didn't exist."
"And not even the Norns saw him coming."
Not even Odin's ravens, not even Urd's prophecy, not even Fate itself had predicted the arrival of the armored one.
To the gods?
That made him more terrifying than any god-slayer.
More dangerous than any rival pantheon.
Because he was unknowable.
And so the comparisons began.
In divine halls and sacred meeting places:
"Alex Elwood is dangerous, yes. But he's still limited by human form.""The Man in Black Armor? He has no limit.""Alex defeated Fenrir.""The armored one could erase Fenrir's entire bloodline."
Some even believed the armored being wasn't mortal at all.
Some whispered that he might be a weapon of the Creator, or an avatar of a dead god reborn.
Others feared he was a singularity — an independent reality-warping entity born from imbalance in the fabric of the universe.
But none — not even the wisest immortals — suspected the truth:
That Alex Elwood and the Man in Black Armor were the same soul.
Because Alex didn't flaunt.
He didn't preach.
He didn't dominate the heavens.
He made breakfast.
He kissed his lovers.
He walked quietly.
And that quiet… was his shield.
And the gods?
They would never know.
In Asgard, in Olympus, in the secret halls beneath Vanaheim — the gods debated, argued, and speculated.
They compared Alex Elwood to the Man in Black Armor, unaware they were drawing lines between the same soul.
They questioned power.
They feared legend.
They discussed threats and balance, war and fate.
And while they did…
Elsewhere — in a quiet bedroom wrapped in silk and morning light —
Alex was curled on a soft bed, his head resting in the lap of Vira Sunleaf, the Princess of Alfheim.
His lips were gently sealed around her breast, suckling at her milk with calm rhythm.
No urgency.
No command shouted.
Just the quiet pulse of breath, body, and bond.
Vira looked down at him, her golden eyes half-lidded in contentment.
"That's it," she whispered, stroking his hair. "Just like that."
Her fingers combed through his black locks as he suckled patiently, already well-trained from the past week. He didn't need reminders. He knew how she liked it — when to slow, when to draw, when to pause and taste.
Her expression was serene, with a trace of pride curling at her lips.
After a few more minutes, she gently tapped his shoulder.
"That's enough for now."
He stopped immediately.
Sat up.
Looked at her with quiet attentiveness.
And she smiled, cupping his cheek with her hand.
"Alex… I know I've said this before."
She leaned in, resting her forehead against his.
"But I want to say it again. Just so it's clear."
"You're not my pet."
"Everything I do — the commands, the way I act around the others — it's just an act. Something to increase the mood. Something that makes me feel powerful and playful."
She paused, her voice softening.
"But in here…"
She touched his chest.
Then hers.
"I know what we are."
"You're my equal. My man."
Alex didn't answer immediately.
He didn't have to.
He simply leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her lips — slow and warm.
When they parted, he rested his forehead against hers again.
"I know."
"And I love you too."
They stood in a circle, facing the ancient gate — and each other.
The sealed temple remained untouched, humming softly beneath the sand, the divine wards still intact. The pulse of the Book's power echoed faintly through the ground, setting magical sensors and dragon senses alight.
And yet—
No one moved.
Because the first one to act… would start the war.
The Vatican Archbishop, armored in silver and gold, raised his voice first.
"This place is sacred. The Voice of Aten resonates most clearly with the rites of the Holy Sun. Let us open the gate under holy supervision — lest another heresy be unleashed."
The Magic Association's Grand Sage adjusted his spectacles with a bored expression.
"Spare us the divine posturing. The resonance came through arcane frequencies — our readings were clean. We tracked it first. We initiate the seal-breaking protocol."
The High Elf ambassador narrowed her eyes, her long braid fluttering in the breeze.
"You tracked it second. We detected the mana shift hours before your sensors twitched. And need I remind you — many of Aten's glyphs are written in ancient elvish. You'll only damage what you don't understand."
The vampire lord, tall and pale with crimson eyes glowing beneath his hood, laughed dryly.
