Chapter 399 – "Names That Should Not Be Offended"
The press hall was restless now.
The dragons had appeared. The vampires had spoken. The Magic Association and its seven Immortals had revealed themselves. And yet, the reporters still pressed forward, voices rising over one another, desperate for answers.
From the front row, a reporter's voice rang out, firm despite the weight of the moment.
"Then tell us this," she said. "Are there gods we should fear? Beings so dangerous that offending them, even by mistake, could bring disaster? The kind tied to plagues, storms, famine — things that can destroy entire nations?"
The Seven glanced at one another. There was no need for words.
Merlin stepped forward, his expression as calm as stone.
"Yes," he said.
The single word silenced the entire hall.
"There are gods," Dante said, "who embody the forces of calamity. Some of them are worshiped even now. Some of them have been forgotten. But all of them remain. And to anger them is to call disaster upon yourself and everything around you."
Elizabeth I's voice was cold, precise. "In every culture there are names. And those names matter."
Sun Tzu raised a hand, and with a faint flick of magic, a list appeared in glowing script above the podium — not all the names, but enough to make the press hall feel the weight of the warning.
"First," he said, "the gods of plagues and epidemics."
Sekhmet — the lioness of destruction, the wrath of Egypt.
Nergal — the Mesopotamian lord of plague and war.
Shennong's Wrath — the hidden aspect of the ancient Chinese agricultural god, tied to poison and disease.
Pazuzu — bringer of pestilence when enraged.
Kali in her destructive aspect — when balance turns to blood.
"Second," Sun Tzu continued, "the gods of storms and natural disaster."
Susanoo — the wild storm god of Japan.
Set — the desert storm and chaos of Egypt.
Chaac — the Maya storm-bringer.
Tlaloc — lord of rain and destruction in the Aztec pantheon.
Indra when angered — the Vedic god of storms and thunder.
Poseidon — not gentle when provoked.
Apep — whose chaos is more than a storm, but a swallowing of light itself.
Flamel added, "These gods are not evil by nature. But they are forces. And if they feel disrespected, they answer with the disasters that they embody."
"Third," Leonardo said, gesturing to another group of names that appeared in gold, "are the gods and spirits tied to memory and forgetting. The most dangerous among them can erase entire generations from history simply because they were slighted."
Lethe — the river-spirit of oblivion.
Mnemosyne's counterpart — the power of unmemory, whose name is no longer spoken.
Nehebu-Kau — Egyptian guardian-serpent whose venom eats memory.
Mimir's Well — a consciousness bound to the waters of wisdom that demands a price.
"These beings," Leonardo said softly, "should not be offended."
Merlin lowered the glowing names and faced the cameras directly.
"Listen carefully. This is not meant to frighten you. It is meant to teach you. There are gods who answer kindness with blessings. There are gods who answer insult with ruin. And there are gods who will never forgive once the insult is made."
He paused.
"If you do not understand them, then do not seek them. If you meet them, do not challenge them. Some powers will tolerate ignorance. Others will not."
The reporters were silent again. They had come
The hall was silent after the list faded from the air.
Then, from the back rows, another question rose, hesitant but clear.
"If these gods are so powerful," the reporter asked, "are they watching us now? Now that the veil is gone, are they… paying attention?"
Merlin's eyes turned to the speaker. His answer came slowly, with the weight of centuries behind it.
"They have always been watching. The difference now is that you are finally aware."
Elizabeth I folded her hands on the podium, her posture unshaken.
"When the veil was intact, their gaze rarely turned toward the human world. It was muffled by secrecy. But now? Now that the world calls their names again, you may be sure that more of them are listening."
"Does that mean they will come?" another voice pressed.
Flamel shook his head.
"Not all. Most will remain in their domains, indifferent to mortal affairs. But a few… a few are curious. They will come, if only to see what has changed."
A third reporter asked, voice rising with worry, "Can you stop them if they choose to act?"
"No," Sun Tzu said plainly. "We do not stop gods. We speak to them. We bargain with them. Even the strongest mage cannot stand against divine wrath without consequence."
Leonardo added with a faint, thoughtful tone, "What you must understand is that most gods do not think in human terms. What seems like a small slight to you can be enormous to them. A minor ceremony, an insult, a symbol misused — these things have consequences."
The room fell into tense silence.
Finally, Dante's calm voice broke through, steady and measured.
"Do not fear them blindly. Fear comes from ignorance. Instead, learn. Respect what they are. The more the world understands, the fewer mistakes will be made."
Merlin's final words carried across the press hall, unshaken.
"The veil is gone. From this day forward, you will be seen. That is all the warning we will give."
The words echoed through the chamber like a tolling bell.
For the first time in human history, the gods were not legends. They were listening.
Near the front of the hall, another hand went up, this one trembling slightly. The reporter's voice came out half curiosity, half disbelief.
"Then what about the demigods?" she asked. "In the old Greek texts… figures like Heracles, Perseus, Achilles, all the half-gods born from gods and humans. Were they real? Are they real?"
Leonardo was the first to answer, leaning casually toward the row of microphones.
"Yes. Many of those figures were exactly what the stories say they were. Half-gods. Children born from the union of divine and mortal. The myths you've read are not as far from the truth as you think."
Elizabeth I added, "Some of those children lived full mortal lives and died, and their souls were reborn centuries later, carrying fragments of who they once were. Some are alive even now. Some were claimed by their divine parent and live in realms outside of your world."
Another reporter quickly asked, "And who among the gods had the most children?"
Merlin's answer was immediate and without any hesitation.
"Zeus."
The room filled with murmurs. Everyone had heard the stories, but to hear it confirmed with such calmness made even the veteran journalists stiffen.
"Yes," Merlin continued, his voice clear. "The legends are true. The god of the skies of Olympus was, and still is, the most prolific of all the gods in this regard. Almost every story of a half-god from Greece leads back to him."
"Then… the names we know from the myths?" another journalist asked from the center of the hall. "Are they really those people?"
Flamel nodded.
"The names you know — Heracles, Perseus, Theseus, and others — are accurate. But the deeds in your texts are sometimes exaggerated, sometimes twisted by poets. They lived, they fought, and in some cases they died. But the blood of gods still flows in their descendants."
Rasputin tilted his head slightly, his grin lopsided.
"You may have spoken to one without knowing it. Blood does not fade. It hides."
Sun Tzu's voice followed, calm and cutting.
"And remember this: a demigod is not a god. They may be stronger than humans, but their temper, their flaws, and their ambitions are still mortal. They can be heroes or tyrants."
A journalist near the back asked the question that had been hanging unspoken since the first confirmation.
"Could one of them be alive now, walking among us?"
Merlin looked out at the hall, unblinking.
"Yes. And some of them do not yet know what they are."
The silence that followed was absolute.
In that moment, the weight of every old story — every name written in myths — felt closer, sharper, and more real than it ever had before.
Chapter 400 – "When the World Could No Longer Pretend"
The press conference ended not with ceremony, but with a hush that no one quite knew how to break.
For hours, the Seven Immortals had stood before the world and dismantled everything mortals thought they knew. Vampires, dragons, gods, reincarnation, demigods — all of it laid bare under the midday sun.
And now it was over.
As Merlin's final words faded and the magical lights dimmed, no one moved at first. Reporters sat frozen in their chairs, their cameras still raised, their microphones still pointed at a podium that was suddenly empty.
One by one, the Seven Immortals turned and walked back into the hall, their figures swallowed by the great arched doorway. They did not hurry. They did not look back. They simply left, their presence lingering behind them like a weight on the chest of the entire city.
Only when the doors closed did the spell break.
The hall erupted. Voices rose, shouting, arguing, clamoring for more answers that would not come. The journalists who had been so bold only minutes before now found their hands shaking, their faces pale. Some could barely hold on to their cameras. Others sat down heavily, as if the floor was the only solid thing left to hold on to.
Outside the building, the square was chaos. Thousands who had gathered to watch on massive screens were shouting, crying, embracing, demanding. Some knelt in prayer. Some shouted at the sky, their voices echoing across Vienna.
Within hours, the broadcasts had reached every nation. Screens in city squares, in subways, in rural towns, in homes — all of them replayed the same images over and over. People watched, silent or in disbelief, as the veil of secrecy that had lasted for thousands of years collapsed in a single afternoon.
On the streets of Paris, people left flowers and letters outside the Association's European branch, treating the doors as if they were the entrance to a temple. In Cairo, old priests stood at the gates of the city, staring at the sky. In Tokyo, long lines formed outside ancient shrines, where prayers for protection and guidance filled the air until late into the night.
The world could no longer pretend.
In living rooms, families argued. Parents who had always laughed at superstition now sat silent. Students argued with teachers who no longer had answers. Economists, philosophers, politicians — every field scrambled to understand what it meant to share the planet not just with other beings, but with legends.
