I Tricked a God

The noisy tavern was buzzing with voices and shouts.

A ring-shaped bar occupied the very center of the hall, surrounded by a crowd of patrons, with just as many seated at the tables around it.

Laughter, the clink of mugs, and loud conversations intertwined into a single hum in which individual phrases were easily lost. Regulars, having shed their work mantles and gloves, relaxed after grueling shifts—some argued about ore prices, some boasted of a profitable deal, and some simply drank without involving themselves in others’ conversations.

Behind the bar, the entrance to a spiral staircase led down below. Whenever another barrel ran dry, sturdy men climbed up those steps with fresh kegs slung over their shoulders.

But below was not only a cellar.

Beneath the main hall lay another room, smaller and quieter—a place only for members of the Forsaken Brotherhood. No signs, no prying eyes, no random guests.

There, at one of the massive wooden tables, Kael and the Black Rat sat, drinking in calm silence.

Kael took a sip, letting the strong liquor burn his throat, and exhaled in satisfaction.

“That’s better… My thoughts are starting to settle.”

Though he was too young to be drinking, the Black Rat understood perfectly well that she was hardly in a position to lecture him or forbid him anything. Especially after what they had done not long ago.

She smirked, swirling the mug in her hand.

“You bounced back fast. I had a much harder time with my first kill.”

Kael lifted his gaze to her, a little more attentively than before, and asked, “May I ask about the details? Or would you rather not revisit it?”

The Black Rat snorted, leaning back in her chair.

“I’m not one to run from the past. It’s part of my story. And part of me.”

Raising her mug, she held it at eye level. In the depths of her pupils, a cold light flickered for a moment.

“During the orphan crisis, Lasthold was far less safe than it is now. When I was fourteen, an old man took an interest in me…”

She took a lazy sip and continued in the same even tone:

“He lured me to his home with promises of food and warmth. But when night fell… he showed his true colors.”

Kael immediately grimaced.

“What a piece of shit…”

The Black Rat gave a short smirk.

“Fortunately, he underestimated me. Before he could do anything, I used the homemade knife I always kept on me.”

She fell silent for a moment, frozen with her mug raised. But after a few seconds, she added:

“To be honest, I can talk about it calmly now. When I ran from that bastard’s house, it took me many months to recover.”

For several seconds, she stared at the table, as if seeing not the wood grain but memories.

“I wonder,” she added quietly, “is our world sick… or is the problem Lasthold itself and its people?”

Kael remained silent for a few seconds.

A thought flashed through his mind: “This happens everywhere, in all Mortal Dimensions. Even the Gods are no better… But can the world itself be blamed for that?”

He slowly rotated his mug, watching drops of alcohol slide down its sides.

“I’d rather say the world is sick, not us,” he finally said thoughtfully. “But that answer is too convenient. It allows any bastard to cast off responsibility.”

He lifted his gaze to the Black Rat.

“If the world is to blame—then no one in particular is guilty. And that’s a lie.”

After a brief pause, he continued:

“I’d say the problem lies in the very concepts of good and evil, right and wrong. Perhaps all these concepts were invented simply to soothe the mind. To avoid a bitter truth—that the world is chaos, and everything in it is essentially meaningless.”

He took a small sip and smiled wryly.

“Perhaps good and evil simply don’t exist. We once invented them… and now, for some reason, we’ve begun to expect the world to play along.”

For a moment, silence fell between them. The tavern’s hum hadn’t faded, but at their table a brief pause lingered.

The Black Rat let her gaze linger on Kael’s face and thought, not daring to voice it aloud, “Just how old are you really, Kael?”

But suddenly they were interrupted by a cheerful, ringing voice from a neighboring table.

“Boss, want to join us? You look like you could use a change of mood.”

The speaker was a beautiful, slender woman with violet hair gathered into a long ponytail. She sat at a table where seven people were gambling at cards, placing bets as they played. Coins, several Brotherhood tokens, and already emptied mugs lay before them.

The Black Rat laughed, clearly about to respond.

But at the very moment she opened her mouth, a sharp sound rang out from the direction of the spiral staircase.

A man appeared at the top of the stairs. Instead of running down the steps, he vaulted over the railing and landed heavily on the lower hall’s floor.

