Such was the age under the rule of the Gods.
You could call it a kind of livestock-raising: the Gods didn't guarantee their Grace to everyone, but as long as they occasionally showed it off, they could keep people losing the ability to rely on themselves for a very long time.
"But this kind of feudal rule will be overthrown sooner or later." Ian walked slowly through the city, a complicated emotion surging in his heart.
Everything here was full of traces of divinity, yet so close to human life. The Gods were not unreachable; their will seeped into every corner through Priests, electors, Oracles, and miracles.
Yet this coexistence was not always harmonious.
In one corner of the market he saw a woman accused of blaspheming the Divine Spirit, immediately taken away by soldiers; in the center of the square, a Prophet had spoken the words "Olympus will one day fall."
He was beaten to death on the spot by the furious crowd.
"They fear the unknown," Ian muttered under his breath, "and they fear losing their faith even more."
This was humanity under the rule of the Divine Spirit. Even if a Prophet was killed for speaking blasphemy, the rest of the people in the market did not feel anything was out of place because of it.
Someone would come and clean up.
And yet.
Life went on as usual.
Ian strolled idly through the market.
"No one thinks there's anything wrong with killing someone for blaspheming the Divine Spirit."
Ian walked slowly along the cobbled street. Around him were Priests in long robes and flower crowns, warriors in bronze armor with short swords at their waists, and those ascetic devotees, faces intent, chanting softly. The air was thick with the smell of olive oil and spices; now and then came a few barks and the distant tolling of bells from the Divine Hall.
"Sir, care to try the threads of fate?" An old woman veiled across her face suddenly stopped him, her withered hands cradling several strands of golden thread that writhed on their own.
"Genuine goods from the Athena Temple, can foresee fortune and misfortune for the next three days!" The old woman was clearly a Wizard, though her body also carried a hint of the Divine Spirit's aura.
Perhaps a retired Priest out here running scams.
Ian glanced at those so-called "God-gifted objects"; his Legendary Rank let him see their nature at once—they were nothing but ordinary silk threads tainted with a touch of Temple aura.
At best they could make people have a few fuzzy prophetic dreams.
And not even controllable ones.
Of course, they weren't entirely without other uses. Among the debauched Main Gods of this age, it was also fashionable to use such things to pick out handsome men and beautiful women, and rendezvous with these humans in their dreams.
To many ordinary mortals that might be a coveted stroke of luck, but ultimately it was just the Gods treating human society as a brothel they could freeload from.
At most, when in a good mood, they would grant the men and women they'd slept with some trivial favor. And these "deeds" would be widely advertised by various Divine Halls.
Either way, the Divine Spirit never lost out.
Ian was certain it was his handsome appearance that had attracted the notice of some little roadside god, but he had no desire to be slept with by some minor deity in his dreams.
A beautiful Goddess wouldn't be too much of a loss, but if he ran into some Zeus-led pack of closet cases, that would be truly explosive—everyone knew Zeus and his children swung both ways.
"No need."
Ian declined the old woman gently.
"I trust my own judgment more."
If a Wizard needed prophecy, he would go to another Wizard.
Not beg some God.
"Hmm? No faith?" The old woman grinned, revealing gaps where teeth should be. "A Foreigner? No wonder you don't know the rules. Around here, godless folk don't live long."
Whether that was a threat or not, Ian merely smiled noncommittally and went on his way. After turning a corner, the scene before him grew even more intriguing:
On a hastily erected high platform, several young people in white robes were undergoing some kind of "Grace test." They took turns touching a rune-engraved Black Stone, and every time someone managed to make the stone glow faintly, the crowd erupted in cheers. The failures slunk aside, subjected to sympathetic looks from the onlookers.
"Child of Alcmena, qualified!"
The presiding Priest proclaimed loudly.
"Grant admission to Delphi Academy!"
His voice was carried around by Magic.
The boy he named flushed with excitement, while his parents dropped to their knees on the spot to thank Apollo for his favor. Ian noticed a faint lyre-shaped mark blooming on the boy's wrist—the Gods' "certification seal."
"What an efficient means of rule."
Ian murmured. By tying transcendental power to educational resources, they both ensured the superiority of the Divine Descendants and gave the commoners a false hope. After all, who could turn down a lottery that might let their child "jump a class"? Such methods of rule weren't just used in feudal times; later nations would do exactly the same.
"Even Hogwarts checks your household registry."
Ian felt deeply about this.
As he pondered, a commotion rose from the direction of the city gate. The crowd parted like waves and dropped to their knees. Ian looked over and saw a squad of Silver-armored Guards escorting a Floating War Chariot slowly into the city. Atop the chariot sat a girl wearing a Moon Crown, idly toying with a cluster of starlight that kept changing shape—clearly one of Artemis's Priestesses.
"Silence! Oracle of the Hunting Goddess!" the lead guard shouted. "At tonight's full moon, all unmarked wild Magic users must report to the Divine Hall for registration. Any who disobey will be deemed blasphemers!"