The Guardian gods-Chapter 514

Yet here it was.

And here was this goblin mage, unfazed.

The portal pulsed softly, beckoning.

Whoever awaited him on the other side, Rattan knew they were no ordinary figure. A deep breath steadied his nerves, though his heart was racing.

Without another word, Rattan stepped into the portal.

The goblin mage followed, and the portal sealed behind them like a door slamming shut on everything Rattan had ever known.

In the quiet stillness of his grand study, Archmage Kroza stood before a floating crystal, its surface shimmering with arcane energy. With a sigh, he extended his hand and sent out a silent call.

Moments later, the image of Vellok—stern-faced and robed in deep crimson—flickered into existence before him.

"I call to inform you," Kroza began, his voice calm but heavy with intent, "that the one in the palace has taken an interest in another goblin student—one who walks the path of magitech."

Vellok’s expression remained unreadable. He gave a slow nod, already turning slightly to end the transmission.

But Kroza’s voice sharpened. "Wait."

The archmage’s tone stopped Vellok mid-motion.

"I know how it appears—a mere repetition of past patterns. That figure always had a habit of choosing strange protégés. But this time... this student is different. Mark my words, Vellok."

Vellok raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"It wouldn’t be surprising," Kroza continued, his eyes narrowing, "if this child were to ascend to greatness under that man’s tutelage. I dare say, we could be watching the birth of a sixth-stage mage... one aligned with him."

That did it.

Vellok turned back fully, no longer in a hurry to end the call. The weight of Kroza’s words lingered in the air like incense after a ritual—impossible to ignore.

Kroza saw the shift and pressed forward.

"You understand what that means, don’t you? We may be nurturing a future problem. No... two problems. And we’ve let that ticking bomb in the palace walk freely for far too long."

He leaned in slightly, voice dropping lower, more conspiratorial.

"Why not use this opportunity to finally deal with him? We have reason, motive, and leverage. A promising student with an unstable past... all eyes will be on him. If anything happens, well... unfortunate things do occur when power is mishandled."

Vellok said nothing for a long moment. But the glint in his eyes was answer enough.

The call ended.

And in the stillness that followed, Kroza allowed himself the faintest smile.

In the heart of the capital, not far from the gleaming spires of the imperial palace, a ripple tore open in the air above a secluded building. From within the swirling portal, Rattan and the mysterious goblin mage stepped out.

"Follow me," the mage said, his tone brisk and unyielding.

Rattan complied, masking his unease behind an expression of quiet composure. Yet inwardly, he struggled to contain the awe swelling within him. The capital’s architecture was staggering—ornate bridges of aethersteel, enchanted lanterns suspended midair, and towering buildings engraved with runes older than memory. And above them all, casting a long shadow of power and majesty, loomed the castle proper.

It was no less magnificent than the mage towers he’d grown used to—perhaps even more so. This was a place where decisions shook empires.

Eventually, they reached a vast door of blackwood and silver inlay, etched with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly at their approach.

"You go on without me," the mage said without looking back.

And then, like smoke dispersing in the wind, he was gone.

Rattan stood alone before the door. He looked down at his robes, straightened them, exhaled deeply, and prepared himself.

With a deep rumble, the door began to open of its own accord, creaking wide with slow, deliberate weight. What lay beyond was a circular chamber, dimly lit by floating crystals, with a single throne of obsidian and bone at its center.

Seated upon the throne was a figure.

Rattan’s eyes instinctively went to the figure’s face—but what he saw defied comprehension. He knew there were facial features there, but every time he tried to grasp them, his mind slipped away as if rejecting the image. It wasn’t cloaked or hidden—his perception simply refused to process it.

So instead, he looked to the silhouette. Broad-shouldered, massive, layered with muscle beneath elegant robes far too refined for any soldier or brute.

An ogre.

His breath caught in his throat.

"But how could it be?" Rattan thought, his mind racing.

There was one fundamental truth within the Empire—goblins stood above ogres.

