I Tricked a God

Kael’s consciousness seemed to drift in a pleasant, warm void where there was no time, no thoughts, and no need to hurry anywhere.

But gradually, that state began to fall apart.

One by one, sensations from the real world seeped into the void, slowly pulling him out of sleep. His forehead was pressed against something hard and cool, his back was unpleasantly stiff, and his buttocks had gone slightly numb from remaining in the same position for so long.

A voice came from somewhere nearby.

At first, he perceived it only as a distant murmur, mingling with the remnants of sleep, but with every passing moment, the words became clearer.

“...time... will... tell.”

It was at that moment that Kael finally realized he was waking up.

Slowly opening his eyes, Kael stared blankly ahead for several seconds.

His mind was still slightly foggy, but the cool breeze blowing across his face quickly made him frown.

Bright sunlight was already flooding the squad’s grounds, and familiar voices could be heard somewhere nearby.

“What the...” Kael muttered, slowly beginning to rise.

Blinking several times and finally shaking off the remnants of sleep, Kael looked around, then realized with mild bewilderment that he had fallen asleep right in the squad’s outdoor pavilion.

Around him were the remains of yesterday’s food and unfinished drinks. Other mages were still asleep at the table as well, snoring softly.

Bracing a palm against the table and trying to straighten his stiff back, Kael had almost risen when it felt as though a red-hot needle pierced his head.

A sharp pain shot through his temples, and his vision darkened for an instant.

“Ugh...” he groaned, grimacing.

“How much did I drink yesterday...” Kael moaned as the consequences of yesterday’s celebration made themselves mercilessly felt.

Looking around and trying to piece together the events of the previous evening, Kael spotted familiar faces among the sleepers.

Norvin was sprawled across a nearby bench, one arm thrown over the backrest as he snored softly. The bandage over his eyes was already gone, while an empty mug and the crumpled cloth lay on the table beside him, the latter clearly having been removed before the celebration began.

Hector was sleeping a little farther away.

He was sleeping so soundly, in fact, that one of his arms hung off the bench, while the mug beside him had somehow miraculously remained upright.

But at that moment, a familiar deep voice came from beside him. “You’re finally awake, Kael.”

Turning his head, he saw Morkroft and Veridan at the other end of the long table.

They sat beside each other, releasing thin streams of tobacco smoke into the morning air and watching him thoughtfully.

Kael merely gave a quick nod in response.

But the moment he opened his mouth, he immediately realized just how dry his throat was.

Grimacing, he hurriedly swept his gaze over the table and, spotting the first bottle of water he could find, immediately grabbed it.

Uncorking the bottle, Kael took several greedy gulps in succession.

The cool water flowed pleasantly down his parched throat, making him exhale with relief.

“I can give you a pill, kid,” Veridan said hoarsely.

Without taking the bottle from his lips, Kael took another swallow, then merely shook his head.

“I’m fine...” he breathed, smelling the alcohol on his own breath. “I just didn’t know my limits.”

Veridan merely grunted at that, releasing another stream of smoke from his pipe.

“Funny that the Horde’s Bone Tower didn’t break you, but ordinary alcohol knocked you flat.”

At those words, Kael quickly shifted his gaze to Morkroft, noticing the familiar cunning gleam in the Captain’s eyes.

“Why didn’t you tell us yesterday?” Morkroft asked with mild reproach, continuing to look straight at him. “The forty-first floor, and a breakthrough on top of that. Veridan says the entire military camp has been talking about nothing but you these past few days.”

Kael merely blinked.

Veridan slowly exhaled smoke from his pipe and, adjusting his curled mustache, added as though in passing, “I heard Captain Astrid has taken an interest in you...”

Morkroft merely snorted and, making no attempt to hide his feelings about such news, declared, “She can curb her appetite. Kael is already part of the Doomgrin Squad.”