The boards thudded beneath his boots, and the surrounding conversations died out instantly.

Every face in the room, including Kael’s, snapped toward him. A mixture of horror and disbelief burned in the man’s eyes, as though he had just witnessed something impossible.

He was breathing heavily, as if he had been running without stopping.

The Black Rat was about to speak, but he beat her to it, blurting out in a single breath:

“Boss, you… you need to get to the southern gate immediately! It’s… it’s madness!”

Seeing his state, she rose at once, her mind already racing through possibilities: “A leak of information? One of the Brotherhood killed?”

For a split second, she wondered if someone had discovered Zeiran’s murder. But not seeing the connection, she shot back sharply:

“What do the southern gates have to do with this?”

And in the next moment came the words that made Kael spring to his feet.

The man shook his head and, still not believing his own words, shouted:

“There are people there! Not from Lasthold!”

“What did you say?” Kael snapped, tension coiling inside him.

The man immediately turned to him and reported quickly, clearly aware of his status: “There are around two dozen outsiders. And judging by their auras… they’re incredibly strong. Almost all of them are Golden Mages. And there’s even a Jade Mage among them!”

He swallowed.

“The Elders are being urgently summoned right now!”

The moment he said that, Kael and the Black Rat exchanged a glance—and said at the same time:

“We have to hurry!”

Without wasting a second, they rushed toward the spiral staircase. Kael leapt over the last steps, touching the railing only for balance, and even as he ran, his thoughts coiled tighter and tighter.

“Outsiders—that’s bad. Especially if they’re stronger than Lasthold. Such encounters rarely end well…”

They burst into the main hall of the tavern and, without slowing, raced across it, drawing the patrons’ attention. Some recoiled, some cursed after them, and some simply froze with mugs in hand, not understanding what was happening.

The door flew open, letting in the cold night air, and a moment later they were gone.

✦ ✦ ✦

As they raced through the night streets, the Black Rat shot Kael a suspicious look and asked, her tone pointed, “Kael… do you know anything about these events?”

He snapped his head toward her, even parting his lips in surprise for a moment.

“Do you think I can see the future or something?”

The Black Rat met his gaze.

“That thought crossed my mind.”

Kael quickly shook his head.

“Believe me—this is just as much a shock to me.”

Inwardly, he added, “Maybe I do know of certain events that have yet to happen… But my knowledge of Lasthold’s fate and the Human Dimension ended the moment I fell into the Master’s slavery.”

They continued running in silence. Each tried to make sense of what was happening.

In the central part of the city, almost nothing had changed—the same lights, laughter, conversations, and occasional tipsy groups. But the closer they drew to the southern gate, the more noticeable the commotion became.

People gathered in clusters, whispering; some were already hurrying in the same direction. Rumors spread like wildfire, and the crowd swelled almost before their eyes.

Seeing someone not from Lasthold after five hundred years of isolation was almost like witnessing a miracle.

When they turned another corner, a dense crowd gathered in a semicircle at the southern gate came into view.

“Come on,” the Black Rat said shortly.

She grabbed Kael and pulled him close, as if shielding him from random shoves, and in a few swift steps closed the distance to the crowd. Gently pushing people aside with her mana, she carved a narrow corridor ahead of them, quickly forcing her way through, Kael close behind.

People did not even immediately realize they were being moved—they only felt their feet take a step aside on their own.

In under twenty seconds, Kael and the Black Rat reached the very front line, where Lasthold’s guards stood shoulder to shoulder, holding back the crowd.

A thick murmur filled the air—gasps, hushed whispers, nervous breaths.

And at last, Kael saw the scene.

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The southern gates were already closed.

Inside the square before the gates stood figures in red cloaks and armor. Their cloaks barely stirred in the wind, their armor reflected the torchlight, and they held themselves upright, without a trace of agitation.

As Kael’s gaze swept over them, a thought flashed through his mind: “What the… Those aren’t the robes of any of the three ancient empires.”

Several dozen of Lasthold’s Elders had already gathered near the outsiders.

But the strange thing was—they weren’t speaking.

