I Tricked a God

The streets of Lasthold buzzed with news.

Talk of the outsiders had not died down for several days—it was discussed in taverns, markets, and even workshops. The city, long accustomed to a steady and predictable rhythm of life, seemed to have been jolted awake. Now every passerby felt it was their duty to retell what they had heard, add their own speculation, or voice their concerns.

In the center of the city, at one of the crossroads, two old men in gray robes stood watching a two-story building with a red-tiled roof. A line stretched toward its entrance. People stood shoulder to shoulder, the line disappearing around the corner of the building.

From time to time, pale men and women emerged from the building—some with relief on their faces, others looking worried.

The old men folded their arms across their chests, making no move to approach. The silence between them was broken only by the sound of melting snow dripping from the roofs and the murmur of passersby.

The first old man—his sparse lilac hair already touched with gray—grimaced and muttered quietly:

“They’re interrogating us as if we were their subordinates… Why does the Council of Elders allow this to happen?”

The second—somewhat stout, with ashen hair and a heavy gaze—sighed wearily.

“You know the reason perfectly well,” he replied. “Considering the outsiders’ strength… we can’t afford pride.”

He fell silent for a moment, watching as another youth emerged from the building, smiling as he wiped the sweat from his face.

“What worries me more is that they’re reviewing the lists and records of all our apprentices—even some of the younger masters.”

The lilac-haired old man turned his head sharply toward him.

“I won’t let them take my grandson,” he hissed angrily. “I didn’t train and raise him just so strangers could take him away.”

Though the second old man kept himself under control, he clearly disliked what was happening as well. His upper lip twitched with irritation, but restraining himself, he replied:

“Gilmesh is almost twenty. Perhaps he’ll be spared…”

It was not only the old men who were outraged. Similar conversations echoed all around them.

Lasthold, once united in its isolation, was now divided.

“They want to ‘educate’ them? Sure they do!” someone exclaimed angrily from a nearby shop. “That’s not education—it’s kidnapping!”

“That’s right!” someone from the crowd agreed. “Today it’s ‘education,’ and tomorrow they’ll say our children decided to stay of their own will!”

Off to the side, a man with a wind-reddened face muttered through clenched teeth:

“How can we hand over our children to them? We don’t even know where they’ll take them! What if it’s a trap? What if no one ever returns?”

But, to many people’s surprise, other voices began to speak up as well.

A young man leaning against the wall of a shop, listening to the argument, snorted and said loudly:

“Old men can’t understand the ambitions of the young. If the outsiders come from lands that rival the ancient empires, then this is a great opportunity! A return to our roots!”

His words instantly sparked a wave of outrage.

“An opportunity?” someone snapped sharply. “For whom? Maybe for you! Did you think about their parents?”

“You’re just afraid of anything new!” the young man shot back.

The argument quickly escalated into open shouting, and several people had already stepped forward with clenched fists when the guards intervened. A burly man called upon his mana and barked sternly:

“That’s enough! One more word and you’ll be fined for disturbing the public order!”

Amid the murmur of discontent, the crowd gradually quieted. People fell silent, though they continued to watch the line nervously. Each had come to support someone close to them.

Such clashes happened every day now. Some had already begun to grow accustomed to the new reality, as though it were just another trial to endure.

When the noise finally faded and the guards stepped aside, several inconspicuous figures stirred quietly within the crowd. Without drawing attention, they jotted brief notes in small notebooks.

One of them—a plain-looking man in a worn jacket—closed his notebook and gave a slight nod to himself. His gaze drifted toward the two old men in gray robes who had been complaining earlier.

“Master smiths… influential within their guild,” he noted inwardly. “They may become useful allies in the future…”

With that thought, the man quietly melted back into the flow of passersby.

They were members of the Forsaken Brotherhood, and by order of the Black Rat, they were already preparing for the future that was rapidly approaching Lasthold.

✦ ✦ ✦

At that moment, while the noise of the townspeople outside had yet to subside, a very different atmosphere reigned inside the two-story building.

The line stretched along the wide corridor all the way to the massive red-wood doors, behind which, as everyone knew, were the representatives of the Blood Dragon Empire and translators from the Hall of Ancient Research. The doors were closed, but from behind them muffled voices could occasionally be heard.

No one was speaking.