"Elvish? Catholic ritual? Arcane calibration? You all forget — it was mortals who worshiped Aten. Humans. And it was we who ruled over them. We merely wish to preserve our legacy."
A rumble passed through the earth.
Everyone tensed—
But it wasn't magic.
Just the deep growl of a dragon.
The lead Eastern dragon, wearing fine robes, his human skin faintly glowing with azure scales, spoke coldly:
"Legacy? You speak of fragments. The dragons knew of Aten when the Nile was still mist. We remember the Old Flame. We heard his breath when he slept beneath the horizon. This Book—"
He tapped the ground with his foot.
"—is a fragment of that voice. We are its last memory."
The demon lord, silent until now, chuckled softly.
"And all of you want to lay claim… as if knowledge chooses its master."
He spread his arms.
"I say we break the seal together. Let the Book choose who is worthy to read it."
"Unless…" he smirked, "you're afraid of what it might reveal."
The tension snapped.
Magic surged in the air. Holy light shimmered. Vampiric pressure thickened. Dragon mana began to vibrate the sand. The elven enchantress drew her staff without thinking.
A fight was seconds away.
And still—
The temple remained sealed.
Watching.
Waiting.
Far away, Alex sat in his quiet home, casually sipping warm tea with Nefertiti.
He scrolled lazily through a holographic news feed of supernatural channels, watching clips of the confrontation in Egypt begin to circulate in private networks.
Nefertiti, beside him, leaned against his arm and sighed.
"They're going to tear each other apart."
Alex nodded once.
"Over a book I could write in a week."
She smiled faintly. "That good, are you?"
He looked at her.
"I'm better."
They both returned to sipping tea, letting the world chase a treasure that no longer mattered to them.
The winds stopped.
The heat stilled.
And before anyone could release their first spell or accusation—
CRRACKK…
The ancient golden gate groaned.
Not from magic.
Not from force.
But from the patient, quiet erosion of time.
Dust fell in thin streams.
The runes etched into the massive stone doors flickered and died, one by one — not from sabotage, but from exhaustion. Wards that had held for millennia finally gave way.
And then—
BOOOOM—
The doors crumbled, folding inward with a deep roar as sand billowed out from the opening.
Everyone fell silent.
The swirling tensions vanished.
Even the dragons froze.
Eyes turned toward the now-open darkness.
From within: a hallway, grand and sloped, carved of sunstone and alabaster. The once-pristine carvings of Aten's rays and symbols had eroded, chipped and cracked by ages of buried pressure.
Yet still…
Power pulsed from within.
The labyrinth had been real.
But it, too, had aged.
Stairways sagged.
Pillars cracked.
The light spells etched into the ceiling flickered faintly, then died completely.
The air that poured out was dry… but carried a scent of something sacred — like sunlight soaked into parchment that had never been touched.
The Vatican's exorcists stepped forward first — but did not enter.
The Grand Sage of the Magic Association raised a spelllight but hesitated.
The High Elf ambassador narrowed her eyes and muttered, "It's unstable. If we fight inside, we'll destroy it."
The dragon emissaries agreed, almost instantly.
"We don't dare risk a battle within."
The vampire lords, surprisingly, nodded.
"Let the book survive, if nothing else."
The demon lord stepped forward and tapped a toe on the threshold.
"So… are we capable of behaving like civilized immortals?"
Silence.
And then — one by one — they agreed.
Not out of peace.
But out of mutual caution.
Because if this truly was the resting place of the original Book of Aten…
…then even a single clash could reduce history to ash.
Somewhere far away, Alex smirked as he read the headline:
"World Powers Enter Ruins Without Violence — Temporary Truce Declared Over Lost Relic."
He handed the screen to Nefertiti.
"Temporary," he said dryly.
She took it and laughed quietly.
"They'll behave. Until one of them touches it."
Alex nodded.
"And then?"
She smiled faintly.
"Then you'll sigh… and go fix everything."
The wind no longer howled.