For the first time, humanity had been forced to face the truth:
They were not alone.
And the Seven Immortals had only told them a fraction of what was out there.
In the hours after the Seven Immortals stepped away from the podium, another voice rose to meet the uproar of a world without secrets.
From Rome, the Vatican issued its own live statement. Unlike past addresses made by cardinals, this time the Pope himself stood before the cameras, robes white and simple, his expression solemn.
Reporters filled the courtyard of Saint Peter's Square, their microphones raised. The air carried a weight heavier than the heat of the sun.
"Your Holiness," the first question came, "is it true, then? That Christian heaven and hell are real?"
The Pope bowed his head briefly before looking up, his voice calm, certain.
"Yes. Heaven is real. Hell is real. The afterlife that our faith has spoken of has always been true."
A hundred murmurs broke out, but the next question came fast, pressing.
"And angels? Demons?"
"They are real as well," the Pope answered. "There is no more need to speak in symbols. Angels and demons are as real as the ground you stand on. For centuries, we have known this, just as the Association has."
Another question rose, sharp.
"Then why haven't we seen them?"
"Because for a long time," the Pope said, "they chose not to be seen. Because the veil was intact. They acted when they needed to act. Now that the veil is gone, you will see them again."
The square went silent as he continued, voice steady despite the flood of cameras.
"I will tell you another truth," he said. "In this age, the war between angels and demons is over. They have made peace. They share a balance. There are demons who live by this law. And there are demons who reject it — outlaws who choose destruction. These we hunt. These we resist."
Another reporter raised her voice.
"If we do good things, will we go to heaven? Does that still hold true?"
The Pope smiled faintly, but there was a gravity in his tone when he replied.
"Yes. Goodness is never wasted. But I must give you this warning: do not twist our scripture, or any scripture, to excuse harm. Goodness is not found in words, but in the heart and the choices you make."
The reporters fell silent again. For a moment, no one spoke. The words carried across the square and into the cameras, broadcast to a world that had just been forced to confront angels and demons as living truths.
He ended with one final statement.
"This is no longer a matter of belief. It is a matter of understanding. Choose well, for the days ahead will ask more of you than they ever have before."
The bells of the Vatican rang as he stepped down, and the square, already shaken, erupted once again.
The bells had barely stopped ringing when the Pope raised his hand for silence once more. His eyes swept the reporters and the thousands standing in the square. His voice, though calm, now carried a harder edge.
"There is something else I must say before I leave this place."
The crowd stilled, waiting.
"Now that the truth has been revealed, some of you will be tempted to use faith as a weapon," he said. "You will think that because angels and demons are real, you can use religion to interfere with politics, or to force your neighbor to kneel to what you believe."
He paused, his gaze unwavering.
"That is a sin."
Gasps rippled through the square. The cameras caught every word.
"Faith is not a blade," he continued. "It is a light. A light you offer, not one you strike with. We do not force belief. We do not coerce it. You cannot drag a soul to Heaven by the throat."
The reporters scribbled furiously, trying to capture the exact phrasing as he went on.
"We will guide, we will teach, we will advise, but we will not impose. This is a lesson the Church has had to learn again and again. In this new world, with the veil gone, we must not make that mistake once more."
He turned slightly, his eyes sweeping the enormous square one last time.
"If someone chooses to believe, let it be their choice. If someone chooses not to believe, let it be their path. We are not judges. We are shepherds. And it is not for us to strike with our staffs."
There was silence after that, as heavy and profound as the weight of the truths that had been revealed.
Only after a long moment did the Pope lower his hand and leave the podium.
The Pope's last words spread faster than any news anchor could speak.
Clips of his statement were replayed on screens, shared on phones, translated into dozens of languages before the bells of Saint Peter's Square had even finished ringing.
And as the sun began to set across Europe, the world reacted.
In the great cities, churches overflowed. In Paris, in Madrid, in Buenos Aires, thousands of people crowded into old cathedrals with candles in their hands, not in fear but in desperate need of certainty. Hymns that had been silent for generations rose again, voices trembling but strong.
In small towns, priests and pastors opened their doors to anyone who came. Some came to pray. Some came to shout. Some came just to ask if everything they had been told was true.
In other places, the response was very different. Protests swelled in front of government buildings, demanding that no religion be allowed to use this revelation as a tool of power. There were heated arguments in city squares, people shouting across barricades, some holding up the words of the Pope himself as banners: "Faith is not a blade."
In parts of Africa and Asia, places where the local beliefs had long been overshadowed, elders gathered in the open to speak of their own gods, their own spirits, their own angels. For the first time in centuries, old stories were not dismissed. They were shared, debated, recorded, and honored.
In schools, children whispered about angels. On the streets, people looked at strangers as if seeing them for the first time, wondering who they really were.
Not everyone accepted the words with peace. Some groups, angry and afraid, formed in the streets, convinced that the coming age would erase their control. In some countries, those groups turned to violence, trying to burn symbols of other faiths, only to be stopped by their own citizens quoting what the Pope had said: "You cannot drag a soul to Heaven by the throat."
The world had fractured in the same moment it had come together.
And yet, there was something undeniable about the shift that ran through every city that night. For the first time in history, people spoke less about their borders and more about the sky.
Chapter 401 – "The Stillness Behind the Veil"
After the storm of the previous day, the world's cameras turned east.
In Bangkok, in Kyoto, in Lhasa, in Yangon, in Colombo — reporters gathered outside temples and monasteries, asking the question that had been echoing through every street since the veil was torn apart.
"What about Buddhism?"
"What about the Buddha?"
At first the monks remained silent, as they always had.
But as the sun rose higher and the crowds swelled, the gates of the oldest temple in Bangkok opened. Monks in saffron robes stepped out into the light. They carried no books, no ornaments, only the calm of those who had waited lifetimes for this moment.
One monk, his voice steady, spoke to the crowd.
"What the Association revealed is true," he said. "The worlds you thought of as myth are real. The beings you called gods are real. And so is the path of the Buddha."
The square fell silent.
Reporters shouted over one another, "Do you mean to say the Buddha is a god?"
The monk inclined his head slightly. "The Buddha is not a god in the way others understand gods. He is Awakened. Enlightened. But understand this — the power that comes with such awakening is equal to the highest of any divine beings. Equal, not above. Neither greater nor lesser."
Another monk, older, stepped forward. His voice was soft but clear.
"The legends you have heard — that the Buddha walked among gods and demons, that he met Mara, that he stood beyond the reach of death — are true. What the texts describe, the world will now come to see."
A question came from a Japanese journalist, her voice trembling. "So Buddhism is as true as the other religions?"
"Yes," the old monk said. "And it has always been so. Each path leads to a different gate, but all gates open into the same sky. The divine power of Buddhism is no weaker and no stronger than the power of any other true path."
Reporters pressed forward again. "And the Buddha himself? Is he still… here?"
The monk smiled, a small, calm smile that held no fear.
"The Buddha has gone beyond. But there are many bodhisattvas, arhats, and guardians who remain. They do not act often. They do not seek followers. They seek only the balance of compassion."
He folded his hands together, bowing to the crowd.
"Remember this: the Buddha did not ask you to worship. He asked you to wake up."
The square was quiet. There were no chants, no wild applause, only a deep and sudden stillness.
For the first time since the veil had been lifted, the world was silent not from shock, but from something close to peace.
The words of the monks spread like water down a mountain, flowing into every corner of the world.
Where the conference of the Seven Immortals had brought awe and fear, and the Vatican's statement had brought waves of devotion and protest, this was different.
The broadcasts from Bangkok, Kyoto, and Lhasa were replayed again and again. They showed the monks standing barefoot in the sunlight, speaking without anger, without demand, without threat. And across the globe, people listened.
In crowded cities, the noise seemed to soften. Offices and cafés where every conversation had been loud with argument fell quiet as screens replayed the same sentence: "Each path leads to a different gate, but all gates open into the same sky."
In the squares of Europe, where people had been clashing over faith since the first day, the shouting eased. Some sat on the steps of government buildings, headphones in, listening to the speech again. For a few minutes, they simply breathed.
In Tokyo, the temples overflowed with offerings. Not desperate, not panicked — just small gestures. Paper cranes, flowers, little wooden plaques. People wrote questions, confessions, wishes, and left them at the gates.
In New York and Los Angeles, yoga studios, small shrines, and meditation centers were suddenly packed. For a moment, in a city that never stopped moving, thousands of people sat still.
In the mountains of Nepal, pilgrims who had been there long before any veil broke simply smiled when they heard the broadcasts. They had always known. To them, the rest of the world was only just catching up.
Even in places where chaos still ruled — cities still burning from riots, people still demanding more answers — a pocket of calm began to grow. Not everyone believed. Not everyone understood. But something in the monks' words cut through the anger like a soft bell ringing in fog.