Veridan only gave a restrained chuckle, while Kael, noticing the flash of displeasure in the Captain’s eyes, backed him up with a joke: “I don’t think I’d fit into a normal squad. I belong here.”

Shifting his gaze to the fighters sleeping at the table, he nodded toward Norvin, who muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and rolled onto his other side.

“As for your question...” Kael murmured. “I kept quiet about my achievements for a reason.”

Shrugging slightly, Kael added, “Yesterday was your night. We were supposed to celebrate your victory, not mine.”

Morkroft merely burst out laughing, shaking his head.

“It was your victory too.”

Still looking at Kael, the Captain pointed his pipe at him and added, “If you hadn’t destroyed that barrier and given us the chance to prepare the ambush, the entire battle for Whitewater Fort would have gone very differently.”

The smile gradually faded from his face.

Frowning slightly, Morkroft gazed thoughtfully toward the courtyard and continued in a much more serious tone, “The beastmen sent far more troops into the battle than usual...”

He fell silent for several seconds.

“They’re definitely planning something.”

Veridan, who had been silently smoking his pipe all this time, slowly released a stream of smoke and murmured, “I’ve heard the situation is similar on the other fronts.”

Picking up his glass and taking several sips, Veridan continued, “Ever since their attack on the Capital failed, the beastmen have been fighting much more aggressively.”

Kael was lost in thought for several seconds.

Running through fragments of yesterday’s conversations in his mind and filtering out everything irrelevant from his alcohol-muddled memories, he recalled several remarks he had overheard about prisoners.

“Everything should become clearer soon,” he murmured thoughtfully. “You took some important prisoners, if I’m not mistaken?”

Morkroft nodded and, taking another drag, slowly exhaled the smoke.

“Yes.”

Resting an elbow on the table, he continued, “We were damn lucky to take one of the beastmen’s Captains alive, along with two lieutenant-level bastards.”

Satisfaction flashed in his eyes for an instant, but Morkroft almost immediately shook his head slightly.

“Though I wouldn’t expect miracles,” he said seriously.

Tapping a finger against the bowl of his pipe, he added, “Even under torture, we’re unlikely to learn anything incredibly valuable. Beastmen are remarkably resilient, even under the most sophisticated forms of torture.”

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But at that moment, a long yawn sounded to Kael’s right, followed by a sleepy voice: “Another problem is that the beastmen have too many dialects...”

Turning around, Kael saw Hector waking up. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, he felt around for the glasses lying on the table with the other and, settling them on the bridge of his nose, continued sleepily, “Even those who study their languages... Someone like you, Kael... can’t always make everything out correctly.”

Morkroft nodded in agreement, once again bringing the pipe to his lips.

“They’re a very difficult enemy to deal with. Even with torture, there are no guarantees.”

Kael merely smiled at that and, taking another sip of water from the bottle, replied, “Well... I don’t want to take part in the torture. But if you need help translating what they say—call me. Maybe I’ll be able to pick up something others miss.”

Hearing this, Morkroft raised an eyebrow slightly.

For several seconds, he looked thoughtfully at Kael, and then the familiar gleam appeared in his eyes.

“Good idea... But for now, let the squads assigned to that handle it.”

Then, half joking, Morkroft added, “You’re already useful in too many ways for me to share you with everyone.”

At those words, Hector finally opened his eyes fully and, adjusting his glasses, which had slipped askew, unexpectedly joined the conversation. “Right. Yesterday Sierra said you helped her a lot and even came up with some kind of idea. Is that true?”

Kael merely nodded calmly and, without denying it, replied, “After visiting the Tower, I overstrained my mana channels a little, so I spent the last two days practicing inscription.”

Raising the bottle, he took another sip of water and added, “I read about an uncommon method for processing roots and hardy plants in one of the alchemy books. So I gave Sierra the idea.”

Morkroft nodded approvingly, saying, “After a mission this large, our squad won’t have any important assignments for about two weeks.”

