Chapter 135 — Asdemaz
[The Golden Arrow of the Goddess of the Hunt]
…
[The Feathered Quill of the God of Arts]
…
[The Girdle of the Sea God]
…
[The Earrings of the Goddess of Beauty]
…
Longswords, rings, spiked maces—one artifact after another, fashioned from metal or leather, was picked up, examined, and then set back down.
With the Eye of Reality issuing its unceasing prompts, Charles's expression grew increasingly strange.
These objects were clearly linked to gods whose titles alone sounded powerful beyond measure—yet Charles had never once heard of them.
Not from others.
Not from books.
In fact, even within the bandaged man's vast collection, there had been no mention whatsoever of these deities.
As far as Charles knew, the divine landscape consisted of the Lord of Thorns, the Elemental Sovereigns, various evil gods, and the astral deities that dwelled among the stars.
"So then…"
As he pondered, a familiar phrase surfaced in his mind:
History is written by the victors.
Had these gods been erased from history during their struggle with the Lord of Thorns?
Once that line of thought began, it refused to stop. One speculation led to another—ancient wars, divine grudges, forgotten defeats—until Charles snapped back to himself and set down a primitive-looking silver axe.
Then another thought struck him.
The Eye of Reality had repeatedly indicated that these artifacts required specific conditions to be awakened.
So was his presence here also because of such a condition?
And those so-called conditions…
He casually picked up a mirror from the pile and raised it before him.
Reflected in it, on his forehead, was a black seven-pointed star.
Yes—a seven-pointed star.
He was currently in a state of astral projection.
The sigil was precise and symmetrical, as though engraved directly into his being. Around its edges wound a faintly visible golden thread—the Thread of Fate he had acquired in the world of Ice and Fire.
Since obtaining it, the thread had remained fused with the seven-pointed ring, its true function still unclear.
Charles had examined it countless times and no longer paid it much attention. Instead, another realization slowly took shape.
"Do they think I'm the reincarnation—or inheritor—of some god?" he murmured.
"Is that why they pushed me to advance, and brought me here?"
Lowering his gaze, he looked once more at the pile of artifacts before him.
"If I really were the reincarnation or successor of one of these gods… would there be something here that I could actually wield?"
"Or rather—does the Church believe there's something here that should respond to me?"
"And what would that represent?"
"A divine artifact of immense power?"
"A fragment of those gods' former strength?"
"Or… a transfer of divine authority?"
The more he thought about it, the more plausible the theory became.
He hadn't forgotten why he had entered this place in the first place—to receive a bloodline inheritance and step into the Circle.
And along this path, the sheer number of races and entities that had little to do with the Church only deepened his suspicions.
"Did the Lord of Thorns gather everything—everything he deemed worthy—into 'Heaven,' and then shape it into this inheritance-based advancement system?"
"And when I say everything…"
"…does that include gods themselves?"
"What, then, is the so-called Lord of Thorns, truly?"
"A creator deity?"
As these thoughts churned endlessly in his mind, Charles felt as though he had brushed against a fragment of the world's deepest truth.
Just a corner.
But enough to make the entire structure tremble.
But if the Lord of Thorns truly were a so-called Creator, then his earlier speculation became far less certain.
"Did these gods once truly exist," Charles wondered,
"or were they created by the Lord of Thorns, merely waiting for suitable inheritors to appear?"
He leaned toward the first possibility.
For one thing, it aligned better with everything he had experienced so far. For another, the artifacts before him were unmistakably ancient in style—classical, solemn, steeped in an older aesthetic.
If they had truly been created in the modern era, then surely they would appear more… contemporary.
After all, hadn't that summoned angel been fiddling with a camera?
If even lesser servants could adapt so readily, then their "master" ought to be even more in step with the times.
Steam gods.
Industrial gods.
Gear and piston deities.
That was what modern divinity should look like.
After a moment's thought, Charles crouched and continued searching.
Regardless of the truth, now that he had reached this place, leaving empty-handed would be unacceptable.
A heavenly bloodline?
A special office?
Those were nothing compared to a true divine authority.
Yet as one artifact after another was shifted aside, his brow slowly furrowed.
They were all tempting—each one radiating an unmistakable sense of power—but no matter which he picked up, the result was always the same.
Nothing.
No response.
As the number of untouched objects dwindled, his frustration grew.
Still… perhaps this was inevitable.
If his first theory was correct, then as an outsider god—one who had never existed on the continent of Akavia—he would naturally leave behind no relics, no anchors, nothing to inherit.