People stood quietly, almost motionless, as though afraid that a careless word might draw unwanted attention to themselves. Only the occasional cough and the scrape of shoes on the stone floor disturbed the oppressive silence.

At the very front of the line stood Kael.

His face retained its usual, slightly blank expression, which many mistook for coldness or irritation.

“I didn’t think they would call Violet as well,” he reminded himself. “I already know my verdict, and I’m ready for it. But Violet…”

At that moment he felt a light touch on his shoulder.

Kael slowly turned.

Behind him stood a short young man who looked about twenty. Despite his modest height, his body looked unusually sturdy and muscular, as if he’d been hauling heavy sacks since childhood. His dark-lilac hair stuck out in every direction like stiff spikes, giving him a slightly wild appearance.

His gaze was stern, yet there was a friendly glint in his eyes.

Kael frowned faintly.

“Who’s this? Someone else was standing behind me…”

The young man smiled broadly, as if there were neither a tense line nor imperial outsiders behind the doors.

“Hey, brother, I’m in a hurry,” he said quietly, leaning a little closer. “Want to switch places?”

Then, with a wink, he added with a light grin, “I’ll toss you a few coins. I’m an honest man, after all.”

Kael merely raised one eyebrow, letting his gaze slide over him in appraisal.

“I’m sorry, but I’ll have to—”

He did not finish.

The massive red wooden door suddenly swung open, making the entire line flinch slightly. Violet stepped out of the doorway.

Her eyes met Kael’s.

He noticed at once that she was far too pale—not the usual light pallor, but a sickly one, as though some of her strength had been drained in the past few minutes. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and tension was visible in her eyes.

She did not approach.

She only gave him a brief nod and, trying to keep her voice steady, said, “I’ll wait for you by the entrance. Good luck…”

With that, she turned away and walked down the corridor without looking back, a grim expression on her face.

Kael narrowed his eyes, watching her go.

“I don’t like this… I hope they didn’t choose Violet…”

An unpleasant stab of pain pierced his chest, but he had no time to think further.

A short, pot-bellied man with a sweaty forehead and a tired expression appeared from behind the door. He held a stack of notes in his hands and, peering into the corridor, said almost apologetically, “Kael, it’s your turn…”

His voice sounded as though he was apologizing.

Kael nodded calmly, briefly straightening his clothes, and as he stepped forward, said quietly:

“Master Kunfil, there’s no need to blame yourself. None of us has a choice.”

The pot-bellied man flinched at his words and looked away, as though that simple phrase had only deepened his sense of guilt. He was one of the members of the Hall of Ancient Research, and thus he and Kael knew each other indirectly—they had crossed paths in the archives and exchanged brief remarks about ancient texts. Now the people of the Hall had found themselves in the role of intermediaries between the Blood Dragon Empire and the citizens of Lasthold, translating between the two languages.

There were several such “youth assessment posts” throughout the city. But this one was considered the most prestigious.

Here they invited the most talented young people—those whose names were already known in the guilds, the schools, or among the Elders.

As soon as Kael crossed the threshold, a small hall opened before him, with wooden columns decorated with carved patterns that vaguely resembled clouds.

The air carried the scent of burning incense; thin streams of smoke rose lazily upward, crossing the rays of the rising sun streaming through a window in the roof. The light fell directly into the center of the room, illuminating the long table in the middle.

Three people sat at that table.

The moment Kael saw the old man in the center, he inclined his head slightly, noting inwardly: “That’s the same old man… Elder Cornelius.”

Master Kunfil closed the doors, then hurried around the side of the table and stood slightly behind Kael, clearly intending to begin a formal introduction. He had already opened his mouth to speak when the old man in the center stopped him with a raised hand.

Cornelius narrowed his eyes slightly.

His red eyes, with their narrow, almost reptilian pupils, glinted with genuine interest, as though before him stood not merely a youth but a rare find.

Then, in the language of the Blood Dragon Empire, he said slowly and clearly, “You understand me, child? Isn’t that so?”

Kael did not raise his head immediately.

His eyelids only narrowed slightly. The question did not surprise him. Earlier, he and Magister Duran had already discussed how best to present his story—talented enough to arouse interest, but not so exceptional as to provoke suspicion.

This tale has been pilfered from NovelFire. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

The outsiders already knew that he was a genius in the study of languages, and a rather talented mage.