The sun no longer burned.
It was quiet.
The deeper they went… the more the outside world seemed to vanish behind them.
Their footsteps echoed through the crumbling halls of the Sun Labyrinth — an ancient spiral of stone passages long buried beneath the shifting sands.
The walls had once gleamed with polished gold-veined marble, but now most were cracked or dulled by centuries of silence. The old enchantments — meant to repel tomb raiders and time alike — had long since decayed.
No torches remained.
No guardians.
Not even bones.
This was a place untouched by war…
…or by life.
And yet—
Even in this deep stillness, insects scuttled across the corners — thin, pale creatures that made no sound. Harmless, it seemed. But unsettling in how alone they were.
The High Elf ambassador frowned as she examined the air.
"There's no spiritual pressure… not even ambient life essence."
The Vatican priest muttered a prayer.
"The gods are absent here. It's hollow."
The Magic Association's sage activated a rune lens and checked his scrolls.
"It's not cursed. Just… empty. As if something purged all living echoes."
Only the dragons remained unshaken.
To them, it was expected.
"The Book does not tolerate distractions," one murmured. "Not even echoes of lesser souls."
They passed through winding halls, broken pillars, and sunken mosaics of Aten's chariot crossing the sky. Faded murals depicted priests lifting the book toward the heavens, each with a different face — suggesting Aten chose more than one voice across history.
As they turned the next corner—
A vampire lord halted.
"There."
They had reached it.
At the heart of the labyrinth, on a raised stone altar partially collapsed but still glowing with faint gold veins — was a rectangular stone cradle, carved with glyphs older than known script.
Inside it:
A book.
Bound in sun-leather.
Etched with radiant, nearly invisible runes that pulsed once with each breath.
The Book of Aten.
It rested quietly.
Unmoved.
Unopened.
Untouched.
Yet even from a distance, its presence was overwhelming — not in force, but in purity. As if the concept of light itself had been written down and buried here.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Then…
The first step forward came.
From a Vatican priest, rosary glowing, his hand outstretched reverently.
And across the circle—
The elf ambassador stepped forward, her eyes narrowed.
And then a dragon, slow and composed, took a breath and began to walk.
The truce was already fragile.
And now… it was beginning to crack.
The air trembled.
But no one dared lunge.
The truce was thinner than silk, but it held — not by trust, but by mutual fear of breaking the book before understanding it.
A voice finally broke the silence.
Not demanding, not aggressive.
Just… calm.
"Why don't we simply see what's inside first?"
—offered the Grand Sage of the Magic Association.
Several pairs of eyes turned to him.
He raised his hands lightly, fingers glowing with a neutral preservation spell.
"If we fight now, we risk damaging knowledge that has survived for thousands of years. Let's read before we bleed."
After a tense pause… the others agreed.
One of the Vatican exorcists gently stepped forward and opened the cover.
A quiet wind seemed to sigh from within — not magical, but ancient.
The first page contained only a simple phrase, etched in ancient solar script:
"Let all healing begin with mercy."
Beneath it — a basic cure spell.
Surprisingly mundane.
A beginner-tier holy healing technique found in even low-tier temples today.
Some scoffed.
But then the priest turned the page.
And the next.
And then—
Eyes widened.
Breaths caught.
Murmurs began to rise.
"That's… that's an anatomical restoration sequence…"
"A regeneration formula… but the cost is very low?!"
"Wait, this one—this spell removes pain receptors during surgery and then reactivates them with no trauma backlash…"
"This can purge blood curses without any recoil. That shouldn't be possible."
They flipped further, faster.
Page after page of healing techniques — from flesh mending and spirit repair to organ reconstruction, nerve realignment, and soul fragmentation recovery — each one precise, low-cost, and almost mathematically perfect.
"These aren't theoretical," said the elven ambassador. "These are refined. They've been tested."
"No side effects," a dragon whispered.
"Minimal mana draw," said a demon with wide eyes.