The corners of his lips twitched slightly, and as though giving his approval, he added, “I won’t need you during that time. So you can keep helping Sierra.”

Kael merely nodded at that, murmuring thoughtfully, “I’ll fit it in around my training. After what I saw yesterday, I realized I’m still far too weak.”

Shifting his gaze toward the short red-haired old man sleeping at the table, festooned with vials and pouches of ingredients, he added, “I’d also like to help Grendy. I don’t want to neglect my alchemy practice.”

At those words, Veridan laughed hoarsely and, releasing another stream of smoke from his pipe, nodded toward the peacefully snoring alchemist.

“If you’ll be making restorative pills and elixirs, the old man definitely won’t mind. Lately, he’s constantly complaining that there’s too much work.”

Smirking slightly, Veridan added, “And I’ll personally thank you as well. After yesterday’s treatment, our stocks of pills and elixirs have noticeably dwindled...”

✦ ✦ ✦

And at that very moment, while the human forces were celebrating a victory that, though local, was still significant, entirely different events were unfolding far to the south.

In the middle of the enormous beastmen’s camp stood a massive structure resembling a small palace more than anything else. Its walls were built from the gigantic bones of unknown creatures, bound together with thick straps of cured leather, while numerous passages, balconies, and branching walkways connected several levels of the structure.

At the very center of this palace was a spacious hall.

Right in the middle of it stood a large stone bowl, within which a dense green flame burned. Dark smoke slowly rose upward, passing through a round opening in the ceiling and disappearing somewhere high above the camp.

Directly before the bowl stood a massive throne, upon which sat one of the beastmen’s Patriarchs—the only one currently present in the Human Dimension.

At first glance, he did not suit his title at all.

The gaunt old man with ash-gray fur looked more like a decrepit hermit than the ruler of an entire people. A loose white robe concealed his body, while in his dry, wrinkled hand he held a long staff that looked more like a gnarled black stick picked up at random in the forest.

He was so old that the fur on his head had long since fallen out, exposing a dark blue skull covered with an entire web of scars.

However, these were not the marks of wounds, but inscriptions and precise, orderly lines. They looked as though they had once been deliberately carved there during some ancient ritual or rite.

Beginning at the back of his head, they ran all the way to his forehead, then continued down across his eyes and cheeks, almost to his jaw, forming two long bands of old scar tissue.

Beneath his chin, however, the fur had grown into a thick, heavy ash-white mane that fell almost to his chest.

It did not resemble a human beard, but rather the mane of an old predator that had survived too many winters.

The Patriarch’s face remained completely exposed.

His blue skin was covered with deep folds around his narrow, slit-like nostrils, while his amber eyes with vertical pupils calmly regarded the beastman standing before him.

There was no anger, no concern, not even irritation in his gaze.

The messenger, bowed all the way to the ground, was reporting on what had happened at Whitewater Fort.

“...failed to achieve the objective... losses are heavy... and they say the humans took many prisoners...”

The beastman’s voice trembled noticeably.

He kept stumbling over his words and jumping from one thought to another, only to pick up again, trying not to leave out a single detail.

The Patriarch said nothing and did not even move.

Remaining seated on his throne, he merely watched the messenger with his amber eyes.

Under that gaze, the messenger talked and talked, hurriedly recounting every detail he knew, as though afraid that if he stopped for even a moment, the silence that would descend over the hall would be far more terrifying than any words.

But eventually, he ran out of things to say and fell silent, having reported everything he knew.

The Patriarch lowered his gaze slightly and remained silent for a long time.

The green flames continued to crackle in the stone bowl, casting trembling shadows across the walls, while the messenger gradually began to feel the pressure emanating from the old man’s mere aura.

At first barely noticeable, it grew stronger with every second of the prolonged silence.

At some point, the beastman began to tremble, feeling like a small animal that had found itself beside an infernal predator.

The Patriarch’s very presence pressed down on his chest.

