The Guardian gods

Chapter 420: 420

The last battle had taught them much. The assault on Jaws’ counterpart had been an invaluable lesson—one that revealed how the demigods had learned to usher the Origin Gods into the mortal realm, allowing them to manifest briefly. If left unchecked, the demigods would ascend, and those damned rune pillars—bindings of order and balance—would be laid out once more, fortifying the world against their intrusion. That could not be allowed.

So, they waited. They gathered. Their zealots had grown in number, their power needed not to be tempered but amassed. If the Origin Gods wanted to play by the rules, then so be it. The dark counterparts would do the same. Let mortals fight mortals, let devotion clash against devotion—there would be no loopholes, no technicalities to exploit. Just war.

Across the void, the five dark counterparts exchanged silent glances. No words were needed. They all came to the same conclusion.

The absence of Ikenga and Keles had left two vulnerable points in the divine barrier.

Unlike their previous attack, where they had blindly battered the shield in a frenzy, this time, they moved with precision. As one, the five dark counterparts converged upon a single gap in the defenses.

This time, they would not be repelled. This time, the world would tremble.

The first sign was a low, guttural hum that reverberated across the land—a sound not heard by mortal ears but felt in the bones, in the very essence of existence. The night sky, once clear, darkened at the edges, as if an unseen force was pressing against reality itself.

The dark counterparts had begun their assault.

The breach point—one of the two left by Ikenga and Keles’ absence—shuddered as the five counterparts poured their will into it. The divine barrier groaned, the air rippling like fabric stretched too thin. And then, a single fracture. A hairline crack in the shield.

That was enough.

From that crack, corruption bled into the physical world. It did not come as a flood but as a whisper, a subtle warping of reality that infected the air and the earth. The land beneath the breach blackened, as if scorched by unseen flames, and a creeping chill slithered through the wind, sapping warmth from everything it touched.

In the cities, the devout felt it first—a sudden weight in their chests, an inexplicable sense of dread that made their prayers falter. The rune pillars that had been erected in preparation flickered, their inscriptions twisting for the briefest moment before stabilizing.

But it was enough.

The Origin Gods, ever watchful, reacted in an instant. Aetherial forms descended like falling stars, each Origin God taking their position, radiating power that blazed against the growing taint. Divine energies surged, stabilizing the cracks before they could spread further. In the heavens, celestial light clashed with abyssal shadow as the first blows were exchanged, rippling across both realms like shockwaves.

And just like that, the dark counterparts achieved their initial goal.

The Origin Gods’ attention was pulled away, their focus shifting toward containing the breach.

The demigods, left unguarded by divine oversight, now stood vulnerable.

It was time for the zealots to move.

Scattered across the world, those who had pledged themselves to the dark counterparts stirred. Some had been waiting in the shadows for this very moment. Others had lived among the faithful, wearing masks of loyalty until now. As one, they began to act.

Since today’s events had been long anticipated, the demigods had sent an early notice to every kingdom. Now, the entire continent was silent. Each ruler had ensured that no one remained outside at this crucial hour—people huddled in their homes, whispering prayers, hoping the night would pass without incident.

The night stretched on, thick with the weight of unspoken fear. Across the land, kingdoms had sealed themselves away, their citizens clinging to faith behind locked doors, waiting for dawn. But in one city—teeming with hundreds of thousands under Omadi’s rule—prayers would not be enough.

The first sign was the red shield.

Without warning, it flared to life above one of the noble houses, its crimson glow bleeding across the skyline like an open wound. The eerie pulse of its light matched the hidden rituals taking place below, where the Zealots—once human, now hunched and feathered, their devotion consuming them—completed the final step of their long-prepared sacrament.

Beneath the noble estate, deep in the underground chambers, loomed a grotesque statue of Crepuscular’s counterpart. A writhing mass of flesh, formed over years of sacrifice and secrecy, sat at its center, its gaping cavity waiting.

Then, at last, the offering was placed. A tremor passed through the city’s very bones.