Kael slowly raised his head and, maintaining a respectful tone while deliberately breaking the structure of his phrases and roughening his speech slightly, replied in their language:

“My respect to the elders. Understand little. But understand direction of talk.”

He intentionally made his pronunciation rough and the endings imprecise.

But even that was enough.

A satisfied smile spread across Cornelius’s face at once. A lively interest flashed in his eyes, as though a valuable discovery had appeared before him.

“Magnificent!” he said with obvious enthusiasm.

Then, without taking his gaze off Kael, he waved a hand toward Master Kunfil.

“Leave us.”

Kunfil flinched.

Although he did not understand the language of the Blood Dragon Empire perfectly, the command was too simple to misunderstand. He hesitated for a moment, feeling an unpleasant sensation rising within him—as though he were about to betray Kael.

But Kael himself turned his head and said calmly, “It’s all right. I can handle it myself.”

Kunfil pressed his lips together.

“I’m sorry…” he said quietly.

With those words, he headed toward the exit, feeling a heaviness in his chest and thinking to himself: “They will take Kael. There is no doubt… What a loss for our Hall…”

As soon as the door closed softly behind him, the hall fell silent.

Cornelius studied Kael silently for a while, as though assessing not only his words, but also his posture, breathing, and subtle movements.

Then he said calmly, “Come closer. Show your mana.”

Kael nodded respectfully, accepting the command without hesitation.

As he stepped toward the table, he cast a brief glance at the two figures seated on either side of Cornelius. To the right sat a fairly young man with short red hair and sharp features. To the left sat a woman around forty, with snow-white hair gathered into a neat bun. Her posture was flawless, and her gaze was cold and calculating.

But Kael’s attention lingered on their eyes.

“They share a common lineage,” he noted inwardly.

Their pupils were narrow, slightly elongated, not entirely human. Even at rest, there was a predatory focus in them.

“Their eyes are different from ordinary human ones… I wonder why.”

With that thought he stopped a few steps from the table and, extending his arm forward, opened his palm.

His mana responded immediately.

A gray mist began to gather above his skin, swirling slowly as if alive. The currents intertwined softly and smoothly, their reflection glimmering in the eyes of the three observers.

Cornelius raised his brows with interest.

“Well now… what do we have here?” he murmured.

His gaze grew deeper, more intent.

At first he studied the mana itself, following its structure, density, and purity. Then his gaze slowly shifted to Kael’s body.

At that moment, Kael had the strange sensation that the old man was looking straight through his skin, through flesh and blood, assessing the very foundation of his magical power.

Under that piercing gaze, Kael felt uneasy.

“Evaluating my foundation without even touching me?” he noted inwardly. “That would require terrifying perception…”

A tense silence settled over the hall.

After several long seconds, Cornelius nodded in approval.

“From what I can see, the type of your soul is quite rare,” he said calmly. “It is remarkable that in such a limited place you managed to develop a full network of mana channels.”

The words carried no flattery, yet there was clear approval in them—even praise.

Kael, however, frowned slightly and, deliberately keeping his speech broken, asked, “The type… of my soul?”

At those words, the red-haired man let out a faint, contemptuous snort, as if he were looking at a provincial. His gaze held a hint of condescending superiority.

But Cornelius shot him a sharp glance. The old man did not even raise his voice—one look was enough.

The red-haired man instantly straightened like a taut string, a faint pallor appearing on his face. The mockery vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Cornelius turned his attention back to Kael and said calmly, “You will learn about it… later.”

He paused briefly, letting the words settle.

“The Blood Dragon Empire has high hopes for you, Kael.”

At those words, Kael immediately feigned confusion. His shoulders tensed slightly, and his gaze flickered as if he had not expected such a turn. Somewhat awkwardly, choosing his words carefully, he replied:

“What… does the old man mean by that?”

The white-haired woman immediately let out a soft laugh, covering her mouth with her hand.

“I told you this journey aged you terribly,” she joked, clearly hinting at Kael’s slip.

Cornelius merely smiled, not paying the mistake any mind.

“Even without prior instruction, you are already able to speak with us,” he said evenly. “Your ability may become indispensable in helping the other talented youths of Lasthold.”

With those words he extended his hand and took hold of Kael’s forearm.

The grip was not painful, but firm—a gesture of confidence and authority. A faint warmth emanated from his palm, as though his body temperature was slightly higher than normal.

