The Guardian gods-Chapter 513

Kroza’s gaze sharpened behind his crystalline lenses, scrutinizing every flicker in Rattan’s body language.

"We have observed your recent focus. Your research proposals. Your requisitions. Your questions. There is... a sudden and rather intense interest in the war."

A murmur swept across the chamber. "In steampunk warfare technology. In ratman engineering. Even in the battlefield salvage we’ve retrieved."

A beat of silence. Then Kroza leaned forward slightly.

"So tell us, Apprentice—why?"

Rattan did not answer right away. Silence was his ally. He had learned that well during his time among the mages and high goblins. Measured breaths. Controlled gaze. Words weighed like ingredients in alchemy.

"Because they built it," he said at last. His voice was calm, focused. "The ratmen. They built it under fire, under pressure, in desperation. And it worked."

More murmurs, but Kroza raised a hand to silence them.

Rattan continued.

"I am not interested in sentiment or politics. I am interested in effectiveness. There is a brutality to their engineering, yes—but also brilliance. I believe their fusion of necessity and invention produced insights we, for all our resources, have yet to understand."

"You believe our own war-forged artificers have missed something?" asked Magister Vael coldly.

"No," Rattan replied. "I believe they weren’t desperate enough."

Silence. Sharp, heavy. Rattan let it sit for a heartbeat longer. novelbuddy.cσ๓

"My path is clear," he said. "Magitech integration. Weaponry. Fortification. Efficiency. War is a crucible. I seek to understand its fire."

Kroza tapped a finger on the armrest of his seat.

"A path of destruction, then?"

"A path of understanding," Rattan corrected, without heat. "What others do with it... is not mine to decide."

Kroza tilted his head slightly. There was curiosity there, and something else—doubt? Intrigue?

Finally, the archmage gave a slow nod.

"Then you will be granted conditional approval to proceed. A space in the Vault of Integration will be assigned to you. Supervision will be light... but not absent. The College does not ignore potential. Nor does it ignore danger."

Rattan bowed. "Understood."

As he turned to leave, the murmurs resumed, faint but charged. The apprentice with a sudden interest in war. The goblin with no magical pedigree now walking the path of a battle-forger.

He walked calmly out of the chamber, each step calculated.

But inside, Phanthom chuckled. "He played that well. Not too eager. Not too afraid. Just enough mystery to let their own minds do the work."

"You know... they’d turn him to ash if they found out what he really is."

"But that’s what makes this fun."

"Indeed" Ikenga’s voice echoed in Rattan’s mind as his presence withdrew.

Meanwhile Rattan was sweating as he walked out of the room, his back sweating but for the first time in years, he left other emotions apart from grief "Joy" something that was beginning to become a rarity for him.

"Maybe, just maybe he will finally be able to close his eyes and sleep" for the first time in years. Rattan thought to himself as he walked to his room.

Rattan soon reached his room, its walls lined with faintly glowing glyphs and shelves cluttered with alchemical tools, scrap tech, and thick tomes in multiple languages. He let himself fall onto the bed, body stiff and unyielding, like something only vaguely remembering how to rest.

He closed his eyes. Nothing came. No sleep. No dreams. Only a buzzing hum behind his eyelids and the echo of too many thoughts.

His mind wasn’t quiet.

It hadn’t been since that day beneath the earth.

And so, like a statue pretending to breathe, Rattan lay still for the next four hours, eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. Watching faint magical motes drift in and out of focus in the lanternlight. Breathing. Blinking. Waiting for a calm that refused to come.

Then— A knock.

His eyes flickered. A pause.

He stood slowly, crossing the floor with mechanical precision, and opened the door.

Standing there was a female goblin courier, her green skin dusted with chalk powder and potion fumes. She held a modestly sized box in both hands. Her expression was unreadable, but her stance suggested formality, expectation.

"From the Council," she said.

Rattan nodded, silently accepting the box. Without another word, he closed the door in her face.

The latch clicked. He walked back to his workstation—half alchemy bench, half mechanical forge—and sat down, the weight of the box heavy in his lap, not just physically but symbolically.

