In the dim, stinking depths of the sewers, a wicked lich was interrogating a hideous, twisted hag about the secrets of godhood.
From any angle, it looked exactly like the prelude to a villain's grand, evil sche.
In truth, though, Ambrose didn't get anything useful out of her.
The hag's so-called "prophecy" was just sothing she'd heard from other hags.
"The blasphemous experint to defy the gods has finally succeeded. The result lies hidden in the sewers beneath Alkhemia—a relic capable of manifesting divine power itself. Whoever obtains it shall ascend and beco a true god."
The hag spoke as if she were reciting a divine revelation, but Ambrose only felt the weight of human stupidity.
If Alkhemia had truly made a relic that could grant godhood, why would they leave it underground?
Wouldn't the council head of Alkhemia, mysterious and all-powerful as he was, simply use it himself? Why would he allow the city's economy to spiral into ruin?
And gods weren't sothing you could beco just by working hard enough. That was mortal delusion.
Legends were the closest thing to gods on this continent.
Legends referred to those who had transcended mortality but hadn't quite reached divinity. People sotis called them demigods. They did wield a faint trace of divine power, enough to bend the rules of the mortal world.
Ambrose's own legendary boon was one such example. Creating a soul was a power that only gods wielded.
But even that level of power was worlds away from true divinity.
Mortals had only two real ways to ascend.
The first was sheer, absurd luck: being chosen by the Primordial Creator, the god of gods. That being could elevate any creature, even a lifeless rock, to godhood with a single thought. There were no requirents nor side effects—it was just a matter of divine whim.
But Ambrose had never heard of anyone that lucky.
The second was to beco a legend first. It was akin to passing the first round of interviews. And then you waited. If fortune favored you, a god might choose to help you ascend, perhaps by sacrificing their own divinity in the process.
That was it. Those were the only two ways mortals beca gods.
If the old gods didn't retire, no new gods could be promoted.
Otherwise, with hundreds of legends walking the world, surely so of them would have beco gods by now.
There was, of course, one last path, shrouded in legend, the most outrageous of all. So said it was possible to carve out an entirely new path, to create a brand-new divine dominion where none existed before.
It was rumored that the God of Alchemy had done just that: forging godhood out of nothing, earning the Creator's acknowledgnt and thereby becoming a new deity.
But even then—notice the catch!—you still needed the Creator's approval. No matter how strong you were, unless you caught the eye of the top brass, you'd stay a legend forever.
Mortals just loved their fantasies. They'd believe any nonsense about a "divine relic" that could turn them into gods.
And yet... sothing about this didn't sit right with Ambrose.
It made sense for ignorant druids and sewer hags to believe such rubbish, but the Lyon Empire was crawling with powerful legends. None of them should've fallen for a rumor this stupid. Yet their paladins were indeed here in Alkhemia, preparing to explore the sewers. Sothing had to be down here.
Seeing Ambrose deep in thought, the hag hurried to speak. "There's more! The prophecy includes details: tis, places, ons! Swear by the gods you'll let go, and I'll tell you everything!"
Ambrose gave her a cold look. "Prophecies," he said flatly, "are crap."
The hag blinked at him in shock. How could he say that? He was a diviner himself! If he denied prophecy, wasn't that blasphemy against the god of his own faith?
But Ambrose truly didn't believe in prophecy. That was why he had given up on divination.
It was simple, really. His soul wasn't noble enough. He couldn't live in accordance with what he foresaw.
Those who wielded the power of prophecy were bound by it. They couldn't pick and choose which visions to believe. Nothing like, "Oh, this good one must be destiny, and that bad one must be faulty."
The laws of the world didn't tolerate double standards.
And those who couldn't truly accept fate would be eaten alive by every grim vision. In trying to outsmart death and twist destiny, they would rush headlong to et the very doom they feared.
The fear of death was nothing compared to the fear of impending, prophesied death. That kind of tornt would drive people mad.
Ambrose wasn't the sort who could calmly accept fate. If he were, he wouldn't have chased immortality. Maybe that was why, when he ascended to the realm of legend, his gift had nothing to do with prophecy at all.
He'd accepted his own weakness and chosen a different path. Transforming into a lich had been partly about survival, partly about escaping that crushing contradiction... and, well, partly about money problems.
Even so, after centuries of study, vestiges of divination still clung to him. His divination magic would forever be preserved at the state it had been at the brink of his ascension, forever a half-finished masterpiece.
That was why Ambrose was what people called a half-baked legend. He was a man who'd abandoned the power that was the foundation of his growth. To stand on equal footing with true legends, he'd have to spend centuries clawing his way back up.
Not that the hag deserved that story. Ambrose slowly raised his hand, and a small flensing knife shimred into existence between his fingers. "It seems," he said, "your usefulness has run its course."
"Wait! No, please—"
The hag's face twisted in terror, but Ambrose didn't hesitate. The knife flashed, and the hag's patchy scalp was peeled away in one swift stroke.
Foul, dark red blood splattered across the stones. Beneath it, her pale skull glead wetly in the torchlight.
The hag's scalp twitched and pulsed in Ambrose's hand, the runes etched across it writhing like a nest of maggots.
It was disgusting but valuable.
A hag's strength was concentrated in her skin. With the right mix of ingredients, it could be refined into a permanent attribute-enhancing potion. Strength, intellect, or agility could each be boosted depending on the ingredients added.
Such potions only worked on those below the realm of legend, but they still sold for tens of thousands of gold. In today's inflated Alkhemian market, Ambrose was confident he could get forty, maybe fifty thousand.
When the hag had tried to buy her life for a re twenty thousand gold, she had sealed her fate.
Stripped of her power, the hag collapsed in the filth. The toxic air of the sewer did the rest. Within monts, she was convulsing.
For those without any magical protection on hand, the sewers' toxins were lethal.
Ambrose carefully drew out her soul, converted her body into a skeletal minion, and turned toward the next tunnel.
It was a profitable day, to be sure, but he hadn't forgotten why he ca down here in the first place.
He was here to catch slis. Hopefully, Naomi's map wouldn't lead him astray.
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