“I can already see that I can rely on you,” Cornelius said seriously. “Serve the Empire, and it will reward you well. You will gain power and authority you could never have dreamed of in Lasthold.”

Though Kael outwardly appeared confused, his thoughts were perfectly clear: “Everything is going according to plan.”

He slowly lowered his head in a deep bow, showing respect, and, continuing to keep his speech broken, said, “I not understand much. But help Lasthold—my duty.”

Cornelius laughed quietly, a condescending warmth in his voice.

“Lasthold is already part of the Blood Dragon Empire,” he remarked calmly. “So now your duty extends somewhat further.”

The white-haired woman nodded approvingly.

“Don’t be afraid, boy. Soon you will realize that far more opportunities have opened up before you than you could have imagined.”

She tilted her head slightly and added as if in passing:

“We have already studied all the records about you. So there is no point in interrogating you. We summoned you simply to meet you.”

Cornelius nodded again, still holding Kael’s forearm.

“Believe me, I know what it’s like to leave home,” he said, unexpectedly softer. “Spend the next week with your family. You will not see them for a long time.”

The words carried no threat, but they were spoken with a certainty that left no room for doubt.

Then he released Kael’s arm and sat upright again, regaining his dignified posture.

“Let it be known,” he said solemnly, “that from this moment you are chosen by the Empire and stand under the protection of the God of Blood and War. We place great hopes in you, Kael.”

His gaze became intent.

Then, more quietly, almost confidentially, he added, “And I personally have high hopes for you…”

Kael bowed deeply once more, letting his shoulders tremble slightly, as though the weight of what he had heard had suddenly fallen upon him. Then, without raising his eyes, he turned and headed quickly toward the exit, as though eager to leave this place as soon as possible. There was haste in his movements, almost a flight—exactly what they were meant to see.

The door creaked softly as he pushed it open and disappeared into the corridor.

As soon as the door closed, a brief silence settled over the hall.

Cornelius leaned back in his chair and, without taking his eyes off the closed door, said, “What do you think, Yukina?”

The white-haired woman inclined her head slightly, considering.

“There is something about him,” she replied calmly. “For such a backwater, he is rather impressive… though a little cowardly.”

Cornelius smirked, the corners of his lips lifting.

“They haven’t seen other people for five hundred years. One can understand the boy.”

From the side came the confident, stern voice of the red-haired young man:

“Nothing to worry about. We will reeducate them all. And they will become exemplary mages of our Empire.”

There was no doubt in his words—only absolute conviction.

At that moment the door opened again.

Master Kunfil returned to the hall, visibly nervous, and led in the same short young man with dark-lilac hair who had recently tried to cut ahead of Kael in line.

The young man entered with his back straight and a sharp gaze that held neither fear nor confusion. Unlike Kael, he looked as though he attached no importance to what was happening and simply wanted to get it over with as soon as possible.

✦ ✦ ✦

At that very moment, Kael was already descending the stairs leading out of the building, keeping the same restrained mask on his face. Only once he was out of the outsiders’ sight did he allow himself to take a deeper breath and mentally shift his focus to the next steps.

“It’s good that Kris didn’t manage to show her potential. If they had taken her too… our parents wouldn’t have been able to endure it.”

The thought was cold and calculating, yet genuine concern lay behind it. For a moment, the memory of the previous evening flashed in his mind—the dim lamplight, the tense faces of his parents, his calm, almost matter-of-fact explanation that he would most likely have to leave with the outsiders.

“To say my parents were frightened would be an understatement…”

His father had been silent for a long time, and his mother had tried to keep herself composed, though her hands trembled. And yet they understood there was nothing they could influence. All that remained was to trust their son’s assurances that everything would be fine.

With these thoughts, Kael pushed the door open and stepped outside.

The cold air struck his face, pulling him fully back into reality. Almost immediately he caught Violet’s eye. She stood a little to the side of the steps, pretending to watch the passersby, though in truth she had been watching the door the whole time.

“She’s still nervous…” he noted to himself as he quickly descended toward her.

Not giving her a chance to speak first, he raised an eyebrow slightly and, returning to his usual half-joking, formal tone, said:

“How are you, Master Violet? What did the outsiders tell you?”