"They can even restore magical circuits ruined by divine punishment…" murmured the vampire lord.
The Book of Aten didn't waste pages on spectacle.
It was not a tome of power.
It was a manual of healing — deeper than anything the world had ever compiled.
Not just advanced.
Not just efficient.
Flawless.
And suddenly, none of them wanted to destroy it.
Even the most war-hardened factions stood still, reverent.
Because in that dim, crumbling chamber…
They no longer saw a weapon to control.
They saw something else:
A light meant to heal the world.
The pages of the Book of Aten lay open.
The light that glowed from its ancient ink was soft — not blinding, not holy, not demanding.
Just… inviting.
And for the first time since entering the ruins…
There was no aggression in the room.
Only silence. And thought.
The Vatican archbishop closed his eyes and murmured:
"If we could teach these spells to every temple healer… we could eliminate suffering in half the world's battle zones."
The Magic Association's Grand Sage nodded slowly, adjusting his glasses.
"The calculations are clean. No unstable loops. These aren't drafts. They're masterwork algorithms."
The elf ambassador knelt beside the book, fingers gliding near the surface without touching it.
"And the way the glyphs adapt to different mana types… even nature-based magic users could apply them. That should be impossible."
A vampire lord, still hooded, chuckled faintly.
"So? What now? Shall we fight to the death over it after all?"
No one moved.
Not this time.
Then—
A dragon, still seated cross-legged, spoke calmly.
"It would be a shame… to let a relic of peace bring about more bloodshed."
"Perhaps it's time we do something unthinkable."
Eyes turned.
"Co-ownership," he said simply.
The idea hung in the air.
There was hesitation.
But also… curiosity.
The demon lord raised an eyebrow.
"You're suggesting what? Joint access? Shared custody like children of divorce?"
The dragon shrugged. "Something like that."
The High Elf tilted her head.
"Would it be in a neutral vault?"
"A new order," said the priest. "A council built not for power, but for preservation."
The Magic Association's representative nodded thoughtfully.
"Each faction could contribute experts — to translate, to test, to disseminate the knowledge safely. No single race or court would own the Book. Its knowledge would be distributed fairly."
The vampire lord smiled.
"That's very noble. Suspiciously noble."
But he didn't oppose it.
Because even he knew…
If any one group took the book, war was inevitable.
And now, having seen what it contained, no one wanted to risk its destruction.
The discussion that followed was tense, detailed, and wrapped in centuries of old grudges…
…but for the first time in generations, gods, demons, dragons, vampires, elves, and humans sat together…
Not to conquer.
But to protect something that could heal the world.
Chapter 315 – The Mage Who Became a God
Weeks passed since the Book of Aten had been uncovered.
The world didn't change overnight.
But something beneath the surface had begun to shift.
In a neutral arcane sanctuary built atop the ruins — now protected by joint magical treaties — the Book of Aten was placed within a floating stasis chamber. Not sealed, not hidden.
Accessible.
Under supervision.
And so…
Each faction sent their finest.
Not warriors.
But healers.
Linguists.
Magical theorists.
Restoration mages.
No blood was spilled.
Only pages were turned.
And the deeper they studied, the more their awe grew.
A Vatican bishop sat wide-eyed, his trembling hands resting on a scroll.
"This purification sequence… it works on demonic corruption without requiring invocation of holy names. No divine permission needed."
A Magic Association scholar flipped a page rapidly, scribbling diagrams.
"These spells don't rely on divine language, or contract-bound systems. They're just… functional. Elegant."
"Designed for anyone with basic magical structure."
An elven high medic whispered to her peers.
"I taught a low-tier apprentice one of the entry-level healing pulses. He succeeded within an hour."
"No backlash. No side effects. His mana stabilized afterward."
A dragon monk, long-robed and ageless, closed his eyes.
"This isn't just spellcraft. It's philosophy made functional. The book itself teaches mercy, restraint, and patience… through the way it instructs mana to flow."
They all noticed something else:
The Book didn't grant instant mastery.