Social media, which had been a storm of panic and speculation for weeks, began to shift.
Clips of the monks were reposted with a single word: "Listen."
And for the first time since the veil fell, millions of people did.
They listened.
Chapter 402 – "The Voices of the Kami"
The day after the monks spoke, the cameras turned to Japan.
At the base of the long stone steps of Fushimi Inari Shrine in Kyoto, reporters gathered in the soft light of a spring morning. Fox statues watched from their gates, silent and unmoving, while a woman in white and crimson robes descended slowly from the inner shrine.
She was a kannushi — a Shinto priest — and when she stepped into the courtyard, the crowd of reporters bowed without being asked. Her presence carried a quiet gravity that made even the most persistent journalists lower their voices.
One of them asked the question that the entire nation, and now the world, had been waiting to hear.
"Are the kami — the Japanese gods — real?"
The priest stopped at the foot of the steps. She held her gohei wand gently in one hand, its paper streamers fluttering in the wind. When she spoke, her voice was calm and steady, the sound of someone who had no reason to lie.
"Yes," she said. "The kami are real. They always have been."
A murmur swept through the crowd. Microphones were pushed forward, cameras focused tighter.
"The gods you have read about in the Kojiki and Nihon Shoki — Amaterasu, Tsukuyomi, Susanoo — they exist," she continued. "The spirits of mountains and rivers, the foxes, the ancestors, all of them are as true as the breath you take. The difference is that they do not show themselves unless there is a need."
Another question came, this one from a foreign correspondent.
"Does that mean the Shinto stories are accurate?"
"They are stories," she said, "but they are also records. Not all events happened as they were told, and not all truths are written in books. Much has been left out. Much is known only to those who guard the shrines."
A Japanese reporter asked, "Will the kami appear openly now that the veil is broken?"
The priest closed her eyes for a moment, as if listening to something no one else could hear. When she opened them, her gaze was steady.
"If they choose. Some already walk among you, unnoticed. Others will remain in their realms. The decision belongs to them."
The crowd erupted in more questions — about the great gods of Takamagahara, about the yokai and the spirits that haunted old forests, about whether the oni and tengu were truly real. For every question, the priest gave an answer that was simple, never sensational, but left no doubt: the world of Shinto myth was as real as everything that had been revealed before.
And as the sun rose higher over Kyoto, the fox statues at the gates seemed to watch with knowing eyes as another piece of the hidden world stepped into the open.
The moment the priest's words were broadcast live across Japan, the nation trembled.
In every city, on every train platform and in every café, screens showed her standing at the base of the shrine steps, calmly declaring what people had once whispered to each other as children: "The kami are real. They always have been."
In Kyoto, where the air already felt heavy with history, people stopped in the streets. Old women wept softly, covering their mouths with their hands. Schoolchildren looked at each other wide-eyed, as if the fox statues and shrine lanterns that lined their daily walk had suddenly come alive.
In Tokyo, Shibuya Crossing — normally a flood of neon and noise — fell strangely quiet for a moment. Crowds gathered in front of the giant screens above the intersection, the roar of traffic muffled as the priest's words played again. Some people clapped. Some bowed toward the screen. Others simply stared, whispering Amaterasu, Susanoo, Inari-sama, like old prayers rediscovered.
In the smaller towns, where shrines sat quiet beneath the mountains, the reaction was even more profound. Families who had passed by those gates every day of their lives now stopped, bowed, and lit incense as the sun set. Priests who had served these shrines for decades with quiet patience found themselves greeted by long lines of visitors carrying offerings — rice, sake, and handwritten letters left at the foot of the torii.
Temples dedicated to Inari overflowed. Fox masks were taken down from walls, dusted off, and worn by children who danced through the streets laughing. At the great Ise Grand Shrine, the inner courtyard was so crowded that visitors stood silently outside the main gates, content just to be near.
It was not only faith. It was memory. It was a nation realizing that the stories told to them by their grandparents — the tales of the sun goddess and the trickster foxes, the rivers with spirits, the peaks guarded by tengu — had been true all along.
That night, candles and lanterns lit up thousands of shrines across Japan. The cities buzzed with reverence instead of panic, and for a few hours, even Tokyo's relentless pace slowed.
The kami were real. And the people of Japan had remembered how to bow.
That evening, in a quiet house far from the noise of the cities, the television in the living room played the live broadcasts over and over.
Shrines lit by lanterns, priests speaking to crowds, children wearing fox masks — the screen was full of the images from earlier that day.
Hanabi sat cross-legged on the couch, her fox-like tail lazily swaying behind her as she munched on senbei. Her crimson eyes flicked from the television to Alex, who was leaning back with his arms folded, silent as usual.
She smirked.
"Well," she said, breaking the silence, "this is going to be fun."
Alex glanced at her without turning his head. "What?"
Hanabi's grin widened. "When the rest of Japan finds out that you have a child with Amaterasu-sama. Can you imagine the look on their faces?"
Ciel, sitting at the low table with a cup of tea, lifted her eyes from the steam with a faint, amused expression. Morgan, curled up with a book near the window, didn't look up, but the corner of her lips curved almost imperceptibly.
"They're already fainting just hearing that the kami are real," Hanabi continued, her tone playful. "Wait until someone realizes that the goddess they worship as the sun has a little family in this very house."
Alex sighed and let his head fall back against the couch cushion. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Oh, I absolutely am," Hanabi said, leaning closer, her voice a low whisper meant only for him. "What do you think they'll do first? Offer you a shrine? Try to kidnap you for interviews? Maybe they'll build a festival around you. 'The mortal who made a goddess a mother.'"
Mircella, perched elegantly on the arm of a nearby chair, tilted her head. "It does sound like the kind of thing humans would celebrate. They do enjoy their little dramas."
Hanabi's grin turned positively wicked. "I can already see the headlines: Mystery man steals the heart of the Sun Goddess. Or maybe, Is he a divine kidnapper or just very lucky?"
Alex groaned and pulled a cushion over his face. "Stop."
Ciel chuckled softly, golden eyes glinting. "You know, Hanabi has a point. The moment this becomes public, there will be chaos."
Hanabi flicked her tail, obviously pleased with herself. "I, for one, can't wait to see it."
Morgan finally closed her book, looking at him with her usual
The room filled with soft laughter, and Alex muttere
Chapter 403 – "The Hidden Lands of the North"
The press questions never stopped.
Every time one faith or tradition confirmed its truth, the reporters turned to the next, hungry to know what else had been hidden from the world.
On the third day, the focus shifted to the Norse.
In Oslo, beneath a gray sky heavy with spring rain, a press conference was held outside an old stone hall that had stood for centuries. Representatives of the Magic Association were present, but it was one of the northern guardians — a man wrapped in a cloak of wolf fur with pale eyes like ice — who answered the question that everyone had been waiting to ask.
"Are the Norse legends real? Asgard, Yggdrasil, Jotunheim? The gods of the Eddas?"
The man's voice was deep, slow, and resonant.
"Yes."
A ripple of sound ran through the crowd, as if the whole press corps had exhaled at once. He went on before they could ask again.
"The lands you call mythical never left this world. They are not in the sky. They are not in another universe. They are here, on Earth."
A wave of disbelief surged through the crowd. Hands shot up.
"How is that possible? We've mapped the whole planet!"
The guardian gave a faint, humorless smile.
"No. You have mapped what you were allowed to see. The Earth is larger than you think. Much larger. At least thirty times larger than the maps your governments give you."
The reporters stared in stunned silence as he continued.
"These legendary lands are hidden. Some by magic, some by natural barriers that no mortal technology can pass. Asgard, Jotunheim, Vanaheim, Alfheim — all of them exist. The roots and branches of Yggdrasil spread across this Earth like veins, and where its influence is strong, the ordinary world cannot follow."
He gestured toward the northern mountains behind him, shrouded in mist.
"There are gates you will never see unless they allow it. When the gods choose, they open. When they do not, they are as unreachable as the heart of a star."
One journalist finally managed to find his voice. "Then… if Earth is that big, how much has been hidden from us?"
The guardian's answer was simple.
"Almost everything."
Another voice rose over the wind.
"Does that mean the Norse gods are still alive?"
"They are," he said. "Odin, Thor, Freyja, Loki, Tyr — the gods of Asgard still rule their halls. The Valkyries still watch the battlefield. And the Jotnar still guard their wild lands. What you have read in your sagas are memories of a time when the gates were not closed. Those days may come again."
The rain fell harder, running down microphones and camera lenses, but no one moved.
In that moment, it felt as if the mist itself was breathing, hiding a larger world that had only now begun to stir.
The questions kept coming, relentless, and the northern guardian did not flinch.
One reporter, voice unsteady, asked, "What about Hell? Are those places also real? Where are they?"
