Chapter 142: The Creed of Black Thorn
Pantheons were the kind of factions Akasha had heard countless stories about over the fifteen years since his birth, and he’d even crossed paths with the Supreme Goddess of two of them.
Yet, what he hadn’t truly grasped was the sheer scale and danger such a faction could wield.
Everyone knew Pantheons were founded on distinct philosophies, but what Akasha didn’t realize was that each one had strict requirements for joining—whether determined by rank or other criteria.
This meant that, more often than not, there were no "weaklings" among their numbers—at least, usually.
Their hierarchy was based entirely on merit, earned through missions or by spreading the Pantheon’s name far and wide.
Within these ranks, a member’s title could sometimes hold more weight than their actual rank, as higher status brought greater privileges and access to the Pantheon’s philosophy.
From the bottom to the top, the structure remained constant across all Pantheons, with only the title of ruler varying.
The ranks were as follows: Devotees, Vanguards, Heralds, Wardens, Reapers, Exemplars, Apostles, High Apostles, and finally, the Supreme Gods and Goddesses.
And now, at this very moment, thousands of Exemplars were descending upon the world of Noxara with a single purpose—to cull the freed captives.
-----
BOOOOOOM!!!!!!!
BOOOOOOM!!!!!!
The two liberated continents had not yet learned how to be free when the first wave of shadows fell upon them.
Where open fields had once become makeshift training grounds and where broken cages had become gathering points for those who had not known hope in years, the air now thrummed with tension of battle....
And much like Jovian had seen not more than thirty minutes ago... the Dark Elves were everywhere.
Across the shattered plains they surged like a black tide, boots pounding, blades clashing, and affinities flaring in sudden, chaotic bursts.
On the ground, more than two hundred thousand Dark Elves moved as one—spears slicing through the while hunters glided low across the sky, bows taut as they sought out the smallest gaps between the freed.
But... two hundred thousand wasn’t nearly all the Exemplars of the Black Thorn Pantheon... in fact, the beings in the Orin Star System were merely a branch of the True Pantheon at all.
Higher in the skies, beyond the reach of the powers, the heavens were like a living formation.
Exactly five hundred thousand figures hung in the reddish haze, like a dark constellation that swallowed the suns’ glare.
Though... they did not intervene; they watched, motionless, a patient pressure over the fighting below.
----
As Jovian had hoped... the freed captives of the world of Noxara didn’t simply lay down waiting to be captured again.
No, they fought back as if they wouldn’t live a single moment after this.
SHHHHHKKKKK!!!!
A man with ribs scarred by chains hurled a spear of condensed stone—it split an archer’s cloak and sent him staggering into a line of comrades who answered with a spray of black blades.
FWWOOOSHHH!!!!
SHKKKKKK!!!!
A woman who had not felt warmth in millennia drew a blade of flame and cut through a column of attackers—each strike buying another breath for those behind her.
CRRRACCCKLEEE
As an archer went to release an arrow of shadows... lightning was manipulated into a whip, and it lanced an archer from his perch.
Still... no matter how fiercely these beings fought, in the end, their struggle was ultimately in vain.
It didn’t matter how hard they resisted, or how desperately they reached for the freedom Jovian believed he had granted them...
The World of Noxara had already transformed into something like a cage the moment the Black Thorn’s influence took hold.
And when a Pantheon had direct control over a world—or any territory—their members could freely wield their philosophy as they pleased.
Something that came in the form of a power called ’Creed’.
And in simple terms, this was essentially a Pantheon’s Decree...
Seeing the futile effort below... the watchers above moved as one.
Their hands rose in a slow, ceremonial sweep—palms turned to the world, fingers splayed—and the air tightened as if a thousand taut strings had been plucked.
A low sound gathered, a single voice multiplied until it filled the sky.
[Exemplar’s Creed of Black Thorn]
HUMMMMM!!!!!
"By the hollowing, we take the shape and leave the shell," they intoned in perfect unison. "By the hollowing, we unmake the false and wear its skin."
In that moment, the words ceased, and darkness didn’t merely fall; it simply appeared, an instant pressure seeping into both flesh and thought.
Where it touched, something deep within uncoiled and slipped away—resolve fraying at the edges, memories unraveling, the bright spark of fresh determination pulled out like air from a lung.
Divinity flared briefly before fading into nothingness.
The once thunderous shouts softened into breathless murmurs, unable to hold their strength.
Even the hard-earned ranks they had clung to with such determination slipped away, leaving only emptiness behind.
However, their bodies didn’t explode into gore so much as they emptied with clinical precision.
Their flesh slackened, posture collapsed, and the light in their eyes dimmed as if a lamp were being turned down.
Where a Human had once stood, a pale husk remained, bones visible beneath slack skin, eyes flat and distant.
Across the two continents, the effect rippled: whole encampments went still, hands falling from grips, affinities sputtering out.
And... when the creed reached its apex, the land was a field of withered figures and stunned survivors.
For a long, suspended moment, the creed held the world in a hollow silence, and then, after a brief pause, they deactivated it.
Instantly, the darkness lifted, thinning like a curtain being drawn aside.
Where a wave of defiance had once surged, only a battered few were left: about 60% of both continents combined still had breath.
A thick, deliberate silence hung in the air.
From above, an exemplar descended with measured grace, his robes whispering as he touched down amidst the wide-eyed, motionless survivors.
He did not gloat; his voice was the calm of a steward accounting for losses.
"Contain them," he said, the order cutting through the ranks like a sudden flash.
In an instant, cages appeared—some shaped from shadow, others hammered from cold iron—sliding into position with an eerie precision.
Chains woven from darkness slithered into place, locking tight as hands, swift and sure, worked to bind the captives.
"As the High Apostle ordered.... we will leave enough to recall, but not enough to ever challenge us again," the exemplar continued, his tone calm and deliberate.
"Eighty-odd years remain until the appointed hour; so, we must keep what serves us and let the rest be forgotten."