There was no divine shortcut.
Every spell required effort, precision, and intentional control.
But—
If you tried, and had talent… you could do it.
That revelation shook them more than any miracle.
Because it meant:
These were not spells of a god meant for gods.
They were spells for mortals.
Refined to perfection by someone who understood weakness, fatigue, and learning curves.
And then the rumors began.
"Could Aten have been… mortal?"
"A mage? A scholar?"
"One who perfected healing to such a degree, he became divine?"
"Is that why his light heals instead of burns?"
The Vatican did not deny it.
The elves didn't scoff.
Even the dragons paused in reverence.
Because if Aten had not started as a god…
Then it meant the knowledge in this book was not granted from the heavens…
It was earned.
Crafted.
And maybe…
Recreated.
It began as a whisper in the corridors of the Vatican's Inner Sanctum.
A hesitant question during a closed-door symposium of healing clergy:
"If Aten's spells work for mortals… was he once one of us?"
The question was not condemned.
It was debated.
Then… copied.
And then it traveled.
In the White Archives of the Magic Association, the thought was scribbled in the margin of a senior researcher's spell analysis log:
"Methodology suggests mortal design. Divine patterns are typically symmetrical. These are efficient — not exalted."
The page was left open on a table.
By morning, twenty more mages had read it.
Among the High Elves, it became a point of both pride and unease.
"We detected elvish glyph structure embedded in his work. If Aten was mortal… perhaps he studied among our ancestors."
"Or perhaps he was one of us."
"No. That kind of humility in spell design is not elven. That's human."
"Then what is he? A bridge?"
In a dragon shrine, a monk traced a healing circle from the book in silence, then spoke to his students:
"It's not about what Aten was born as. It's about what he became."
"And what that says about us."
"The divine may not be above us… only further along the path."
Even demons and vampires, long proud of their traditions, found themselves in closed council.
"If mortals can reach divinity through knowledge…"
"What does that mean for those who were born as lords of blood and flame?"
"It means we may no longer be the ceiling."
"It means our status… may no longer be earned by blood, but by brilliance."
The rumor spread like fire through dry scripture.
It reached remote mountaintop libraries.
Desert tomb-cities.
Hidden alchemical towers.
Small, unseen corners of the world where magicians, clerics, and philosophers gathered in secrecy and hope.
And all across those places—
Mortal or not—
One idea echoed louder than all the rest:
"If Aten could rise by mastering mercy…
…what would happen if we did the same?"
They came from everywhere.
From the snowy provinces of the north where healers once used rune-stones and prayer beads…
From the jade monasteries of the east, where chi-healers worked with sacred breath and pressure lines…
From underground vampire cities, where blood rituals were the only medicine…
From broken warzones in the human world, where overworked medics had never once seen a successful limb restoration spell…
They came.
Not to worship.
But to learn.
The Book of Aten had become a beacon.
A symbol of possibility.
Because its pages didn't judge your bloodline.
It didn't care about pantheon, rank, or sacred birthright.
All it asked for was:
Will.
Precision.
Mercy.
In one city, a novice healer with trembling hands used one of Aten's beginner sequences to reattach a severed finger. Her teacher, once skeptical, knelt in stunned silence.
In a ruined temple, an orcish boy with no magical background practiced the diagrams for an anti-curse pulse. He failed four hundred times — and succeeded once.
In an elven academy, students were required to study Aten's glyphic layering to better understand error reduction. They found his patterns "inelegant… but unbeatable."
In a human refugee outpost, a fifteen-year-old apprentice drew one of Aten's seals in chalk on a dirt floor — and stopped a child from dying of fever.
They whispered to each other online.
Shared diagrams.
Compared notes across borders, races, bloodlines.
And slowly, a quiet revolution of healing began — not as an order, or cult, or movement…
…but as a language.
A way of thinking.
One that spoke not of miracles, but of earned light.
And somewhere above them all…
The gods remained silent.
Because they, too, were watching.