The man's eyes, pale as glacial ice, swept across the gathered crowd.
"You have many names for those realms. Helheim. Niflhel. Naraka. Gehenna. Duat. Christian Hell. They all exist. And they are not in the sky. They are beneath."
The crowd fell utterly silent.
"They lie far beneath the Earth," he said, his voice calm, "so deep that no tool and no drill of man could ever reach them. Depths where the weight of the world above turns rock into ocean and ocean into flame. These are not places you stumble upon. They are sealed by the natural order."
"How do you get there?" someone whispered.
"You cannot," he replied. "Not with shovels, not with machines. The only way to cross the layers is with a dimensional door. A gate. And those gates open only to those who are called — or those who are cursed."
The words fell heavy, like stones. The rain hissed softly as it touched the microphones.
That night, the revelation rippled across the globe like thunder.
News networks replayed his words on a loop: "Earth is thirty times larger than you think. Hell lies beneath, and the hidden realms are sealed by gates."
Social feeds exploded with maps drawn by amateurs and experts alike. Artists posted sketches of the planet, not as a simple sphere, but as a labyrinth of lands hidden behind veils, a sphere whose skin was just a thin layer above uncountable depths. Theories that had once been dismissed as conspiracy now flooded every screen.
In universities, professors stared at each other, pale, whispering of how their sciences had been turned upside down in a single afternoon.
On the streets of the world's largest cities, people pointed to the sky and to the ground beneath their feet, suddenly aware of how small the piece of the world they lived on truly was.
In some places, there was awe. Families gathered to talk about the possibility of lands where gods walked openly. Pilgrims made offerings to the ground, whispering prayers for those below.
In others, there was fear. Markets trembled as leaders spoke in whispers behind locked doors, terrified of what might be living in lands they could no longer claim to rule.
And all over the Earth, from the smallest town to the greatest capital, one question kept coming back like an echo:
If Earth is this vast…
if there are realms above and below…
how little do we truly know of the place we call home?
By nightfall, the revelation had ignited the internet into a frenzy.
Every social platform, every forum, every trending topic in every language was consumed by a single claim:
"NASA has been lying to us."
Hashtags multiplied by the hour.
#HiddenEarth
#NASADeceivedUs
#ThirtyTimesBigger
On video platforms, people uploaded clips of the northern guardian saying "Earth is at least thirty times larger than the maps your governments give you". The videos were slowed down, captioned, dissected frame by frame.
Some accused space agencies of hiding the truth for centuries, pointing to satellite images, old censored maps, and navigation records that had never been made public.
Others insisted that the Association and the Immortals had forced every major power to keep the truth secret.
Comment sections were filled with anger, disbelief, and awe:
"So the whole world has been a controlled illusion?"
"If Earth is that big, what's really out there?"
"NASA knew. They've always known. They just didn't think we'd find out."
"They told us there was nothing left to explore. But the most important parts of Earth were hidden all along."
Some demanded answers from the United Nations and space agencies, filling their official accounts with millions of messages in just a few hours.
Others turned to awe and wonder. Artists drew sprawling fantasy maps of continents no mortal had yet seen. Animators depicted flying through misty portals into Asgard and the frozen peaks of Jotunheim. Writers posted stories of explorers lost beyond the known seas, who stumbled upon lands where the gods themselves walked.
And everywhere, the same question kept appearing:
"If the world is so much larger, how much of our history has been a lie?"
By midnight, the world's social feeds no longer belonged to entertainment or politics.
They belonged to mystery.
For the first time in centuries, humanity looked at its own planet and realized how little it had ever truly known.
By the next morning, the world turned its attention to NASA.
After an entire night of accusations and conspiracy storms, NASA itself — together with other major space agencies — released an emergency broadcast. It was a rare joint statement, broadcast from their main control center, where dozens of scientists and technicians stood behind the speakers like a silent wall.
The lead scientist, a gray-haired woman with a calm but weary expression, spoke first.
"Yesterday's revelation about the true size of Earth has caused confusion and mistrust. Today, we will show you what we have kept hidden because we did not have permission to speak."
Behind her, the giant screen came alive.
It showed Earth — not the blue-and-white sphere everyone had known all their lives, but a version the public had never seen before.
The continents everyone recognized — Asia, Africa, the Americas, Europe, Australia — were there. But they occupied far less space on the planet than the public had ever imagined. The rest of the globe stretched outward, enormous, and much of it was not empty ocean at all.
There were vast regions obscured by mist. Whole shapes — archipelagos, mountain ranges, forests larger than continents — but every time the camera zoomed in, the image blurred as if the satellites themselves had been blocked.
"These," the scientist said, pointing to the blurred regions, "are areas we cannot scan. They are… inaccessible. When our probes and satellites enter these zones, the data becomes corrupted. It is not technology. It is something else. We call it mythic interference."
She paused, letting the images sink in.
"Governments have known for decades that Earth is far larger than we believed. We also know that these blurred regions are not empty. They are hidden lands — some inhabited, some sealed. The Magic Association called them legendary realms. That is correct."
The screen cycled through several of these zones:
An immense expanse of mist in the far northern seas, where the outlines of a city gleamed faintly beneath the fog.A belt of glowing auroras deep in the Pacific, hiding an enormous chain of islands.Vast forests and canyons that seemed to stretch forever, but became unreadable past a certain depth.And far below the planet's crust, faint tunnels of light spiraling into shadow.
Reporters whispered frantically, their voices caught by every microphone.
One of them stood and asked, "Why didn't you show this before?"
The scientist's answer was simple.
"Because these lands are not ours. They belong to those who live there. And we were forbidden to speak of them. The events of this week have made it clear that the veil is over. Now you see what we have always known."
On the screen, the Earth rotated slowly, no longer small, no longer simple. A vast, living sphere with more mystery than humanity had ever imagined.
"We don't know what lies within these regions," she said, "only that they exist. The myths, the legends, the realms you thought were only stories — they are there. They always have been."
And with that, the feed ended, leaving the image of the enormous, mist-shrouded Earth frozen on every screen.
For the first time in history, no one asked what lay beyond the stars.
Everyone wanted to know what lay hidden on their own planet.
Chapter 404 – "The Serpent and the Storm"
The next day the press turned to a different part of the world.
In Mexico City, outside the National Museum of Anthropology, hundreds of reporters gathered under the blazing sun. They had come to ask about the stories that had lived in the stones and pyramids of Mesoamerica for thousands of years.
When the representatives finally came forward, they were not priests of the Vatican, nor officials from the Association. They were men and women wearing clothing patterned with symbols of old dynasties, some of them descendants of ancient lineages. Their presence was solemn, their faces marked with the calm of those who already knew what the questions would be.
The first question was simple.
"Are the gods of the Aztec, Maya, and Inca traditions real?"
The answer came from a tall man with dark skin and a feathered mantle draped across his shoulders.
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "They are real. They always have been."
A murmur ran through the crowd. Another voice followed quickly:
"Quetzalcoatl? Kukulkan? Tezcatlipoca? Chaac? Tlaloc? The gods who shaped the sun and the earth?"
The man's eyes were sharp as obsidian.
"All of them. And more. The pantheon of these lands never vanished. They watch the forests, the mountains, the oceans. They are older than your cities, older than your nations."
A woman beside him, wearing a mantle embroidered with gold thread, stepped forward. Her words were careful.
"You must understand something: the gods of these lands are not as gentle as the ones you think you know. They are not friendly. They are not cruel. They are what they are — vast powers bound to the wind, to the jaguar, to the sun and to the rain."
She looked at the reporters directly.
"When they are respected, they give. When they are angered, they take."
Another question rose from the press, hesitant.
"Does that mean… that the disasters we see — the hurricanes, the floods, the volcanoes in the Americas — are caused by them?"
"Yes," she said without softening her voice. "Some are natural. But many are warnings. The gods of these lands have been silent for centuries. Yet they still answer when they are provoked."
The first man added, "This is why our ancestors built great temples and made offerings. It was not superstition. It was understanding. They knew that the storms and quakes were not only earth and sky, but will."
A reporter near the front swallowed hard. "Then… should we be afraid of them?"
The answer came like a whisper of wind through leaves.
"Yes. You should be afraid. You should also be respectful. These gods do not forgive easily. And they do not look like you imagine. When they are angry, they are not human at all."
The air in the plaza grew very still. Even the cameras seemed to hesitate.
"That," she said, "is why so many disasters strike the Americas. It is not only nature. It is power."
And with that, she stepped back, leaving the weight of her words to settle over the city.
By evening, the plaza in Mexico City had emptied of reporters, but the echoes of the day's words spread faster than any storm.
