The Guardian gods-Chapter 463

They would risk war.

The last thing the gods and godlings desired was to set themselves above humanity in a way that bred resentment. To do so would be to plant the seeds of enmity and rebellion, to create a divide that could never be repaired.

And though the godlings were powerful, the reality was undeniable—humans were growing.

Their numbers multiplied at an alarming rate, and with each passing generation, they grew stronger. Their knowledge expanded, their magic evolved, and their faith—unruly though it was—only made them more dangerous.

The godlings emerged once more, not as rulers, not as masters, but as guides. Their purpose was clear: to teach mortals the true doctrine of the gods, to guide them along the proper path of faith.

They would not involve themselves in mortal affairs beyond this. They would not grant blessings on a whim, nor would they interfere in human conflicts. Faith, if it was to be given, must be given in truth—not out of desperation or misunderstanding.

But hope was a fragile thing. The best they could do was teach. Whether mortals would truly hold to the lessons given to them was a matter only time would answer.

Among the ascended gods, Ikem understood the dangers of mortal perception more than most.

He could see why they wished to make him their patron of agriculture, though he was no such thing. The longing for security, for a force that would ensure their lands remained fertile and their harvests plentiful, was understandable.

But their ignorance was dangerous.

Faith shaped the divine. Worship, when misguided, could warp a god’s very essence. If mortals pushed the wrong ideals onto Ikem, they could unknowingly force him into a role he was never meant to hold.

Even more troubling was the absence of Ikenga.

Each passing year made Ikenga’s absence more undeniable. The forests, once lush and ever-thriving, were beginning to settle into a more neutral, passive state. Crops were no longer unnaturally bountiful, and nature—once an unceasing force of abundance—was now beginning to reflect its true self.

For generations, mortals had become accustomed to a world touched by Ikenga’s presence. They had never known a time where the land simply followed its own rhythm, where growth was not endlessly generous. Now, as that silent divine influence faded, they struggled to adjust.

But this shift was not an active punishment. It was merely the nature of the Origin Gods.

Ikenga had never dictated how nature should be. He had not forced abundance upon the world, nor had he demanded growth.

Yet, as an emotional being—a god who embodied both nature and greed—his mere existence had shaped the world around him.

His subconscious desires, his unspoken wishes for endless bounty, had become reality simply because he was. Now, in his absence, that silent influence was gone.

And nature, untouched by divine emotion, simply returned to what it had always been—a force of balance, not excess.

The godlings, attuned to these changes, were not unprepared. They sought solutions, experimenting with artificial means to preserve nature’s former bounty. Among them, the apelings already had "The Garden"—a sanctuary where nature could still flourish beyond its natural limits.

But the mortals?

Those in power did not concern themselves with such matters.

The loss of nature’s abundance was a problem for farmers, merchants, and laborers—not for kings and lords. With minds set on their own ambitions, they did not seek to understand, nor did they wish to.

Instead, when word reached them that Ikem, the son of the god of nature, had now ascended to godhood, they did what came naturally.

They worshiped.

Not in truth, nor in understanding, but in selfish, desperate hope.

Even without realizing it, they pushed their faith upon Ikem, shaping their prayers to fit their desires rather than his reality.

And in doing so, they risked making him something he was never meant to be.

Ikem had little choice but to seek out the one person who might have the answers he needed—Björn.

The price for this wisdom? His collection of fine wines grew even smaller.

A glimpse into the past showed Ikem seated in Björn’s realm, a world soaked in the scent of rust and the faint metallic tang of blood. The divine palace was imposing yet oddly intimate, with towering iron pillars and a throne hewn from the remains of war.

Björn sat across from him, swirling his drink. The god who had once been a demon had become something far greater, yet his presence was still familiar in an unsettling way.

Ikem downed his cup and sighed. "Faith should be a gift, not a burden."

Björn chuckled, shaking his head. "Funny how your problem is the kind of opportunity most beings at the fifth stage wish they could get their hands on."

Ikem frowned, the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

Björn smirked. "Your issue isn’t that faith is overwhelming—it’s that it’s not the right kind of faith." He leaned forward. "You don’t understand it. You don’t accept it. But if you did? If you embraced it, reshaped yourself around it... your divinity would grow."

Ikem folded his arms. "I think we should be considered friends at this point."

Björn raised a brow and scoffed. "Just because you became a drinking buddy doesn’t mean we’re friends."

Ikem waved a dismissive hand, smirking. "No need to get caught up in the details. I know it’s not as simple as you make it sound."

Björn let out a low chuckle. "You got that right."

Then, he set his cup down with a soft clink. The air around them grew heavier.

"Let me ask you something." His gaze darkened. "What is the core of your realm? What god was your throne built upon?"

Ikem hesitated, but Björn continued without waiting for a response.

"Now imagine gaining faith from a divinity that isn’t centered on that core."

Ikem narrowed his eyes, listening intently.

Björn’s tone shifted, carrying a weight of experience, of warning.

"The fall of an ascended god begins with selfishness—selfishness for faith, for power, for divinities they were never meant to hold. That’s how it starts. At first, it feels like an expansion, a growth. A god begins to take in faith from something foreign, believing they can wield it without consequence."

Björn leaned back, voice colder now.

"But faith is not just power. It is expectation. It is demand. The moment a god allows themselves to be shaped by mortals, rather than the other way around, they lose control of their own divinity."

Ikem felt the truth in his words, the weight of it pressing into his chest. He had previously imagined what it would be like if they had not had Björn who told them of the machinations of faith, being warped into something without no say in it was a nightmare.

Björn met his gaze. "So tell me, Ikem. Are you ready to let mortals define you?"

Björn leaned forward, his gaze sharp as he swirled the wine in his cup. The liquid gleamed darkly in the dim light of his realm, a reflection of the weighty truths he was about to unveil.

"Nothing is wrong with attaining more," he admitted, "but when one exceeds the core of one’s faith, that begins the downfall. A god who spreads themselves too thin, who stretches their essence beyond its original nature, is no longer grounded. And when that happens..." he paused, letting the silence settle. "They become vulnerable."

Ikem listened carefully, his fingers tapping idly against his arm.

Björn continued, his tone carrying the weight of someone who had seen the cycle play out before. "Having more divinity at hand makes one susceptible—an easy target for mortals who wish to ascend to the throne of gods."

A slow smirk formed on Björn’s lips as he lifted his cup. "Take, for example, the divinity of agriculture that is practically lying at your feet. If you choose to comprehend it, one of two things will happen." He held up a single finger. "First, your core divinity will fade in recognition. Fewer and fewer will remember your true nature, while the majority will worship you as the god of agriculture. It solves your problem of misplaced faith—yes—but at what cost?"

He raised a second finger. "The second issue is far worse. This new divinity will never truly be yours. It will always be something borrowed, something accumulated rather than inherent. And like all things acquired, it can be taken away."

Ikem tensed at that. His mind spun with the implications, but before he could ask, Björn preempted him.

"No," he said with certainty, "an ascended god’s core divinity cannot be taken away. The only way to strip a god of their essence is through their death. That is the one absolute law."

Ikem exhaled slowly, nodding as he took in the words.

Björn set his cup down with a soft clink and leaned back, watching Ikem with knowing eyes. "An ascended god has only one true divinity—their core. Any other divinity they gain along the way is just an addition, a tool to gather more faith. But never forget, Ikem..."

His voice lowered, edged with something ominous. "Tools can be stolen. Borrowed power can be stripped away. And the more you take, the more you risk losing everything."