A cleric's Divine Smite had cracked open the skulls of countless evil creatures. They were true all-rounders—when they fought ruthlessly, even they themselves were frightening.
Still, although the "Ring of Rapid Armor Switching" was practical, Anser had almost no use for it. He currently wore no armor at all, since armor would affect both his movements and his flight speed.
Fortunately, the Dimensional Bag had not been destroyed. After opening it, Anser discovered that the space inside was rather small, and the contents somewhat shabby.
From what he remembered, most followers of Myrkul did not seem particularly wealthy.
Anser was not disappointed. He had already been mentally prepared beforehand. The real pity was that staff imbued with "Inflict Wounds"—it had simply gone to waste like that.
As he sorted through the Dimensional Bag, he found a notebook filled with various maps and sketches. Flipping through a few pages at random, he discovered that the contents were all related to the city of Viheral.
Several dates appeared throughout the notebook, the earliest dating back to early July.
'So they really did come here specifically for this.'
He found it somewhat strange. This legend had existed for many years, so why choose to act precisely now?
'Could the Weave's instability have caused the dungeon to become exposed, or magical traps to fail?'
He had no way of knowing. The notes were fragmented and vague. Presumably, the Church of Myrkul had merely been trying its luck as well.
Further toward the back, a legendary item was mentioned: the "Netherblossom Vestments."
'Could that have been their true objective?'
Anser shook his head slightly and put the notebook away.
Just from the name alone, it was obvious that the equipment was meant specifically for necromancers or Death Domain clerics. In their hands, it would be no less valuable than a divine artifact, but for others, it might not even be usable.
He disliked the idea of being surrounded by a group of foul-smelling undead. If given the choice, he would much rather earn the allegiance and loyalty of living people.
After registering the spoils of war, he hurried back to Fort Jacqueline. The bed in the bedroom was empty—Iris had already returned to her own room to rest.
'Aah~'
Anser felt a little regretful. It was already rather late, so it would not be appropriate to bother her again in the middle of the night.
After a simple wash, he lay down upon the soft large bed and immediately felt utterly relaxed.
Before falling asleep, he sank his consciousness into his mind to inspect the silver twenty-sided die. The tenth symbol lacked only a tiny corner before becoming fully illuminated. Perhaps it would happen within the next few days.
...
Late at night, northeast of the Wood of Sharp Teeth, in a fishing town along the banks of the River Chionthar.
Inside a dilapidated house, a short-bearded man of modest stature knelt on one knee. Though his face looked weary, his back remained perfectly straight as he held a holy symbol in both hands and prayed softly.
Upon the holy symbol was clearly engraved the image of "scales upon a warhammer."
No one knew how much time had passed before a pure white beam of light descended from the void and landed upon the holy symbol. After pausing briefly, it shot directly into the man's forehead.
The man's body stiffened. His mind drifted into a trance as the scenery before his eyes rapidly changed. By the time he regained his senses, he found himself floating atop a gigantic white mountain peak.
Before him stretched an enormous palace complex built entirely from pure white marble. Its exterior resembled a perfect cube, rigidly symmetrical, solemn, and majestic, so imposing that no distracting thoughts could arise within one's mind.
The man's gaze landed upon the emblem atop the central palace, and he froze instantly. Then his knees gave out beneath him, and he prostrated himself devoutly upon the pristine white ground, his body trembling slightly with excitement.
"My Lord! My Lord! My Lord…"
Only after a long while did his eyes gradually refocus and his emotions settle somewhat.
Before he could even comprehend what was happening, a warm yet resolute voice sounded beside his ears: "Zahir, my child. Come inside. I have waited for you for a very long time."
Zahir's body trembled violently. His mind went completely blank as he mechanically climbed to his feet and slowly stepped into the enormous white palace whose gates stood wide open.
When he raised his head, he saw a towering figure composed entirely of white light seated upon a lofty obsidian throne at the far end.
A longsword hung at Its waist, and a set of scales rested beside Its hand. Its face could not be seen clearly—only those indifferent eyes could be perceived.
