The Guardian gods-Chapter 465

It was too sudden. Too complete.

Edward had been an admirer of the Harpies and the twilight-born people of Crepuscular. His kingdom’s very culture, its structure, its philosophies—so much of it had been shaped by their influence. For him to turn away from them so decisively, to cast aside admiration so easily, raised silent alarms among the godlings.

Something had changed within him.

The war with Silas had been the turning point. Everyone could see that. But what had truly happened in the aftermath?

Edward spoke to no one about it. The Sun Kingdom could only speculate, and the godlings could only observe. Yet those who knew him best saw the shift in his eyes, the way his thoughts seemed heavier, the way his certainty had turned to quiet suspicion.

Only Edward knows what he was going through, because Edward knew Silas.

Silas, the schemer. Silas, the manipulator.

His downfall had come too easily. His death had been too simple. And as the years passed, that seed of doubt grew in Edward’s mind. Had they truly defeated Silas? Or had they merely stepped into the next phase of his design?

Edward could not shake the thought.

The war was over. The world moved forward. But something had been left behind in the ruins of that battle—something that had followed him home.

At first, it was subtle. A flicker in the corner of his eye, the faintest shift in the darkness beneath him. A shadow that seemed too still at times, and too fluid at others. Some nights, he could swear it stretched and twisted on its own, curling in ways that did not match the angle of the light.

Then came the hallucinations.

He would turn, convinced that someone was watching him, only to find his own shadow staring back. He told himself it was fatigue, the lingering toll of war. But there were moments—brief and terrifying—when he saw it move.

The last straw came after a diplomatic meeting with a Harpy envoy.

It had been a peaceful discussion, as pleasant as any such meeting could be. Edward had smiled, spoken with practiced ease, reassured them of stability. When the envoy left, he exhaled, letting the mask slip for a moment.

Then a voice, his own yet not, murmured:

"Why do you lower yourself to flatter them?"

Edward froze.

His breath caught in his throat as his eyes darted around the empty room. He was alone. He was sure of it. Yet the voice had come from somewhere.

Then he looked down.

His shadow was no longer behind him where it should have been. It had moved, slithering across the floor to rest directly in front of him. And within its shifting darkness, two hollow, white eyes glowed back at him.

Terror surged through Edward’s veins.

With a reflex honed in battle, he flung out his hands. Fire erupted in a torrent, engulfing the unnatural shape in an instant. The room flashed with golden-red light, the heat warping the air. The shadow dispersed, vanishing in the blaze.

Edward staggered back, heart hammering, gasping for breath. Relief settled over him—until the voice returned.

"Why do you lower yourself before them?"

His body went rigid. The voice was calm, insidious. It was not defeated. It had never been afraid.

It was real.

From that day on, Edward’s mind was plagued with doubt and paranoia. He began asking those around him, in quiet moments, if they noticed anything strange about his shadow. The responses were always the same—puzzled looks, hesitant bows, reassurances that nothing was amiss.

Yet Edward knew the truth.

The shadow was playing with him.

It made itself known only when he was alone. It stayed docile in the presence of others, shrinking back into normalcy as if mocking him. No one else could see it. No one else could hear it.

And that, more than anything, unnerved him.

Because if no one else saw it—if no one else heard the voice—then the question that haunted him most was this:

Was it truly something outside of him?

Or was it something that had always been there, waiting for the right moment to speak?

That moment marked the beginning of Edward’s change.

At first, he resisted the shadow’s whispers. He told himself that it was unnatural, that trusting it would be dangerous. But the voice was not like a demon’s temptation or a trickster’s deceit. It did not demand or mislead. It simply knew.

The problems his people struggled with, the knowledge lost to time, the obstacles that seemed insurmountable—the shadow always had the answers.

It understood agriculture in a way his scholars could not. It foresaw economic shifts before his advisors did. It spoke of advancements in architecture, warfare, and diplomacy with an ease that made even the brightest minds of his court seem dull.

And so, little by little, Edward listened.

Little by little, he relied on it.

And with each whispered suggestion, the kingdom flourished.

Edward had always admired the Harpies and their wisdom. The Sun Kingdom’s foundation was built upon the knowledge they shared, shaping its culture, its structure, its way of life. But the Harpies never gave everything. They hoarded their greatest secrets, holding back the knowledge that would allow humanity to outgrow their careful balance.

Edward had long suspected this, but now he knew.

The shadow told him.

With its guidance, he no longer needed the Harpies. Their wisdom, once a coveted treasure, became obsolete. When they began their retreat, Edward saw no need to stop them. In truth, he welcomed it. Their absence severed the last tether of dependence, allowing the Sun Kingdom to rise on its own.

Contact between them lessened until, eventually, it was no more.

Outpacing the Humanity Kingdom

Now, years after the war with Silas, Edward stood at the head of the most powerful kingdom in the western continent.

Unlike the Humanity Kingdom, ruled by Erik, Edward’s people had not been ravaged by war. The great battle against Silas had drained Erik’s forces, cost him thousands of lives, and left his kingdom in a slow, arduous recovery. They had been the sword and shield, the frontline warriors who bled for the continent’s survival.

The Sun Kingdom had taken a different path.

Edward had fought, yes, but strategically. His kingdom had deployed no grand army. They had lost few lives. Instead, he and a select few elites had intervened only when necessary, ensuring their survival while still claiming a stake in victory.

And now, the results were clear.

While Erik’s people rebuilt, Edward’s people thrived. While the Humanity Kingdom focused on replenishing its numbers, the Sun Kingdom surged forward in strength, wealth, and influence.

Edward could now say with certainty—and with pride—that the Sun Kingdom was the strongest human nation on the continent.

And though his people credited his wisdom, his leadership, and his vision for their prosperity, Edward knew the truth.

It was the shadow’s whispers that had shaped this new era.

And in the deepest part of his mind, where even he dared not linger too long, he wondered: Had the shadow, since that first whisper, been leading him somewhere he could not yet see?

Years had passed since the ascension of the gods, and now, the godlings were making their presence known.

At first, Edward had been concerned. Their sudden emergence could have signified a shift in the balance of power, a new force that might disrupt the carefully built dominance of the Sun Kingdom. But after learning of their purpose, his worries faded.

They were not his problem.

Instead, his focus remained on something far more tangible—the spectacle left behind after the Night of Whispers.

The Dark Lake.

Its waters, ink-black and fathomless, defied understanding. Strange energies emanated from its depths, and both Edward’s scholars and Erik’s people had taken interest, each conducting their own research while maintaining an uneasy truce.

But Edward did not rely solely on his scholars. He had an advisor that no other king possessed.

And so, he called upon his shadow.

A vial of the lake’s water sat on his desk, its contents swirling like liquid darkness. Edward, seated alone in his office, turned to the ever-present silhouette at his feet.

"What do you make of this?" Nothing.

No whisper. No mocking response. No movement.

For the first time since it had revealed itself, the shadow was silent.

A slow, creeping unease settled over Edward. He tried again, speaking with authority, with command—but still, the shadow did not respond. It stood there, as any normal shadow should, featureless and unmoving.

Was it possible that it had never been sentient? That all this time, it had been a trick of his mind?

No. That was impossible. He had seen it move. He had heard it speak.

This silence was deliberate.

Edward’s golden eyes flickered as he shifted his attention back to the vial. The timing was too perfect. The shadow had never once ignored him before.

It had to be the lake.

And so, he decided to test it.