And in the next instant, it became clear why. One of the outsiders shifted his weight. His armor clinked softly as he straightened and spoke in an even, confident voice:

“Va mire se enmora haliven no thirean moras… Elar sena mire lanor valeth magea.”

The sound of his voice carried across the square—the language foreign, yet strangely familiar in rhythm.

But the moment he heard it, Kael flinched.

He did not know this language. Neither in Lasthold nor in any records he knew of was such a language used. And yet he grasped the meaning almost perfectly.

“It sounds like a fusion of the Primal Element Empire’s language and that of the Moon Mage Empire…” flashed through his mind.

He quickly replayed what he had heard, parsing intonations and familiar word roots.

“He’s surprised by the size of our city… and by the strength of some of our mages…”

Fragments of ancient chronicles describing the dialects of the two empires surfaced in his memory, and Kael added inwardly, “And he mentioned something like ‘the far side of the mountains.’”

Kael’s fists clenched subtly, and a stab of foreboding pierced him.

“If they crossed the Central Dragon Mountains… then they’re definitely stronger than Lasthold.”

At that very moment, a gray-haired old man with a neatly trimmed beard and a truly imposing aura stepped forward and addressed the warrior. He responded in the same language, but more calmly, more measuredly:

“Na lumer varos ria senel minor capitalae provira sena. Valora felian… va valora pastenar.”

Kael’s mind raced.

The words broke into familiar roots, endings shifting as two ancient dialects interwove.

His jaw lowered slightly as an approximate translation formed in his mind: “Their city does not fall short of some of our provincial capitals… This is great fortune… and a great…”

Kael’s heart gave a sharp, uneasy jolt. It was the final word that unsettled him. The root “pastenar” echoed far too clearly in his mind.

Realizing what the word meant, he whispered almost inaudibly, “He called us a new flock?”

At that moment, whispers rippled through the crowd.

“Did you hear that? I think I caught the word ‘capital.’ Or maybe I imagined it.”

“No, you’re right… I picked up something too.”

Without taking her eyes off the outsiders, the Black Rat asked quietly, “Kael… why do some of their words sound familiar to me?”

He kept staring ahead, as if in a trance, and answered almost unconsciously:

“Because part of their language is built on the tongue of the ancient Primal Element Empire. And much of Lasthold’s language descends from it.”

Hearing his whisper, the Black Rat turned sharply to him.

“You understand them?”

Kael shot her a glance, and there was not a trace of joy in his eyes.

“Only in broad strokes. And I don’t like what I’m hearing…”

“Why?” she pressed, tension rising inside her.

A cold realization settled in Kael’s mind: “If he speaks of a new flock… then they worship one of the Gods. And no God would take a weak or minor state under His protection.”

He exhaled slowly and answered aloud, his voice grim:

“We’re far weaker than the place they come from. I’m afraid this bodes ill for us.”

And as if to confirm his words, another murmur rolled through the crowd.

“Make way,” a stern, deep voice rang out.

People hurriedly stepped aside, forming a path.

Three figures emerged through the crowd—Durimar, Vulnar, and Duran.

Their appearance instantly changed the atmosphere. The guards straightened, and the whispering faded.

At the sight of them, Kael thought, “Old Duran is here… With his knowledge, he should be able to understand their speech as well.”

The three strongest Elders of Lasthold stepped forward and stopped several paces from the outsiders.

They held themselves upright, restrained, dignified. But even from a distance, the shock in their eyes was visible. Even they could not fully believe what was happening.

Durimar stepped forward and, inclining his head in a respectful bow, spoke, “I greet you on behalf of Lasthold.”

He placed his palm against his chest.

“My name is Durimar.”

For a moment, a heavy, ringing silence settled over the square.

The outsiders exchanged glances, and the same gray-haired old man with the neat beard and heavy, confident aura stepped forward again. Like Durimar, he placed his palm to his chest—a gesture strikingly similar to the local sign of respect—and said:

“Va thal se no Impera Seryth Dravonar. Nomar se Cornelius.”

As soon as the outsiders replied, Durimar raised his head and visibly tensed. He understood nothing of what had been said except the old man’s name and the word “empire.”

Instinctively, he turned to Duran and, without a word, seemed to ask with his eyes: “Do you understand them?”

