The Guardian gods-Chapter 470

Yuki’s fingers traced the border between Björn and the Silver Kingdom, her mind already several steps ahead. If the Silver King thought he could move unnoticed, he was sorely mistaken. She would not wait for the first sword to be drawn—if war was truly coming, she would be the storm that struck first.

Yuki’s attention shifted inward as her hand drifted to her stomach, fingers brushing lightly over the place where life had once stirred within her. Her son. The mere thought of him was enough to send a storm of emotions raging through her heart.

Fear. Pain.

He had brought both into her life in ways she had never imagined. The pregnancy had been unlike anything a mortal—or even a half-demon—could endure. And yet, the moment she laid eyes on him for the first time, all those emotions were eclipsed by something far more powerful.

Devotion.

From that instant, she knew she would do anything for her child. No force in the world, not even Björn himself, could stand between her and the life she had brought into existence. But the child of her and him was never going to be normal. That much had been certain from the very beginning.

His mother was a demigod-level half-demon, a being whose very presence commands attention. His father, Björn, was something even greater—a god-level demon whose mere existence warped the world around him. What kind of being could be born from such a union?

Yuki closed her eyes, recalling the months of her pregnancy.

Unlike other children, the prince did not simply take nutrients from her as an ordinary infant would. He required something else—something she had not been providing.

It had started subtly at first, an unnatural hunger stirring within her. She had dismissed it, attributing it to the strain of carrying a being so powerful. But then, one night, the hunger had taken hold of her completely.

Her eyes had turned blood red, and before she could comprehend what was happening, she had sunk her claws into the throat of the maid who had come to serve her.

She could still remember the warmth of the life spilling from the girl’s body. The scent of iron. The silence that followed.

Only after the deed was done had her mind returned to her. Horror had barely begun to set in when she felt it—a movement within her womb, the slow, deliberate stirring of her child as he absorbed something from both her and the maid.

At first, she thought it was blood. Or perhaps the soul of the one she had slain. But the truth was far more unsettling.

She did not truly understand until much later.

One night, she had woken to find herself standing in the middle of the palace, surrounded by corpses. The scene was eerily quiet, the air thick with the scent of death. And in the dim torchlight, she saw them—Olaf and Finn, two of Björn’s most trusted warriors, kneeling before her, their gazes unreadable. They had brought the bodies to her.

She had not needed to ask why.

Looking down at herself, she realized that her womb had stirred again, her child drinking deeply—not of blood, not of flesh, but of something far more primal.

The essence of her actions, the madness. The depravity.

That was what fed him.

And at that moment, Yuki understood the truth.

Her son would never be like other children. His existence was forged in chaos, sustained by the raw, unfiltered essence of violence itself. And yet, even knowing this, she did not recoil.

If this was what he needed—if this was what it took for him to thrive—then she would give it to him.

No matter the cost.

Noticing that, Finn immediately presented the idea of the colosseum founded by Björn. What better place to feed the prince than there?

It was not just about nourishment—it was about ritual, about ensuring that the young heir would grow into his nature rather than be consumed by it. The colosseum, drenched in centuries of blood and violence, was the perfect cradle. There, warriors clashed, criminals fought for redemption, and beasts were unleashed for spectacle. There, amidst the frenzy of battle and the screams of the dying, the prince would feast—not on flesh or blood, but on something deeper, something rawer.

The essence of battle. The madness of violence. The depravity of unrestrained slaughter.

And so, it was decided. Whenever the prince’s hunger stirred, Yuki was led to the colosseum, where she watched as warriors battled to their deaths beneath the ever-present roar of the Björn people. Her son, nestled within her womb, would drink of it all—the agony, the fury, the ecstasy of carnage. Each time, she felt him grow stronger, his presence inside her shifting with satisfaction.

But as the day of his birth approached, Yuki felt something else.

Something wrong.

The presence of death hung over her—not the kind she had known on the battlefield, nor the kind she had wielded as a demon. This was different. It was intimate, inevitable.

And it was coming from within her.

At first, she thought it was paranoia, a trick of her overworked mind. But as the hours passed, the sensation only deepened, sharpening like the edge of a blade pressed against her throat. Every movement of the child inside her sent shivers down her spine, and a whispering thought wormed its way into her mind.

He does not want to be born.

He wants to take me with him into the void.

Yuki was no stranger to death, but this was the first time she felt it looming over her like an executioner’s axe.

And then her water broke.

A tremor ran through her body, not of pain, but of certainty. This was it. The air grew thick with something ancient, something primal, as her contractions wracked her body. The maids rushed forward, prepared for the grueling task of delivering their queen’s heir.

But Yuki knew, in that moment, that they would not be enough.

The death she sensed was not an external force—it was her child. He did not intend to enter this world like a fragile, wailing infant. He would carve his way into it, and if she proved too weak, she would be his first offering.

Her lips curled into something between a grimace and a smirk.

Is that how it is, my son?

A deep, guttural laugh bubbled in her throat. The maids flinched as a dark aura erupted around her, warping the very air. Her body shifted, bones cracking, flesh warping as she embraced her true form. The horns upon her head gleamed, her blackened claws extending as her robe slipped from her shoulders, revealing her protruding stomach.

Fear should be the first instict for most cretaure but for the people of Björn, it brought them excitement and it struck the hearts of those around her, but none dared to move.

Then, in one swift, deliberate motion, Yuki dragged a single claw across her stomach.

The flesh split open with unnatural ease, blood spilling onto the cold stone beneath her feet. There was no cry of pain, no hesitation. She reached into herself with unwavering resolve, her fingers curling around the thing within her womb.

And then she pulled.

The chamber filled with the wet, sickening sound of something being torn from its resting place.

Silence fell.

The prince did not cry.

Instead, he opened his blood-red eyes, his gaze dark and piercing, filled not with confusion or fear, but with annoyance.

His mother had denied him his first feast.

Floating in midair, the newborn shook off Yuki’s grasp, levitating as though gravity itself was beneath him. His gaze locked onto hers, the blood dripping from his small form staining the air around him like an unholy baptism.

He had wanted to be born into death. Instead, he had been dragged into life.

Yuki, still in her devil form, met his gaze without flinching. The maids trembled in horror, pressing themselves against the walls as mother and son stared at each other, their power filling the room like a suffocating storm.

An unspoken challenge passed between them.

This is the world you are born into. The prince’s lips parted, as if to speak, his first word being—

"Weak."

The word was spoken with eerie clarity, carrying a weight far beyond the voice of a newborn. It was not the wailing cry of an infant, nor the helpless coo of one just entering the world. It was a declaration—one filled with judgment, disappointment, and something even darker.

The maids, already trembling from witnessing their queen rip open her own stomach in a grotesque display of power, gasped as the prince hovered in mid-air. Blood still clung to his small yet unnervingly perfect form, his tiny chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. His skin bore a strange, unnatural red smoothness, untouched by the wrinkles or fragility of new-borns. His small protruding horns and small tail, flailing behind him.