Across Mexico and further south into Guatemala, Belize, Honduras, Peru, Bolivia, and Brazil, the broadcast was played on televisions, radios, and phone screens. People who had grown up with the names of gods carved into their pyramids and painted on temple walls now heard, with certainty, that those names still belonged to living powers.
In Mexico City, the steps of the Templo Mayor filled as soon as the sun went down. Hundreds of people climbed the ancient stones with flowers in their hands — marigolds, lilies, orchids — and laid them at the top where the altar once stood. Some whispered prayers to Quetzalcoatl for protection, others begged Tlaloc for gentle rain, and a few left offerings of maize and cacao, as their ancestors had done.
In Guatemala, torches lit up the ruins of Tikal as villagers came in silence, kneeling before the massive stone stelae, their hands pressed together in respect. The names of Chaac and Kukulkan were spoken aloud, not as stories, but as if the gods themselves were listening just beyond the walls of the jungle.
In Peru, the ancient city of Cusco saw offerings of chicha poured onto the stones of Sacsayhuamán, and in the high Andes, shamans stood beneath the stars with coca leaves in their hands, scattering them into the wind, asking the Apus — the mountain spirits — to keep the balance.
In Brazil, people gathered at the banks of the great rivers, tossing blossoms onto the water. Some prayed to spirits they had only half-remembered from their grandmothers' stories. Others simply stared into the current, silent, wondering if the river was listening.
In every city, there was a strange mix of emotions: fear for what angering these powers could bring, awe that the stories were true, and a reverence that came from understanding how small humans truly were in the face of such forces.
For some, the fear drove them to desperation. They filled the air with offerings and promises, asking for forgiveness for centuries of forgetting. For others, it brought back pride — a fierce, ancient pride that the lands they called home had never been empty.
And all through the night, the old temples and pyramids, once silent ruins, glowed again with the light of candles, torches, and prayers.
The gods of wind, sun, storm, and serpent had not yet appeared.
But the people were already looking up at the sky, waiting.
By midnight, the conversation moved from plazas and temples to screens.
Social media around the world exploded with clips of the day's broadcast, translated into dozens of languages.
Outside the Americas, one sentiment kept appearing again and again:
"Those people are unlucky."
In Europe, Asia, and Africa, online communities filled with comments that mixed sympathy with disbelief at the harshness of what had been revealed. Posts went viral:
"Imagine living in a place where the gods punish you with hurricanes, earthquakes and floods just because they are angry."
"Every year there's a storm or an eruption… and now we know why."
"I thought it was bad luck. Turns out it's divine wrath."
"Mesoamerican gods are terrifying. If they wake up, the rest of us are in trouble too."
Threads and message boards filled with retellings of stories that until yesterday had been dismissed as legend: the gods demanding blood during droughts, the night the rain god Tlaloc sent lightning to destroy entire villages, the time a city was swallowed by the earth after a broken promise to Tezcatlipoca. People shared these stories with morbid fascination, and each retelling grew darker.
Artists posted drawings of Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca as colossal shapes above the jungle, not human at all. Animators made quick videos showing hurricanes forming from Chaac's rage or jaguars walking out of the mist with the eyes of gods.
Even those who did not believe until recently admitted the truth now.
"After this," one post read, "I'll never call a storm just a storm again."
Yet mixed with the fear was a quiet respect. Many wrote messages like:
"If I lived there, I would leave offerings every day."
"Say what you will, but the people there have lived under these powers for centuries. They are stronger than the rest of us."
"Maybe that's why their culture survived everything. Because they learned how to live with gods."
And as these stories spread, a single phrase began trending across multiple languages:
"Pray for the lands of the Serpent and the Storm."
Chapter 405 – "The Rivers of the First Gods"
The next morning, the press turned east, to the lands where the Tigris and Euphrates once carved the heart of the first cities.
In Baghdad, a temporary stage had been set up outside the National Museum of Iraq. Scholars, priests of ancient traditions, and representatives of the Magic Association gathered. The air was dry, heavy with desert wind, and filled with the sound of countless cameras.
The first question came quickly.
"Are the gods of Mesopotamia real? The ones we read about in the Sumerian, Akkadian, and Babylonian tablets — Anu, Enlil, Enki, Ishtar, Nergal, Marduk?"
A tall, austere man in robes marked with ancient cuneiform stepped forward. He was old, but his posture was unbending. His answer was direct.
"Yes. They were real then. They are real now."
The crowd murmured. Another journalist spoke up, louder, "Are they still here? Do they still rule?"
"They do not rule humans," the man said. "They rule their domains. And their domains are vast. The great gods of Mesopotamia dwell in places that were once open to mortals but are now sealed — lands you have called myth."
A woman in a long mantle, her head wrapped in indigo fabric, added:
"Enlil and Anu stand over the heavens. Enki still guards the Abzu, the great deep. Ishtar walks between realms as she pleases. Nergal watches the land of the dead. Marduk still commands the winds. None of them have disappeared. It is the gates that closed."
One reporter raised a trembling hand. "Are they… dangerous?"
The old man's voice did not soften.
"They are proud. They are powerful. They are not as unpredictable as the gods of Mesoamerica — but do not mistake their calm for kindness. When angered, they punish not with storms but with judgment. Their wrath comes as famine, as plague, as war, and as the withdrawal of every blessing."
"And the myths?" another asked. "The Epic of Gilgamesh, the flood, the descent of Ishtar into the underworld — were they true?"
The woman nodded slowly. "Much of what you call legend is record. The flood you know from your tablets was real. Ishtar's descent into the underworld was real. Gilgamesh lived, and died, and in time… he will be born again."
The crowd fell silent at that, the ancient name echoing into the cameras.
Another voice called out: "Are they still watching us?"
"They always watch," the man said. "But they are not as near as the gods of storm and sun. They move like rivers: slow, steady, and unstoppable when they choose to rise."
He looked out over the press, his voice deep as the wind that had shaped his land for thousands of years.
"Do not call to them lightly. These are the first gods. They remember everything."
As the sun began to sink behind Baghdad's skyline, the weight of the words spoken that morning sank in like the desert heat.
By nightfall, the echoes of those words reached far beyond the press conference and spread through the lands that had once been the heart of Mesopotamia.
In Iraq, thousands gathered around the ruins of Ur and Babylon.
The Ziggurat of Ur, silent for millennia, was lit again with torches and lanterns. Families came carrying baskets of bread, dates, figs, and clay jars of water, leaving them at the base as offerings — gifts for Enlil and Nanna, for Marduk, for any god that still remembered them. Some came to kneel in prayer; others simply sat and stared at the vast stars over the desert as their ancestors had once done, whispering names that had not been spoken aloud in centuries.
In Mosul, where ruins of Nineveh still stand, scholars and poets gathered together, reciting lines from the Epic of Gilgamesh as if they were hymns. The old tablets in their museums, once seen as relics, now seemed like messages sent ahead from gods who had never left.
Across the Euphrates and Tigris valleys, Bedouin tribes lit fires in the dunes, singing ancient songs long believed forgotten. Elders who had guarded stories in memory alone now told them to children who listened with wide eyes, no longer as folklore, but as truth.
In Syria, Iran, and Kuwait, similar gatherings took place. Some built small, temporary shrines of stones and clay where the desert wind howled across empty flats, arranging offerings of pomegranates and barley. In the Persian Gulf, fishermen left a part of their catch at the water's edge as an offering to Enki of the deep.
Even in cities like Dubai and Riyadh, where glass towers touched the clouds, people found themselves looking up at the night sky differently. The lights of the modern world could not hide the weight of the desert, or the thought that somewhere beyond the veil, the first gods still walked.
There was no chaos, no riots, no shouting. Only a deep, silent reverence — and a kind of awe that tasted like fear.
For the first time in thousands of years, the land of the two rivers remembered what it had been.
And the old gods, unseen, listened.
Chapter 406 – "The Age of Lists"
For weeks the world had been shaken by revelations — gods, hidden realms, immortal figures, the truth of the supernatural.
But after the awe and the fear, something very human happened.
People began to argue over beauty.
It started on social media, as most things did. A single post, half-joking, appeared on a global forum:
"Okay but… with all these gods and goddesses confirmed, can we talk about who's the most beautiful?"
The post exploded.
Within hours, there were polls, tier lists, and hundreds of thousands of comments.
By the next day, it became the most trending topic on every platform worldwide.