Without needing any confirmation, Zahir knew with absolute certainty that this was the very faith and pursuit he had devoted himself to, though even he did not understand why.
"I finally waited until Your arrival. I thought that perhaps…" Kneeling on one knee, his face filled with emotion, his trembling hands did not even know where to rest.
"My child, how could I ever abandon you?" The voice was powerful, yet unhurried.
"My Lord!"
"My child, I need you. I need all of you."
"My Lord, I am willing to offer up everything I have."
"From this day onward, you shall become one favored by the gods. You shall hear divine revelations and walk Toril in My stead. Your first task is to rebuild the channel of faith, establish temples, and vigorously expand the congregation…"
Zahir suppressed his emotions and listened carefully, not daring to miss a single word.
Yet such caution was clearly unnecessary. He did not need to deliberately memorize anything—every word spoken by Him was branded into his mind like a steel seal, impossible to forget even if he wished to.
Especially the ritual knowledge regarding how to communicate with Him. It felt both deeply familiar and profoundly ingrained, as though he had already mastered it long ago.
"…Purging evil is the duty of every believer, especially those favored by evil gods. Establish tribunals immediately and search for all suspected targets. Not a single one must be spared…"
The cold voice pierced directly into Zahir's heart. At the thought of a possible war of faith, his expression changed drastically, further confirming his earlier suspicions.
My Lord is in trouble!
It was absolutely far more serious than mere instability within the Weave.
"I shall never fail Your command, my Lord!" He did not hesitate in the slightest. To protect all of this, what did a few sacrifices matter?
"My child, I have left a strand of divine power within your body. It will ensure that outsiders cannot pry into your secrets, and when necessary, it may also be used for self-defense…"
"Thank you for Your blessing."
"Return now. Do not grow complacent."
Before Zahir even had the chance to bid farewell, chaos flooded his vision. Then his body suddenly sank, and when he opened his eyes again, he found himself still kneeling in the cramped, dilapidated room in prayer, as though everything that had just happened had merely been an illusion.
He touched his forehead. There, dormant beneath the skin, rested a cluster of white light flecked with golden radiance—warm, yet carrying an unshakable sense of indestructibility.
"It was not a dream," he muttered softly. "My Lord…"
Those instructions and fragments of knowledge echoed through his mind again and again, constantly reminding him:
I am one favored by the gods.
He had no time to wonder why He had chosen him. He only knew that he had to act immediately and fulfill His mission as quickly as possible.
Putting away the holy symbol, Zahir pushed open the door and walked into the neighboring room, knocking heavily upon it.
With a creak, the door opened, revealing a gaunt figure.
The divine power at Zahir's brow trembled faintly, and his vision instantly changed. Dense white light wrapped around the man before him, while an almost invisible thread connected him to that divine power.
'So this is how believers are identified.'
Realization dawned upon him instantly.
"Rand, I received a divine revelation from our Lord." He tightly embraced the man, his eyes burning with excitement.
"What?!" Rand was utterly shocked, his face filled with disbelief.
With a thought from Zahir, divine power surfaced upon his forehead, forming the emblem of "scales upon a warhammer."
"That aura…" Rand's expression shifted repeatedly, yet he no longer harbored any doubt. "What was the revelation? Tell me quickly!"
He did not question the Lord's decision, nor did he envy Zahir, much less believe his own faith to be lacking.
Paladins were different from other clergy. They upheld sacred oaths. Rather than worshipping deities themselves, it was more accurate to say they practiced and embodied the ideals those gods represented.
"Don't rush. Let me explain it to you slowly…"
The two spoke through the entire night, even forgetting the passage of time.
There were many difficulties ahead, but compared to the despair of feeling "abandoned" by their god, the current them felt incomparably blessed.
A mission with a clear goal could inspire a person's fighting spirit far more powerfully and drive them ever forward.
This night was destined to be anything but peaceful.
Across Toril—and even throughout other reaches of Wildspace—countless beings became favored by the gods that very night: clerics, priests, adventurers…
The only thing they all shared in common was this:
They were all devout believers.
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