Translator: CinderTL
Witnessing this scene, a tidal wave of shock surged through Roland's heart.
Another new divine authority? No... that's not it!
His senses told him clearly: the divine aura radiating from "Tula" was not a patchwork of fragmented authorities like before. It was a seamless, absolute unity, pure to the utmost degree.
And it had already ascended to a peak that made his very soul tremble.
It was a fundamental, ontological gap—like a firefly before the full moon, a stream before the vast ocean.
This... this is a true God!
The realization washed over him like ice water, sending a chill through his entire body.
Without a moment's hesitation, Roland acted. He strained his arm, attempting to wrench the Radiant Moon Longsword from that hand—a hand that seemed to hold it casually, yet contained supreme authority.
Yet "Tula" seemed to have no immediate intention of making things difficult for him.
His fingers loosened slightly, allowing Roland to pull back the blade. His posture remained relaxed and graceful as he hovered in the air, queasy and poised.
Those indifferent eyes watched Roland, who stood ready to face a mortal enemy, with a flicker of interest. A soft, ambiguous tsk escaped his lips.
"A human? No... the bloodline of a dragonborn is boiling. Heh, how interesting."
"And... the Dark Mark left by that woman, Shar, hmm? The lingering glow of Lothander's sun? And... this faint... is that Selune's aura?"
As if discovering something utterly novel, a playful curve touched "Tula's" lips.
"Truly... a complex and intriguing little creature. You're like a palette splashed with a multitude of contradictory colors."
"Tula" chuckled softly, his gaze seemingly piercing through Roland's flesh to stare directly at the tangled web of karmic ties entwined deep within his soul.
"Under normal circumstances, encountering such a fascinating 'creation,' I might have been moved by 'mercy' and bestowed a touch of my 'blessing' upon you..."
"To see what kind of surprising... chaos or order this peculiar vessel of yours could still nurture after the injection of a new variable. A pity—"
Before his playful words could fully dissipate into the air, another sudden change occurred.
"Your Majesty the Great God!"
A completely different voice abruptly rang out—shrill, urgent, and filled with both shock and disbelief.
This was Tula's own voice.
The sound seemed to be desperately squeezed out from the depths of his suppressed mind, carrying the struggle of his very soul.
"This is nothing like our original agreement! How could you... how could you so casually occupy my—"
The question, laced with fury and terror, died in his throat, as if an invisible giant hand had crushed it.
The playful smirk on "Tula's" face vanished, replaced by an imperturbable, deadly calm.
He shook his head slightly, as if swatting away a bothersome fly, and uttered a single, frigid word.
"Noisy."
The moment the word fell, "Tula" raised a finger and tapped his own brow.
No light flashed. No energy erupted. Not even a sound was made.
Yet in that instant, Roland's keen senses captured it clearly: the struggling soul-waves of Tula himself were snuffed out like a candle in the wind, vanishing without a trace.
It wasn't just the silence of a voice. It was as if his very "existence" as an independent individual had been forcibly erased from this body.
One moment he was fighting back in rage; the next, there was only absolute stillness.
The body suspended in the air was now completely filled by that ancient, vast, and indifferent divine consciousness. Not a single trace of "Tula" remained.
After this casual yet bone-chilling act, "Tula"—or rather, the entity now occupying his body—slowly raised his head.
His gaze seemed to pierce through the pale blue [Canopy Barrier], turning toward a higher, more fundamental dimension, as if staring down some invisible shackles.
He let out a faint, almost imperceptible sigh, tinged with a trace of...
...regret.
"To think, even now, the [Root Law Binding] that sustains the mortal realm... has only revealed such a minute fissure?"
"Tula" shook his head slowly, seemingly dissatisfied with the result.
Then, He lowered His eyelids, His indifferent gaze returning to Roland below, who stood ready for a mortal enemy, not daring to relax for a single moment.
He chuckled softly, His voice echoing clearly across the silent battlefield.
It was like a proclamation, yet also like a divine decree.
"There is no need to be so tense, interesting mortal. Before you stands no lowly imitator who has stolen power."
He paused, then clearly enunciated His name.
"I am Corellon Larethian."
The name struck every elf's ears like a thunderclap.
"Corellon... the Creator and Guardian of the elves..."
An elderly Surface Elf Elder was the first to tremble and fall prostrate, tears streaming down his aged face—a mixture of the overwhelming joy and terror of witnessing a divine miracle firsthand.
"No... this is impossible! Spider Queen, save us... Is that... Is that the Great God who banished the Goddess Lolth?"
A drow elf cried out in shock, his voice trembling with the chaos and terror of a faith collapsing.
"The Great Weaver of All Things... the origin of the elven race..."
More elves, both surface and drow, fell into a state of immense shock and turmoil after the initial, dead silence.
For all elves, the name Corellon had long since transcended mere faith. It was an existence etched into the very source of their bloodline, as fundamental as the laws of the universe themselves.
Ignoring the reverent, terrified, and confused elven subjects below, Corellon's gaze remained locked on Roland, his eyes filled with pure admiration.
"To wield such a chaotic yet delicately balanced mixture of powers within a mortal body, and to master them to such a degree that I was forced to personally take over this imperfect vessel..."
His tone was calm.
"Your potential far exceeds the limitations of this mortal shell. The threads of your fate are far more... interesting than you know."
Corellon spread his hand slightly in a gesture of invitation. Though his posture remained condescending, it now carried an unmistakable undertone of recruitment.
"Abandon your struggles in this fragile mortal realm, human."
"Submit to me, pledge your loyalty, and you shall cease to be a mere pawn of fate. Instead, you will be a player, granted the privilege of weaving destiny itself."