The Lists
Greek and Roman:Aphrodite dominated every vote. The goddess of love and beauty, often described as a being who could make mortals forget how to breathe.Hera and Athena followed, tied for their regal presence.Artemis, with her wild, untamed beauty, was close behind.Norse:Freyja claimed the top spot, her name suddenly on the lips of millions who had never spoken it before.Skadi and Sif were mentioned, but Freyja was almost unanimously described as the "shining lady of the north."Hindu:Parvati and Lakshmi appeared constantly in polls, described as radiant and graceful.Saraswati, goddess of wisdom and music, was another favorite.Japanese (Shinto):Amaterasu became an immediate favorite after the Shinto priest confirmed her existence.Uzume, with her joyful and lively nature, was often mentioned for her charm.Mesoamerican:Xochiquetzal, goddess of beauty and flowers, climbed the ranks quickly, often called the "most exotic" goddess by those unafraid to be bold.Egyptian:Hathor and Isis took top places, while Bastet, with her feline grace, gathered a very vocal fanbase online.Mesopotamian:Ishtar/Inanna was placed high on every list, sometimes competing with Freyja and Aphrodite for the top three spots.
The Comments
People didn't just vote — they argued.
"Aphrodite may be the goddess of beauty, but Freyja is elegance and strength. Different leagues!"
"Amaterasu literally makes the sun look gentle. She wins for me."
"Lakshmi is grace itself. How do you beat divine grace?"
"I feel like Xochiquetzal would turn heads even among gods."
"If Hathor walks into a room, that's it. Game over."
"Inanna/Ishtar is literally beauty and war. Dangerous combination."
Soon, it turned into a playful cultural exchange. People from one region introduced the goddesses of their heritage to others, explaining the myths that made them so revered.
While governments scrambled to understand new truths and temples filled with offerings, the internet found a new obsession:
not just that gods existed, but how human it felt to admire their beauty.
And as these rankings climbed into the millions of votes, some in the supernatural world — the goddesses themselves — began to notice.
Olympus
In Olympus, a dozen crystal screens floated around a hall where sunlight never faded. Aphrodite reclined on a couch of soft white clouds, scrolling lazily through the mortal posts that praised her.
With every new message about her beauty, she smiled more broadly.
"See? Even after all these centuries, mortals still know how to appreciate perfection."
Athena sat nearby, arms folded, expression unamused. "You're enjoying this far too much."
"They're simply acknowledging the truth," Aphrodite replied, tossing her hair. "And look, you're ranked second. Be proud, wise sister."
"I'm proud of nothing that comes from mortal vanity," Athena muttered, but there was the faintest upward curve to her lips.
Hera, however, looked less pleased. "I will remind them that beauty without dignity is nothing."
Aphrodite ignored her and went back to reading, humming happily.
Vanaheim
In Freyja's golden hall, the sound of laughter filled the air. Her handmaidens showed her the polls, and the goddess of love and battle looked at the glowing symbols of mortal words with a wry smile.
"Ranked first among the Norse? As if there was ever a doubt," she said, amusement in her voice.
Her falcon-feathered cloak shifted on her shoulders as she leaned back. "Though I see Inanna and Aphrodite are giving me some competition among the mortals. Perhaps I should visit Midgard soon, just to remind them why they sing my name in the old sagas."
Skuld, one of the three Norns, giggled behind her hand. "Careful. If you appear in person, the mortals might rewrite their lists entirely."
Takamagahara
In the heavenly court of Takamagahara, Amaterasu sat quietly, golden light radiating from her as she read through the trending posts that now placed her among the most admired goddesses in the world.
Her expression was calm, but there was a faint pink on her cheeks.
Uzume danced nearby, laughing so hard she could barely speak. "Look at you! Mortal men and women calling you the most beautiful in the east. And they haven't even seen you yet!"
Amaterasu closed the fan in her hand and gave her a sideways glance. "They're just words."
Uzume leaned close, whispering in her ear, "I think someone in Japan is going to have a very hard time once they realize how famous the mother of his child just became."
The goddess's light warmed slightly. She didn't answer.
Egypt
In the deep golden halls of Heliopolis, Hathor read the lists with a playful hum, Isis stood proud as the embodiment of the perfect queen, and Bastet tilted her head, purring with amusement as she saw the sudden rush of mortals praising her beauty.
"I wonder," Bastet said softly, "if they know that curiosity is a dangerous thing when it comes to cats."
Mesopotamia
And in a temple far older than the rest, where the stars over the desert shone brighter than anywhere else, Inanna — Ishtar — stood at the edge of a balcony, looking down at a world that was once hers.
"They remember me," she whispered, her lips curling into a slow smile. "Even after all this time."
Her voice carried both pride and hunger.
"Perhaps," she said to the empty air, "I will show them what true beauty looks like."
Far across the heavens and realms, the goddesses smiled, some amused, some thoughtful, as mortals rediscovered their names.
And none of them realized that, for the first time in centuries, the gods were watching mortals not with judgment — but with curiosity.
Chapter 407 – "The Veil Opens Wider"
In the weeks that followed the first wave of revelations, something new began to happen.
The silence that had once defined the supernatural world was broken — not just by gods and immortal leaders, but by ordinary members of that hidden society.
At first, it was small.
An account on a video platform, run by someone who claimed to be a low-ranking magician, started answering simple questions. It wasn't dramatic, no big secrets, just things everyone in the supernatural community already knew.
"Why do you guys hide?"
"Because the veil existed. Most of us just wanted to live quietly. We never wanted to rule you. But now things are different, so we'll answer what we can."
Within a week, it became something much larger.
Voices Across the Veil
Elves, vampires, dragon-blooded families, exorcists, shamans, magicians — all began to create their own pages and accounts.
The tone was the same everywhere: cautious, but open. They posted photos of themselves, sometimes with just a faint trace of what they really were — a flicker of golden eyes, a pointed ear, a glimpse of a tail or a claw.
And then, they started talking.
They explained terms that mortals had only heard in stories.
What a mana circuit was.The difference between a mage and a warlock.How ley lines shaped the world.That every species had laws, and breaking them had consequences.
They talked about their courts, their clans, their cities hidden deep in fog and forests — not revealing locations, but enough to give mortals a glimpse of how vast that world had always been.
Forums exploded with "Ask Me Anything" threads:
Q:Are vampires really immortal?
A:Yes, but we can die. We just age differently. We eat normal food. Blood is like medicine for us, not daily drinking.
Q:Do elves really hate humans?
A:Not hate. Arrogant, yes. They see humans as… younger siblings. Some are kind. Some are cruel. Depends on the elf.
Q:What about dragons? Can you really breathe fire?
A:Depends on the bloodline. Most of us can, but we don't do it unless necessary. It's exhausting.
Q:How many gods exist?
A:More than you can count. And no, they're not all watching you.
These posts were translated into every language, and for the first time in history, the general public could ask questions directly and receive answers from the people who had once been nothing but legends.
The Reaction
Some were fascinated, reading everything they could find.
Some were afraid, realizing just how many beings had lived beside them without their knowledge.
And some found themselves… oddly comforted.
There were rules. There was order. These people, no matter how strange, were not so different. They laughed. They joked. They argued online like everyone else.
One thread in particular went viral worldwide, written by a young dragon-blooded woman:
"We are not myths. We are your neighbors, your classmates, the person you passed on the street. We are not leaving now that the veil is broken. So learn. Ask. And don't be afraid. The world is bigger than you thought. Welcome to it."
By the end of the week, the line between the "hidden world" and the "normal world" had blurred more than it ever had before.
The veil had been torn away in an instant. Now, little by little, people were learning to step through it.
Among the thousands of posts, videos, and live streams pouring out of the supernatural community, there was one revelation that cut through everything like lightning.
It began as a casual mention in a forum.
A vampire commented:
"I still can't believe a human was able to knock down Apollo himself. Do mortals know about him yet?"
At first, most people thought it was just another exaggeration.
But other accounts — magicians, shamans, even a dragon-blooded warrior — began to confirm it.
"It wasn't an exaggeration. I was there when Fenrir, the wolf that even Odin fears, was struck down in one punch by a human fist."
"The same man humiliated Apollo at a wedding, with nothing but his hands."
"He doesn't even use magic or divine weapons. Just martial arts. Strength alone."
The threads caught fire instantly.
Screenshots and stories flooded every platform. And then came the photograph.
No one knew where the image had come from — a blurred capture at the edge of a battlefield, a frozen moment of him walking through smoke. But the picture was clear enough to see the face:
A young man. Black hair. Black eyes.
A presence so sharp and calm it made him stand out even in a still image.
And he was… beautiful. Handsome in a way that felt unreal, like a figure carved from legend rather than someone living.
The caption was simple:
"This is the man who defeated Apollo and Fenrir. His name is Alex."
Within minutes, it was everywhere.
The Reactions
The supernatural community erupted.
People from every race and bloodline began to post their own fragments of the story, some firsthand, some secondhand, all confirming that it was true.
"He was there in Alfheim. I saw him with my own eyes. The gods underestimated him."
"Do you know how absurd it is to knock down Fenrir with one hit? He didn't even bleed."
"Apollo still hasn't recovered his pride after that day."
For mortals, it was almost too much to believe.
But the consistency of the supernatural accounts made it impossible to ignore.