And in that moment, he saw shock flicker across Duran’s face.

But a second later, Duran gathered himself. His back straightened, his gaze sharpening. He stepped forward, moving slightly ahead of the other Elders, and to the crowd’s astonishment, began speaking in the unknown language.

Slowly choosing his words. With noticeable uncertainty in the endings. Yet he spoke.

“Nomar se Duran… Lo shae se lingora antira… Imperia vethera. Va… ria senal… descendantar du Impera antira?”

A faint murmur rippled across the square—no one understood the meaning, but the very fact that one of the Elders was responding in a foreign tongue already seemed incredible.

The moment he finished speaking, the old outsider who had named himself Cornelius raised his brows in surprise.

He clearly had not expected to meet someone here capable of speaking with him. At this unexpected turn, a rare, delighted smile spread across his face.

Hearing Duran’s words, Kael noted inwardly, “A good question… I knew the old man would catch onto the roots of their language.”

Despite the halting structure of his phrases, Duran had made two things clear: he had studied ancient languages, and he understood the foundation of their language.

Most importantly, he had asked directly whether they were descendants of the two ancient empires.

After the long tension, there was even a faint sense of reconciliation. As if two branches of the same ancient tree had suddenly recognized each other after centuries.

Cornelius’s smile lasted only a moment.

Then his expression changed. His gaze became solemn, almost exalted, and his voice grew louder and clearer. He stepped forward, as though addressing not only Duran but the entire square, and declared:

“Valora mirath… enmora vera! Va elar ria shae lingora antira—ira venath ria no Impera Seryth Dravonar lumer thalen!”

The words rolled across the square, echoing off the stone walls.

And almost immediately, with even greater conviction—almost fanatically—he added:

“Devar Varyn et Seryth thalir ria no servanar!”

Confusion settled over the crowd. People exchanged glances; some tried to grasp familiar word roots, but for most it remained nothing more than strange, sonorous speech.

But Kael and Duran’s expressions darkened almost simultaneously.

The Black Rat, noticing how Kael had stiffened, turned sharply to him.

“Kael, what did he say? Why did you go pale?”

He clenched his teeth so tightly that the muscles along his jaw stood out, and leaning closer to her, hissed, trying not to be overheard:

“He said… that miracles are possible. And since some among us understand their language, our joining their Empire will be easier.”

He faltered, feeling a chill rise within him.

Then, more grimly, he added, “And then he declared… that the God of Blood and War accepts us into His service.”

The Black Rat merely raised an eyebrow, and a skeptical smirk flickered across her lips.

“The God of Blood and War? What kind of nonsense is that supposed to be?” she snorted quietly. “More fanatics offering sacrifices to their God?”

And then, less confidently but with her habitual stubbornness, she added, “Gods are fairy tales for fools.”

Kael did not respond.

He continued staring ahead, at Cornelius and his people, but his thoughts had already drifted far beyond the square.

“The God of Blood and War…” The name echoed in his mind once more. “I know almost nothing about Him… Even in the Divine Library, He was considered one of the younger Gods, having ascended only recently.”

An unpleasant cold settled in his chest.

“Could it be that for seven hundred years, the Human Dimension has been in His service?”

And almost immediately, another thought flared up—far more practical and troubling:

“Damn… I may need the Soul-Veiling Amulet much sooner than I thought.”

At that moment, Durimar noticed Duran’s expression and asked quietly, “What happened?”

Duran slowly shifted his gaze to him. For several seconds he remained silent, as though unwilling to speak what he had heard aloud, and then finally said, “They… They want to absorb us into their Empire.”

The words were spoken quietly, but the tension around them intensified at once.

While the crowd tensed, Vulnar flared up with anger. Tongues of fiery mana licked along his shoulders and forearms, and even the nearest guards felt the heat. It was not an attack, but a display of power.

He stepped forward and barked, not hiding his fury:

“Tell them our hospitality has its limits! We bow to no one—and we never will!”

But before Vulnar’s mana could fully blaze, something far more terrifying happened.

The bald man with the tattoo of a serpent’s maw across his face took a single short, almost lazy step forward.

And in the next instant—DUUUM!