"I will guide you beyond the shackles of this shell, allowing the conflicting powers within you to find their true purpose and transcendence. You will witness and participate in the true revival and reshaping of the elf race—and indeed, the entire world."
"This is far more meaningful than wallowing in the mire, fighting insignificant beings, is it not?"
Unlike the elves around him, who were overwhelmed by surges of faith or fear, this was not Roland's first time facing a deity. As a result, he did not succumb to a paralyzing tension or anxiety.
He took a deep breath. Within him, the [ Primal Core ] began to churn at an unprecedented speed. Like a highly efficient energy furnace, it frantically absorbed the sparse energy from the surrounding space, rapidly replenishing the massive reserves depleted by the fierce battle and repairing the strain the dragon transformation had placed on his body.
As for Corellon's offer?
The personal invitation of a god, promising a transcendence beyond mortality and a role in weaving the very threads of fate...
It sounded undeniably alluring.
But at what cost?
If he were to fully commit himself to this god's service, surrendering his autonomy, what would his fate be?
Would he become a useful tool in the god's hand, or a precious specimen to be observed and studied until his value was exhausted?
Roland didn't know the exact answer, but the sight of Turana's struggling soul being effortlessly erased—its very existence completely supplanted—had already provided the clearest warning.
In the eyes of these gods, mortals were ultimately just mortals. Even a seemingly important "collaborator" could be discarded as a pawn at any moment.
Therefore, Roland narrowed his eyes, suppressing the instinctive tremors wracking his body from the god's overwhelming presence. Meeting Corellon's indifferent gaze, he spoke slowly.
"What if I refuse?"
"Refuse?"
This curt, unhesitating answer had clearly caught Corellon off guard.
For the first time, a faint, almost stunned expression flickered across his flawless face.
Then, that trace of surprise transformed into an indescribable mixture of regret and a hint of affronted coldness.
The Great God of the Elves shook His head gently, letting out a long sigh that seemed to carry the helplessness of facing mortal ignorance.
"What a waste... of such unique potential."
As the last words still lingered in the air, Corellon raised His hand.
No incantations, no gestures, not even a visible gathering of energy. It was as if His will alone was the command that drove the rules of the world.
In an instant, Roland felt the magic elements in his vicinity as if they had encountered a singularity at the dawn of the universe, being violently and uncontrollably drawn out and compressed into Corellon's body. This was no crude absorption like Tula's, but an absolute mastery over the very essence of energy—a monarch summoning his subjects.
The next moment—
Vrum!
The ground beneath Roland's feet abruptly transformed into a twenty-meter-radius [Grease Spell] area, its viscosity and smoothness far exceeding the norm. Simultaneously, a [Gravity Multiplier] effect was applied, attempting to pin him down.
At the exact same moment, dozens of [Magic Missiles] materialized in the air to his left and right.
They no longer scattered chaotically. Instead, as if orchestrated by the most brilliant tactician, they formed three waves, striking with millisecond precision to cover every possible escape route and seal off all lateral movement.
Above his head, a massive [Web Spell] manifested from thin air. This was no ordinary webbing; it flowed with the divine afterglow of shadow and restraint, descending like a celestial net with immense stickiness and energy-suppressing power.
Meanwhile, Corellon simply flicked his finger with casual ease.
A [Disintegrate] beam, condensed to the thickness of a finger, shot forth in absolute silence.
Its speed transcended the limits of visual perception, aimed straight for Roland's heart. This beam was no mere destructive energy; it was infused with a rule representing "termination" and "extinction."
It was as if being struck by it would partially erase the very concept of one's existence.
Immobilize. Envelop. Execute.
This was a far cry from Tula's brute-force, single-minded assault.
Though Corellon relied on low- and mid-ring spells, he wove them with effortless mastery. Augmented by the precise application of his Fragmented Authority, he instantly constructed a flawless, interlocking death trap.
Each spell's effect was pushed to its absolute limit, their synergies creating a tactical onslaught of overwhelming power.
Roland's pupils constricted to pinpricks, a sign of mortal danger. The shadow of death had never felt so vivid, so chillingly clear.
With a guttural snarl, he unleashed the full potential of his dragon-transformed body. His form twisted and jerked in a series of impossible, physics-defying maneuvers within the cramped space.
Dark Gold Dragon Scales clashed with streaking Magic Missiles, erupting in a blinding shower of sparks.
He narrowly evaded the beam ahead, but the edge of the Disintegrate spell still grazed his left shoulder. It tore away a patch of scales and flesh, leaving behind a hollow, agonizing void—as if a piece of his very existence had been erased from reality.
Bang!
Gritting his teeth against the excruciating pain, Roland forced himself to shatter the viscous grease beneath his feet.
At the cost of enduring doubled gravity, he leaped violently backward. But the shadow web above had already descended.
A strand of the web's edge brushed his right leg. A powerful binding force and a sensation of energy stagnation instantly surged through him, causing his movements to seize once more.
And Corellon's second wave of attacks was already brewing.
The God had not even moved. He simply watched Roland struggle within the deathly web He had meticulously woven, as if admiring a living painting.
Roland was drenched in blood, his dragon scales shattered in multiple places, his breath heavy and ragged.
Under the God's effortless yet flawlessly precise attacks, he could do nothing but dodge and parry with all his might, each single movement a desperate gamble.
It was like dancing on a tightrope over a bottomless abyss, unable to even organize a single proper counterattack.
All his skill, all his strength—before the absolute suppression of experience and the very laws of the universe—felt utterly pale and powerless.
(End of the Chapter)
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