On every platform, the picture of Alex went viral.
People zoomed in on his face, arguing over whether it was even human. Artists began drawing him, speculating what he looked like in motion. The hashtag #BlackHairedGodslayer started trending within hours.
And everywhere, a single question repeated:
"Who is he?"
"Where is he now?"
"Why has no one ever heard of him until now?"
While the supernatural community discussed him with awe and reverence, the ones who reacted with the most shock were the people who had once seen Alex every single day — his old classmates.
In chat groups that had been silent since graduation, message notifications suddenly exploded.
Someone had posted the viral image — that single photograph of a black-haired young man standing in the smoke — and typed:
"Isn't this… Alex? From our class?"
The responses came immediately.
"No way. That can't be him."
"Look at the face! Look at the hair! It's definitely him!"
"You're telling me that the guy who sat in the back row and never talked to anyone punched Apollo in the face?!"
Dozens of classmates who hadn't spoken in years suddenly reappeared in the chat, all typing at once.
"I thought he was just quiet and weird."
"He barely ever said more than a few words."
"We didn't even see him go to college after graduation. He just… disappeared."
Someone posted a photo from the class yearbook next to the image that had gone viral. The resemblance was undeniable.
Even those who had doubted fell silent.
"Holy crap… it really is him."
And then, slowly, the guilt started to appear in their words.
"To be honest, I don't think any of us ever talked to him seriously."
"He was always alone. I thought he liked it that way."
"I never imagined… I mean, he looked so normal. Just a quiet guy."
Another message appeared.
"We all just assumed he had an average life after graduation. Now I find out he's strong enough to knock out a god with a punch?"
For the first time, they wondered who he really had been all those years.
Someone typed softly, almost hesitating:
"I wonder if he hated us for ignoring him."
The chat went quiet for a long time after that.
Chapter 408 – "The Face the World Found"
The house was quiet, only the faint hum of the television in the background.
Alex sat at the low table, fixing a delicate watch mechanism, the kind of work that made him forget the rest of the world.
That peace didn't last.
The front door banged open, and Hanabi stormed in, her tail flicking wildly behind her. She was grinning so hard that even Ciel, seated gracefully nearby, lifted her head from her book with an amused look.
"Alex!" Hanabi shouted. "You are so dead!"
He didn't look up. "What did I do this time?"
She marched across the room and slammed her phone down on the table in front of him.
The screen was full of posts. Thousands of them. His own face staring back at him in a photo he didn't remember anyone taking, surrounded by captions like:
"This is the man who beat Apollo with his fists!"
#BlackHairedGodslayer
Who is he? Does anyone know?"
Alex froze. "…what?"
Hanabi practically bounced with excitement. "You've gone viral. Not just viral. You've exploded. The supernatural community has been posting about you all day, and now mortals have picked it up. Do you know what that means?"
Morgan, who had been sitting by the window, closed her book with a snap. "That your anonymity is gone."
Ciel poured herself tea, calm as ever. "It was inevitable. Once they start talking, the truth always finds a way."
Hanabi crouched next to him, scrolling through her phone, showing him comment after comment. "Look at this! Someone dug up your high school yearbook photo. Your classmates are losing their minds. They can't believe the quiet guy from the back row is the same person who knocked down Apollo. They're all saying they never really knew you."
Alex rubbed the bridge of his nose. "…of course they are."
Hanabi grinned. "You should see some of the threads. There's one that says, 'How can a guy who looked like he hated PE class punch a god in the face?' Another says, 'I thought he was just a gloomy nerd. Turns out he's a godslayer!'"
Mircella sat delicately on the arm of a chair, her red eyes watching him curiously. "Does it bother you?"
He set the screwdriver down and leaned back. "It's… annoying. I didn't want attention. Especially not from mortals."
Hanabi's grin turned sly. "Too late for that. You've got fans now. Even the supernatural community has started calling you 'the black-haired godslayer.' Some of them are wondering if you're even human."
Alex sighed. "And what do you think?"
She tapped his chest with one finger. "I think I know exactly what you are. And I also think this is going to be very fun to watch."
Ciel's golden eyes softened with a faint smile. "This changes things. Whether you like it or not, they'll come looking."
Morgan finally looked up from her book, her voice cool but sharp. "The question is, will you let them find you?"
Alex didn't answer right away. He just stared at the photo on the phone — his own face, calm and unfamiliar, now staring back at the entire world.
While Alex's house remained calm on the outside, the world beyond had turned into a storm.
The photo of the black-haired man had ignited a frenzy. It was no longer just social media. By the following morning, it had become the single most urgent search for every news agency, magical faction, and divine court.
Magicians used scrying mirrors polished from star-metal.
Dragons opened their sight over ley lines, searching for a trace of his presence.
Vampires called in centuries-old favors to scan every city.
Even the Association, quietly watching the chaos, sent out specialists with spells that could locate mana signatures.
But every time they tried, they failed.
"He's untraceable," a mage admitted bitterly on a livestream. "No mana signature, no divine trail, nothing. It's like he's invisible."
"Or protected," a dragon-blooded hunter muttered. "Something is hiding him."
By the second week, the searchers were exhausted. Thousands of man-hours, millions of eyes, advanced methods that could track a god — and they found nothing.
It happened, ironically, not through magic or divine senses, but through something embarrassingly simple.
In a small news office in Kyoto, a junior intern, frustrated by how every supernatural method had failed, did something no one else thought to do.
She opened a public residential registry.
There it was.
Plain as day.
Elwood, Alex. Address: Kyoto Prefecture.
The intern blinked, scrolled back up, then down again. She called her editor over, who thought she was joking. But as soon as they checked the documents, it was real.
The man the world had been searching for, using the most advanced methods known to magic and science, was hidden in the simplest place possible.
"Is this… legal?" the editor asked, stunned.
"It's public record," she whispered. "We… we found him using the ordinary register."
The room went silent.
Within hours, the discovery spread like wildfire.
People were in disbelief.
"We had dragons scanning the entire planet. We had magicians using crystal orbs and divine tracking spells. And this… this kid just lives in Kyoto like a normal person?!"
"All those advanced methods failed, but a paper registry succeeded? I can't decide if that's genius or stupid."
"Was he hiding at all, or were we just overthinking everything?"
The revelation was humiliating for the supernatural factions. For days they had relied on powers that could see through dimensions — and in the end, a basic piece of human bureaucracy had revealed what magic could not.
And now, everyone knew where to find him.
In every corner of the world, people whispered the same words:
"We've found him."
But not one of them realized that finding him was only the beginning.
Chapter 409 – "The Knock at the Door"
The moment his address became public, Kyoto ceased to be just a city. It became a destination.
By the next morning, cars with satellite dishes raced down the expressways. Reporters fought each other for interviews with anyone who might have known him. Helicopters hovered over the outskirts, searching for a glimpse of the quiet house.
And they weren't alone.
Vampires in dark coats, dragon-blooded emissaries, elves wearing cloaks that shifted like mist — they all descended on Japan. Envoys from pantheons, shamans from distant lands, magicians carrying talismans that flickered faintly in daylight.
All of them moved toward Kyoto with a single purpose.
On the bullet train from Tokyo, a team of journalists argued over camera angles while a dragon-blooded traveler sat two rows back, his eyes closed, pretending not to listen.
In the skies, winged familiars followed from a distance, scanning rooftops.
And in the shadows, silent, hooded agents of the Magic Association positioned themselves along the streets, watching the growing crowd.
By afternoon, the usually calm city was alive with tension. News vans parked along narrow streets. Foreigners with unusual eyes stood on corners, silent and waiting. Social feeds filled with live streams titled:
"We're in Kyoto. The Godslayer's House Is Near!"
Inside, Alex sat in the living room, watching the situation unfold on the television with a faint frown. Hanabi was sprawled across the couch, kicking her feet in delight as she scrolled through her phone.
"This is hilarious," she said, laughing. "They look like wolves circling a rabbit. Except the rabbit could tear them all apart."
Morgan closed her book slowly. "You let them come. You could have left already."
"I don't run from this," Alex said simply.
Ciel looked at him with calm golden eyes. "They'll reach your door before nightfall."
"I know," Alex replied.
Hanabi rolled over to grin at him. "You going to answer it?"
He didn't respond. He didn't need to. They all knew he would.
As the sun dipped behind the tiled rooftops of Kyoto, the first footsteps came down his quiet street.
Reporters whispered to each other, cameras ready.
Behind them, silent as wind, walked supernatural envoys, their eyes sharp, their breaths controlled.
No one dared push ahead. No one dared break the strange, electric stillness.
Then came the sound.
A soft, deliberate knock on the door.
Inside, the house was completely silent. Even Hanabi stopped laughing.
Alex stood. He walked to the door, each step unhurried, and placed his hand on the handle.