He removed the lid. Inside was a single, exquisitely cut memory crystal, its facets pulsing faintly with captured light. Its color was not the usual clear blue, but a deep violet, like a bruise in glass.

His breath slowed. Hands steady, he picked up the crystal, inspecting it only briefly before pressing it to his forehead.

The crystal did not just rest against his skin—it sank into it, phasing through his flesh like water.

A shimmer of arcane light rippled from the point of contact.

His eyes rolled back, now showing only the whites, as his body went rigid in the chair.

Then—darkness.

Then—light.

The world around him melted away.

In his mind, a new world began to take shape. A vision pulled from memory and magic. A message not in words, but in experience.

Somewhere beyond the crystal’s light, the Council was about to show him something very important.

It took some time before Rattan’s eyes returned to normal.

When they did, he began to laugh.

It wasn’t the laugh of triumph, nor relief. It was ragged—choked and sharp—like a cracked mirror trying to reflect something whole. His shoulders trembled with each breathless chuckle, the sound teetering on the edge of hysteria.

Anyone listening closely would know:

There was no joy in that laugh.

Tears streamed down his face. Not from the intensity of the memory crystal’s integration—no, that part was expected. It was what came after that hollowed him out.

The crystal had delivered exactly what was promised: advanced knowledge, the foundation for his next step into the arcane arts. Intricate models of magical circuitry, detailed schematics of spell-conduction through steampunk arrays, and theories on mana fusion with machinery—beautiful, elegant, dangerous.

But it didn’t stop there.

What came next shattered him more than he cared to admit.

The crystal had also shown him a clear and comprehensive map—one that traced his so-called "unique" path. Every turn he thought he’d discovered on his own had already been charted. Every breakthrough, anticipated. Every invention, already outdated.

Magictech, it seemed, was not a new frontier. It was a hidden road the empire had walked long before he was even born.

His pride, so carefully built on the belief that he was forging something new, was now drowning beneath the weight of bitter truth. The Council hadn’t been surprised by his path—they’d expected it.

He felt like a child pretending to be a giant.

Worse, he felt like a clown, standing proudly before those mages, speaking boldly about his direction... not knowing he had walked into a play they’d already written.

How was he ever going to fight an enemy who had mastered the game before he ever learned the rules?

He pressed a hand to his face, wiping the tears away with a trembling palm.

But the shaking wouldn’t stop.

Not yet.

Not when everything he believed in had been turned into a cruel joke.

The excitement Rattan once felt for his new path had long since faded.

It had been washed away—drowned beneath the crushing weight of truth.

Now, he sat at his desk, his eyes empty and unfocused, as though staring through the world instead of at it. For two long weeks, he moved through the days like a ghost, following routines without thought. He made no progress on his research, no sketches, no experiments. The once-burning spark inside him had dimmed to a flicker.

And then, without warning, that stillness shattered.

A knock echoed against his door.

Slowly, Rattan stood and opened it. A figure stood outside—another goblin, clad in formal robes, but there was nothing ordinary about him.

Before Rattan could utter a word, the figure spoke.

"Freshen up. My lord asks for your presence."

The words were curt, almost dismissive—but it wasn’t just the tone that silenced Rattan. It was the aura leaking from the mage. Cold, oppressive, ancient. It pressed against Rattan’s lungs like an invisible weight. Instinctively, his mouth snapped shut. He stepped aside wordlessly, leaving the door open as the mage walked in, casual yet commanding.

Rattan turned away and hurried to the bathroom.

There was no time to question. No room for hesitation.

A quick wash. A comb through his tangled hair. A fresh robe. When he returned, the figure sat beside his desk, tapping a gnarled staff against the floor in a slow, rhythmic beat.

"I am ready, sir," Rattan said, trying to keep his voice steady.

The figure didn’t reply. He merely gave a small nod—and then tapped his staff once more, sharply this time.

Crack.

A ripple tore through the air.

A portal bloomed open in the center of Rattan’s room, warping the very space around it. The air buzzed with arcane pressure. Rattan’s eyes widened in disbelief.

Opening a portal inside a mage tower was supposed to be impossible—at least without explicit permission from the tower master. Every stone of this place was saturated with enchantments designed to prevent such distortions.