Goblins were the scholars, the mages, the architects of civilization. Ogres were brutes—useful in battle, yes, but crude, barely above beasts, and incapable of even the simplest magic. Their place had always been below.

And yet here he knelt, in the throne room of a figure whose presence radiated more power than most archmages, and that figure was clearly an ogre.

Rattan dropped to one knee, head bowed low. Whatever rules he thought he understood... no longer applied here.

Whatever this being was, it shattered every known order of the Empire.

Rattan found himself frozen, the words he meant to speak caught in his throat. A colossal hand, heavy and warm, settled on his shoulder, accompanied by a deep, soothing voice that seemed to resonate from the very depths of the chamber. "I could guess what occupies your thoughts at this very moment?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Rattan raised his gaze. An ogre, clad in surprisingly ornate royal attire, stood impossibly close. Yet, despite the proximity, the ogre’s features remained veiled in shadow, an enigma that amplified Rattan’s unease. The immense figure seemed unfazed by Rattan’s stunned silence, continuing in that low, rumbling tone. "It’s a familiar refrain. When goblins of your ilk first stand before me, their minds invariably echo the same arrogant question: ’How dare an ogre command a throne and be served by mages of such caliber?’ Initially, such blatant disbelief held a certain amusement, but the novelty has long since worn thin."

With a fluid grace that belied his size, the ogre was suddenly seated upon the elevated throne, leaving Rattan slightly disoriented by the swift change in proximity. "Your presence was requested today not out of mere curiosity, but because your inherent talent and the path you currently tread resonate with ambitions I myself once held."

A moment of silence hung in the air before the ogre’s voice, now carrying the weight of authority from his seat, cut through it. "Tell me, fledgling magitech artisan, what was your experience upon first grasping the intricate knowledge of magitech?"

Rattan hesitated for a moment, still kneeling, his thoughts racing to catch up with the surreal reality he was standing in. The warmth of the ogre’s massive hand still lingered on his shoulder—a gesture surprisingly gentle despite its size. But what disturbed him even more than the impossibility of the ogre’s position, or the mystery of his obscured face, was the truth in his words.

He had thought it. How dare an ogre...?

And now, that thought tasted bitter.

"I..." Rattan finally spoke, his voice low and uncertain. "I felt pride... and then shame."

The ogre, sitting again on the throne as if he had never moved, let out a deep, rumbling chuckle. "Good. You’re not lying to yourself. That means your mind hasn’t yet become useless."

Rattan rose slightly from his knee, not standing but no longer prostrate, as the ogre continued.

"When you first learned about magitech—true magitech, not that watered-down parody they let apprentices play with—what did you feel?"

Rattan’s eyes lowered.

"Despair," he admitted. "I thought I had discovered something new. I thought... I was walking a path no one else dared to. That it was mine. But when I saw how well documented it already was—how the Empire had studied and discarded it like a solved puzzle—I felt like a fool. Like a clown dancing on a stage that was built centuries before I was born."

The ogre leaned back, elbows resting on the arms of his throne. "So you met the truth, and it stripped you bare. That’s how you know your path is real."

Rattan blinked, unsure if he had misheard. "...What?"

"The road worth walking," the ogre said, his tone slow and deliberate, "always begins with disillusionment. If you felt pride after receiving that memory crystal, I’d have sent someone else. But the fact that you cried, that you sat frozen in that little room of yours for two weeks, means you’re ready. You’ve lost the illusion that you are special. Which means you’re now capable of becoming something more."

Rattan was silent. It was as though the ogre could see the thoughts he hadn’t dared say aloud.

"There was a time when magitech was more than a footnote in the Empire’s history," the ogre continued. "It was my time. It was a revolution—until it wasn’t. Until the council decided it was too egalitarian."

Rattan’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

"I see myself in you, Nixbolt. Not because of your origin," the ogre said, voice suddenly low and sharp. "But because you saw something broken in the world and dared to think you could fix it. That is not arrogance—it is the seed of rebellion."