The cameras outside zoomed in. Every heart, mortal and not, seemed to stop beating.
The door began to open.
The moment the door opened, the quiet street erupted into chaos.
Dozens of reporters surged forward, cameras flashing like lightning. Behind them, supernatural envoys stepped closer — some tall and elegant, others with sharp eyes that glimmered faintly in the evening light. Voices overlapped, spilling over each other in desperation.
"Are you really the one who fought Apollo?"
"How did you defeat Fenrir with one punch?"
"What kind of training do you use?"
"Why did you hide?"
"Are you planning to ally with any pantheon?"
"Is it true you are not even human—?"
They didn't even notice that Alex stood there silently, expression unchanged, one hand on the doorframe.
For a moment, it was only noise.
Then something subtle shifted.
The air became heavier, as though a storm was about to break. Some of the envoys noticed it first. They stopped speaking, their instincts warning them that they had just stepped too close to something they could not control.
Alex didn't raise his voice. He didn't even frown. He just looked at them.
And the house was gone.
In an instant, where there had been walls, gates, and a small garden, there was only empty air. The crowd stumbled forward in confusion, cameras capturing nothing but an ordinary, silent street.
Reporters fell quiet. Envoys stared, trying to sense where it had gone. No trace of magic lingered — nothing to track, nothing to follow.
The house had vanished in the blink of an eye.
In the living room, everything was calm.
Hanabi was still sprawled on the couch, though her phone had fallen out of her hand. Ciel sat as if nothing had happened, placing her cup of tea carefully back on its saucer. Morgan closed her book and finally glanced up.
Mircella tilted her head, her voice soft and curious. "Where did you move us?"
Alex walked back in, letting the front door swing shut behind him. "I didn't."
Hanabi blinked, sitting up. "Uh, you kinda did."
He shook his head and sat down again. "The house hasn't gone anywhere. I just overlapped it."
Ciel's golden eyes narrowed with interest. "Dimensional overlay?"
"Exactly," Alex replied. "It's still here. They just can't see it, and they can't touch it."
Morgan set her book aside. "So to them, it's as if this house no longer exists."
"Until I allow it again," Alex said. "Now they'll spend the next few days trying to figure out where we went, and they'll find nothing."
Hanabi grinned, flopping back onto the couch. "That was so satisfying. You didn't even have to say a word."
Outside, the world was full of confusion. Inside, the house was as still and quiet as it had been before the knock.
Chapter 410 – "The House That Vanished"
The street in front of Alex's house erupted into chaos.
Where there had been a crowd of reporters, cameras, and supernatural envoys, there was now only a bare patch of road and an empty yard. The house itself — the small, unassuming building that had become the focus of the entire world — was gone.
Not destroyed. Not blown away. Simply… gone.
Reporters stumbled forward, some tripping over their own cables, staring at the vacant lot as though their eyes had betrayed them. The lenses of a dozen cameras focused on nothing, broadcasting live footage of absence.
"It was just there!" a reporter shouted, clutching his microphone. "We were standing right in front of it! He opened the door and then—then—!"
Another anchor's voice cracked as she spoke into the camera:
"We—we don't know what happened. The house vanished. Vanished completely. There's nothing here!"
The envoys were no calmer.
A vampire lord tried to step forward, but his boots only met ordinary pavement. He hissed, scanning the area with every sense he possessed, but there was no trace of mana, no veil of illusion.
A dragon-blooded emissary knelt and pressed a clawed hand against the ground, feeling for leyline distortion.
"Nothing," he muttered. "This isn't an illusion. It's… somewhere else."
The elves, silent and cold, whispered to each other in their own tongue, their sharp eyes failing to pierce the strange emptiness before them. One of them finally said aloud:
"He folded the house out of reach."
On live broadcasts, the footage went viral in seconds.
"The house just disappeared—like a glitch in reality!"
"He opened the door, looked at everyone, and blink — gone!"
"Does anyone else think he just deleted his own house?"
Every major news network scrambled to explain it. Scientists argued on-air about spatial distortions. Paranormal experts theorized about pocket dimensions. A few simply called it magic.
On social media, the footage was replayed over and over. People slowed it down, frame by frame, watching as the house simply blurred and faded from existence.
By evening, Kyoto was locked down.
Barricades went up around the neighborhood. Military helicopters circled overhead. Hundreds of supernatural trackers stood on rooftops, trying to locate even a hint of where the house had gone.
None of them found anything.
"We tried every divination spell. Nothing."
"Even gods can't do this casually. Whoever he is, he's far more dangerous than we thought."
By nightfall, one truth had settled across every faction, mortal and divine alike:
They had found him.
And lost him in the same breath.
The disappearance of the house caused a panic that reached beyond Kyoto.
By the following morning, it was no longer just the media and supernatural envoys who were desperate for answers.
It was the governments themselves.
In Tokyo, the Japanese Cabinet convened an emergency meeting. The Prime Minister himself, grim-faced, turned to the most unusual people in the room — the head priests of the great Shinto shrines.
"Do you know him?" he asked.
"The black-haired man. The one who made the house vanish."
The senior kannushi, dressed in immaculate white robes, closed her eyes for a moment as if listening to something far away. When she opened them again, her answer silenced the entire chamber.
"Yes," she said. "We know him."
Every official in the room leaned forward.
"Who is he?" the Prime Minister pressed.
The priest's voice was calm and steady.
"He is the husband of Amaterasu Ōmikami," she said. "The father of her daughter, Yuka."
For a heartbeat, the entire room froze.
The words spread faster than fire.
The ministers whispered to each other in disbelief.
"Amaterasu has a child?"
"She's… married?"
"With a human?"
Across the table, the senior priest simply nodded.
"They live quietly. The goddess has chosen to live part of her life in the mortal world. That man is not to be disturbed."
The same question was asked in other nations as well, in diplomatic meetings and calls between intelligence agencies. The answer was always the same.
From every shrine, every kannushi:
"The man you are searching for is the consort of the Sun Goddess.
They have a daughter named Yuka."
The revelation caused chaos.
On social media, the news was everywhere:
"Alex is Amaterasu's husband!"
"They have a child! Her name is Yuka!"
Comment sections were filled with disbelief.
"Wait. He beat Apollo, Fenrir, and now we find out he's married to Japan's highest goddess???"
"This is insane. That explains why he disappeared. Who's going to try to knock on the door of Amaterasu's house?"
"Yuka… imagine being the kid of a goddess and a godslayer."
At the same time, the revelation made the crowd around the vanished house even more cautious.
Many who had been shouting questions the night before now stood back, afraid to provoke someone who had married a goddess.
In government halls, the mood had shifted.
They had been searching for a powerful man.
Now they realized they had been standing in front of the home of a divine family.
And no one knew what to do next.
As the sun rose over the capitals of the world, emergency meetings were called in one country after another.
What had begun as a search for a mysterious young man was now something much more complicated.
The husband of Amaterasu.
The father of a divine child.
And a fighter capable of defeating Apollo and Fenrir with his fists alone.
Around long tables, presidents, prime ministers, and monarchs spoke in hushed, careful tones, joined by military leaders, senior magicians, and envoys of the Magic Association.
In one meeting room, the British Prime Minister leaned forward, hands clasped.
"So it is true? A mortal has married the Sun Goddess of Japan?"
Across from him, an Association representative gave a slow nod.
"True. At least, confirmed by the shrines. We do not interfere in the personal lives of gods."
"And this man," said the German Chancellor, "he fought Apollo and Fenrir?"
"Yes," the representative replied. "Those are verified reports."
"Then why," the French President asked quietly, "do we know so little about him?"
The answer was simple: rumor.
The Magic Association had information — fragments, whispers collected over the years — but very little that could be considered proof.
Some of these rumors had been circulating quietly inside the Association long before this week:
That there was a human who had once lived in a world not of this Earth.That he had come back changed, carrying skills and knowledge no one else understood.That he had moved unnoticed through supernatural territories without a single spell ever touching him.That gods themselves seemed to avoid provoking him — not out of fear, but out of caution.
But all of it was speculation. The Association had never confirmed any of it.
Until now.
In every meeting, the same question was asked:
"Why didn't you tell us?"
The Association's representatives answered carefully.
"Because until recently, these were unconfirmed reports. He lived quietly. We respect those who choose to avoid conflict. And without evidence, these stories were only rumor."
Some leaders were not satisfied.
"A human marries Amaterasu and defeats gods, and you call it a rumor?" the U.S. Secretary of State demanded.
The Association envoy's expression did not change.
"Until yesterday, the only proof was the word of those who saw it with their own eyes. Now, with the veil gone, it is no longer a rumor."
The world leaders fell silent. The name Alex — once just a whisper — now hung over every table like a shadow.
He was no longer just a man.
He was a living question.
And no one knew what his answer would be.