And reality seemed to confirm it:
The Seven Gods could not gain the recognition of other deities' artifacts.
"Well, this is just great." he muttered dryly.
With every item examied and none reacting, Charles sighed and straightened up.
Just as he was considering abandoning this place to seek another path, something at the edge of his vision caught his attention.
On the wall to his left hung a dim, dust-covered mural.
Webs clung to its surface, ash dulled its colors. Vaguely, it depicted a river winding through a plain beneath a sky choked with storm clouds, lightning tearing through the darkness.
The painting was crude. Simplistic.
The Eye of Reality confirmed it was nothing more than an ordinary mural.
And yet—
The moment Charles focused on it, his forehead suddenly burned with heat.
---
In the sunlit hall, the tall female archbishop gazed down at the young man kneeling before her.
Her eyes were deep, her expression solemn.
She seemed to be contemplating something. As she observed him in silence, her white wings stirred unconsciously, sending gentle currents of air through the chamber and lifting the pages of a book resting on a nearby chair.
The room was completely soundproof. No noise from the outside world could penetrate it.
At this moment, aside from the soft rustle of feathers, only their breathing could be heard.
The young man appeared to be undergoing some kind of transformation.
A faint glow slowly bloomed across his body.
At first, it was dark—black tinged with purple.
Then it shifted, deepening into a rich rose hue.
After that, the colors continued to change: white, pink, cyan, green…
Until finally, it settled into gold.
A satisfying color.
An expected one.
The archbishop's lips curved into a beautiful smile.
"Let me see who you truly are," she whispered.
Her pale blue eyes never left Charles.
Yet even after a long while, the golden radiance showed no further change. If anything, it seemed to be fading.
Her delicate brows knitted slightly.
"A heretical god…?"
Just as uncertainty flickered across her face, the golden light around Charles flared violently.
It was like a carriage that had been slowing to a stop suddenly surging forward at full speed.
She was caught off guard for only an instant.
Then she reacted.
Her white wings snapped outward, and torrents of green-tinged wind erupted from the floor in every direction. Wailing as they rose, the currents twisted into a towering vortex that wrapped tightly around Charles.
Her response was decisive—and perfectly timed.
For in the very moment he was enclosed, the light within him exploded.
A pillar of pure gold shot upward, piercing the ceiling, blasting straight through the transparent glass skylight, and soaring into the sky beyond the cathedral.
A majestic, indistinct murmur echoed through reality itself, as though a god hidden deep within the fabric of the world was solemnly proclaiming something—though the words could not be discerned.
The wind followed.
The vortex surged upward alongside the light, drilling through the skylight, rising higher and higher, climbing without limit.
The cyclone crushed everything around it. Paintings tilted and tore from the walls. The reinforced glass windows groaned under the pressure, threatening to shatter.
Howling wind and thunderous airflows filled the hall. Countless white sigils spun wildly within the green vortex, flashing as they rose and fell—so fast they blurred into ghostly streaks.
Under the cover of this sky-piercing storm, the golden pillar—despite its terrifying might—left no visible trace to the outside world.
To any observer, it would appear nothing more than a catastrophic spell malfunction.
The truth remained hidden.
The archbishop finally exhaled.
She had anticipated this possibility. The spell had been prepared in advance—its timing simply had to be perfect.
A moment too late, and everything would have been exposed.
Now she watched closely.
The vortex seemed to have no effect on the young man inside it. Shielded by golden light, even his hair did not stir.
But the radiant pillar was fleeting.
After reaching its peak, it slowly receded, collapsing inward until it vanished completely into his body.
At her command, the storm subsided.
The wind died.
Objects suspended by the gale fell to the floor with clattering crashes, one after another.
Amid the fading echoes, Charles slowly opened his eyes.
For a single instant, the world seemed to brighten.
Then the effect vanished.
The archbishop's gaze met his—
—and she froze.
His eyes had turned golden.
Brilliant. Noble. Overwhelming.
Those eyes radiated authority and ancient terror.
Feeling the violent, inhuman presence rolling off him, she drew in a sharp breath. The Thorned Cross at her throat flickered with light, and at last, she understood.
An ancient Sun God.
A being who had once gazed upon all creation—and who had once personally unleashed an apocalypse upon the world.
She folded her wings in humility, stepped back, and bowed deeply.
Her voice was reverent.
"Greetings,
His Radiance Asdemaz."