“Patriarch...” he blurted out involuntarily, though the old man had asked him nothing. “Forgive me for bringing you such terrible news.”

Shifting his gaze to the green fire burning in the bowl, the Patriarch finally broke the prolonged silence.

“Mor’zak has greatly disappointed me...” he murmured calmly and thoughtfully, as though speaking of something utterly mundane.

Continuing to watch the lazily flickering flames, the old man quietly added, “If not for his failure, we would have achieved our goals much sooner.”

The messenger did not dare raise his head or even move.

Meanwhile, the Patriarch continued thinking aloud as though the messenger did not exist at all.

Tightening his grip slightly on his black staff, the old man murmured, “If the God is to be believed... the tradition of the Crucible of Divine Banners will soon return.”

The green fire reflected in his amber eyes.

“And we must arrive there with as much prestige as possible.”

For several seconds, silence once again reigned in the hall.

The trembling messenger opened and closed his mouth several times before finally daring to speak, “Patriarch... Your words are not meant for my ears... I should leave.”

He spoke quietly and cautiously, as though afraid that even the sound of his own voice might disrupt the Patriarch’s train of thought.

Swallowing nervously, he nevertheless added, “What should I tell the Generals?”

At that, the old man abruptly shifted his gaze to the messenger.

That movement alone made the beastman’s breath catch, as though a piece of ice had been dragged down his spine.

“We have been building up our strength for a long time, so tell them to step up their efforts,” the Patriarch began. “Considering the new information about the eastern part of the continent... We have only a few years to finally bring the Human Dimension to its knees.”

The messenger hurriedly nodded.

“Yes, Patriarch.”

Without another word, he immediately sprang to his feet and swiftly left the hall.

Only when silence once again reigned in the hall did the Patriarch frown slightly.

For one brief instant, the air behind him shimmered like a heat haze. Within that distortion, the silhouette of an enormous demonic, beastlike maw with long fangs and empty eye sockets emerged for a moment.

But the vision vanished almost immediately, as though it had never existed.

The Patriarch himself slowly closed his eyes, once again bringing his surging aura under control.

“We need to draw the enemy into a new cycle of brutal war...” he thought, rhythmically tapping his fingers against the shaft of his staff. “And in the meantime, prepare the fleet and strike them from behind.”

The green flames in the bowl stirred slightly.

“We’ll use their own discoveries against them...” the old man continued, opening his eyes and once again turning his gaze to the dancing tongues of flame. “They want to attack us, but we’ll do it first.”

Rising from the throne and stepping barefoot onto the cold stone, the gaunt old man slowly walked around the bowl of green fire.

“The Crucible of Divine Banners... Before it was discontinued, the God of Blood and War had no flock at all, and this dimension was ruled by other Gods,” he thought, baring his teeth slightly.

Looking at the dancing flames, he spoke aloud now, as though talking to himself, “If the current God of the pathetic Human Dimension is so weak—why are we still unable to break them?”

It seemed this thought had tormented him for decades, returning to haunt him yet again today.

Slowly tightening his fingers around the shaft of his staff, the Patriarch murmured thoughtfully, “If only the Blood Dragon Empire worships him... then why is the Beast God so interested in him?”

Continuing to stare into the fire, he frowned slightly.

“Why does he call him dangerous?”

The green flames crackled softly in the bowl.

“And what is going on in the Divine Dimension, anyway?”

Growling slightly as he exhaled, the old man slowly shook his head, muttering, “This is all strange...”

His voice sounded quiet, almost lost beneath the crackling of the green flames.

Stroking his “beard,” the Patriarch thoughtfully added, “But who am I to fathom the Beast God’s designs?”

As he turned toward the exit from the hall, his expression grew noticeably colder, and he concluded inwardly, “The main thing now is to put an end to this protracted war for a pathetic peripheral dimension...”

As the old and dangerous beastman leaned on his staff and began to walk, only one thought passed through his mind: “The Human Dimension will soon pay for its stubbornness.”