After what happened with Zeiran, Violet had asked Kael to address her informally. Now he used the title “master” only to tease her.

She gave a crooked smile, though it lacked its former lightness.

“Thanks to you, my strength has grown noticeably,” she replied, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who would have thought it would lead to something like this…”

There was a mixture of irony and underlying anxiety in her voice.

Already understanding the outcome of her questioning, Kael immediately dropped the playful formality and asked quietly, “Did they choose you as well?”

Violet nodded.

Wanting to ease the tension hanging between them even a little, Kael put on an exaggeratedly mournful expression and sighed heavily.

“And here I was hoping they wouldn’t take grown women like you…”

Violet froze for a moment, then without hesitation rapped him on the head with her knuckles.

“Hey! I’m only twenty-one!”

He theatrically rubbed his forehead, pretending to suffer, and looked at her with mock reproach.

A brief pause hung between them—the kind where both tried to keep a straight face… and failed. Almost simultaneously their lips curved into crooked smiles.

Kael shook his head and said more calmly:

“I’m sorry things turned out this way. But honestly… I’m actually a little glad you’ll be there.”

Violet looked aside, as if studying the passersby, and muttered quietly:

“The uncertainty scares me. A lot. But I knew it would happen.”

She drew a deep breath, gathering her thoughts.

“And still… as a researcher of ancient history, I can’t help but see an opportunity in this. The Blood Dragon Empire clearly surpasses us in knowledge and historical chronicles.”

Narrowing her eyes slightly, she added with a faint hint of teasing:

“Considering your strange luck, you might turn out to be a talisman that keeps misfortune away. So I’ll keep you close.”

Kael sighed softly.

“I’d say I’m the one who attracts that misfortune…”

But aloud he said something else:

“Would you like to come visit us? If Mom and Kris learn they’re taking you as well, it might make them feel a little better.”

Violet nodded without hesitation and, beginning to walk beside him, replied:

“With pleasure. I definitely won’t be working today… and I promised to visit a long time ago.”

Together they headed down the street, disappearing into the familiar hum of Lasthold. Despite the unease within them and the fear of the unknown, there was a firmness in their steps.

Even before speaking with the outsiders, neither of them had much doubt about the outcome.

All that remained was to accept the new reality—and learn how to navigate it.

✦ ✦ ✦

At that very moment, as Kael and Violet disappeared around the corner of the street, a very different atmosphere hung deep beneath the stone vaults of Lasthold.

The underground prison was damp and cold. Drops of water slowly fell from the ceiling, striking the stone floor with a dull echo. The smell of stagnant moisture and iron hung in the air like a thick curtain.

Durimar and Vulnar stood before the open door of one of the elite cells.

Inside, on the stone floor, in dried blood lay Zeiran’s mutilated body.

The sight was grim—too grim even for them, who had seen much in their time. Both Elders remained silent for several long seconds, looking at what was left of the man who had once been their companion.

Vulnar frowned, his jaw tightening.

“How could this happen…” he said quietly. “How did he do this to himself?”

There was not only confusion in his voice but a dull irritation as well—as if what had happened simply refused to fit into the familiar order of things.

Durimar stood motionless, his hands clasped behind his back. His gaze was heavy, attentive.

“I found no foreign traces,” he murmured. “No interference from mana. No poison in the blood. The body bears no signs of external influence.”

He paused, exhaling slowly.

“And yet… it is hard for me to believe that Zeiran did this to himself.”

Vulnar shook his head.

“First the outsiders. Now this…” he clenched his fists. “Troubled times are coming.”

His words echoed dully from the stone walls.

Durimar continued to look at the body and said thoughtfully, “Zeiran’s death should remain hidden for the time being.”

He turned his gaze to Vulnar.

“If this becomes known now, rumors will start to spread. They will say we used the chaos to eliminate him. The people of Lasthold are already on edge—we cannot frighten them further.”

Vulnar nodded reluctantly.

“We will wait until the outsiders leave the city. Then we will investigate the matter calmly.”

But Durimar slowly shook his head.

“I fear that soon it will be pointless.”

He looked away, and for the first time exhaustion—almost hopelessness—appeared in his voice.

“How are we supposed to calm the people? How do we prepare them for what is coming?”

Another drop of water fell from the ceiling and shattered on the stone floor.

Both Elders were at a loss—just as all of Lasthold was.