The Zealots spoke as one, their voices merging in unnatural harmony:

"The time has come." Luminous eyes turned skyward.

"It is time to welcome our brethren." And the world answered.

From the mirrored realm—the upside-down world where shadows beings now under the rule of the gods dark counterparts—a shift occurred. For a moment, the barrier between worlds trembled, fragile. Excitement rippled through the waiting entities, their formless shapes flickering and pulsing as they stirred.

The red shield had not been a defense. It was a beacon, a key and the gate had been unlocked.

In the city’s silent streets, where even the wind no longer stir, shadows stretched unnaturally. They rippled across cobblestones, pooled in alleyways, darkened doorways. And then—they stepped through.

At first, they were nothing more than shapes, silhouettes bleeding from empty spaces. But as they fully crossed into the physical world, they took form—inhuman figures that twitched and contorted, their eyes brimming with unnatural hunger. Their gazes cut through walls and stone, piercing through the city with eerie clarity, separating those who belonged to them from those who did not.

The people, huddled in their homes, were unaware of what had come for them.

But the Zealots knew.

They stood with bowed heads, bodies trembling in ecstasy, as the first of the shadow beings reached them. There was no fear, no resistance—only acceptance. The Zealots convulsed as the entities poured into them, warping their flesh to accommodate the dark essence now surging through their veins.

They had become vessels. For the rest of the city—the unknowing sacrifices—there would be no such mercy.

The hunt had begun. At first, it was subtle.

A creeping unease settled over the city, gnawing at the edges of the mind. Prayers faltered in darkened rooms as an unnatural chill slithered through the air. Fires dimmed without reason, their embers flickering weakly. The very walls of homes groaned, as if something unseen pressed against them, waiting.

Then came the sound.

A low, resonating hum—not human, not mechanical, but something else entirely. Something alive. It vibrated through stone and wood, rattling windows, shaking dust from the rafters. It pressed against skulls, seeped into marrow, igniting a primal terror beyond words.

Something was wrong.

Doors creaked open. Curtains were pushed aside. Hesitant hands reached out, eyes peered into the night. And then, the realization struck.

The city was no longer as it had been.

Above, the red shield loomed, its eerie glow staining the streets in unnatural crimson. The sky beyond it was no longer the familiar night—no stars, no moon, only a swirling abyss of black and red, shifting like something alive. And the shadows... they moved where no light touched, stretching, writhing, reaching.

Then, the first scream shattered the silence.

A woman stumbled from her home, her eyes wide with terror, her voice raw with desperation. She clawed at the air, as if grasping for something unseen. Then, her body seized. Dark tendrils coiled around her, sinking into her flesh. Her mouth opened in a silent, soundless cry before she collapsed.

When she rose again, she was not herself. Panic spread like wildfire, People poured into the streets, abandoning their homes in a frantic bid to flee. Families clung to their children, nobles and commoners alike running without direction, without purpose—driven only by the desperate need to escape.

But escape was an illusion.

The red shield that had once seemed distant now loomed impossibly close, pressing down like an omen. They ran—toward the city gates, toward alleyways and hidden passages—only to find them sealed.

Some tried to scale the walls, fingers clawing at stone in frantic desperation, only to be dragged back down by unseen hands. Others turned to the temples, seeking sanctuary, only to find the doors barred, the once-sacred halls now twisted into something unholy.

And through it all, the Zealots watched. Feathered forms lurked in the shadows, their eyes gleaming with something between reverence and madness. They did not move to stop the fleeing masses.

They did not need to, the hunt had only just begun.

And the city—sealed, entrapped, doomed—belonged to the shadows now.

Along the noble district, the city guards stood at their posts, rigid under the ominous glow of the red shield. The night had been unnervingly silent—until the first scream shattered it.

Then came the flood. Terrified people surged toward the gates, clawing at the barricades, pounding on doors that would not open. Their cries filled the air, raw and desperate.

Something was wrong.