A wave of mana pressure burst from him, and the air itself seemed to turn dense and viscous. The very air seemed to tremble, and an invisible weight seemed to roll across the square.

People collapsed to their knees, as if the air itself had grown several times heavier. The stone pavement shuddered, several torches went out, someone screamed—but the cry broke into a rasp as their lungs refused to draw a full breath.

Only three remained standing—Duran, Vulnar, and Durimar.

Even then, their knees trembled.

The Black Rat, for her part, did not hesitate to follow the crowd’s lead and was already kneeling along with everyone else. But now, on her face, as on the faces around her, was genuine terror.

Vulnar, staring ahead and not believing what he was feeling, muttered, “W-what the hell is this…”

Kael, clenching his teeth so hard that his temples throbbed, felt the pressure driving him into the ground. He raised his gaze to the bald man and thought clearly, “Damn… He’s a Domain Mage…”

The Black Rat, trembling with genuine fear for the first time in a long while, said quietly, “Kael… what kind of power is this?”

He leaned closer, barely maintaining his balance under the monstrous pressure, and whispered through clenched teeth:

“He’s an entire stage above you… No one in Lasthold can stand against him.”

His gaze remained fixed on the outsider, and he added coldly, “We’re in a far worse position than I assumed.”

And in that tense moment, Cornelius spoke again.

He calmly raised his hand and placed his palm on the bald man’s shoulder, as if giving a subtle signal. The mana pressure vanished as suddenly as it had come. The air lightened, and people drew deep breaths, coughing at the sudden release.

The bald man took a short step back, returning to his place, as though nothing had happened.

A murmur swept across the square—some were afraid to rise from their knees, glancing around in confusion. Others still trembled, unable to believe that the pressure was gone.

Cornelius slowly swept his gaze over the crowd. There was no irritation in his eyes—only a calm assessment of the result. Satisfied that the display of power had achieved the desired effect, he smiled again. And in a kindly, almost paternal tone, he said:

“Na thare sena ria. Va lumer halir sena venath ria miren… na varak, na sanguen valeth.”

The words sounded gentle, yet steel lay beneath them.

Almost immediately, the translation flared in Kael’s mind: “We are not your enemies. And we would prefer to bring you to submission peacefully… without war, without spilled blood.”

He clenched his teeth and whispered barely audibly, “Yeah… sure.”

But the bitter truth was obvious—Lasthold had no real choice.

Duran leaned forward and quietly whispered something to Durimar and Vulnar. They exchanged a few tense words, but without excess emotion. Vulnar’s anger no longer burned so brightly—after what he had witnessed, he understood the balance of power as well as the others.

At last, Duran straightened and, gesturing with his hand toward the center of Lasthold, carefully—somewhat awkwardly, yet clearly enough—spoke:

“Elar venira… na shador enmora. Halir se, thalen ria no lumer saleth, no valora domera.”

His accent was heavy, his endings imprecise, but the meaning was clear.

Kael shifted his gaze to the Black Rat and, without even waiting for her question, explained quietly:

“Duran apologized and invited them to a more suitable and worthy place for discussion.”

The outsiders exchanged glances and nodded almost in unison. Calm confidence showed on several of their faces. It seemed they were accustomed to others playing by their rules.

Cornelius nodded to his subordinates, and the group in red began to move forward, following Durimar, Vulnar, and Duran.

The crowd, still not fully understanding what had just occurred, parted before them. Terror and awe mingled in their eyes. Some looked at the outsiders as at a miracle, others as harbingers of misfortune. The whispering did not cease, spreading in waves across the square.

The Black Rat, watching as the Elders led them toward the center of the city, clenched her teeth and said quietly:

“Are they really going to bow to the outsiders?”

Kael frowned darkly, not taking his eyes off the receding figures.

“I don’t want to admit it… but right now it’s the best option.”

He felt everything inside him recoil at those words. Yet cold calculation was merciless: after that display of power, any open refusal would lead to far worse consequences.

Kael’s gaze darkened, and he muttered inwardly, “Damn… And here I thought that with Zeiran’s death, my life would become much simpler.”

In the minds of many in the crowd, a single anxious question lingered: “What will happen next?”