The Guardian gods Chapter 511

If his forr master could see him now, he would bow.

So why should he care about the empire’s cruelty? About the lies they fed his people, about the yoke they had borne for generations?

He doesn’t even know them that well, Rattan told himself. So why would he risk everything—his safety, his future—for their sake?

"Right, my guardian?" he murmured aloud, half-expecting the familiar whisper of reassurance, that subtle warmth that sotis stirred at the edge of his thoughts.

But this ti, there was nothing.

No answer. No nudge. No presence. Just silence.

And yet, that silence spoke volus. It was the kind that made doubt louder, the kind that left space for dangerous thoughts to grow.

He frowned, the idea creeping in uninvited: What if this was all part of the guardian’s plan from the start? What if the purpose of this newfound power, this change of identity, wasn’t for his own gain—but to save the people he’d long since stopped thinking of as his?

The thought made his stomach twist.

"You should have chosen Chief instead," he said softly, his voice laced with bitterness and guilt. "He would’ve died for them without thinking twice. He actually cared. ?"

Rattan looked around at the empty room, speaking to no one and everyone.

"My current position—my strength, my place in this world—it’s everything I could’ve dread of."

His words echoed faintly off the walls, unanswered.

No sign from the guardian. No sign at all.

And still, deep down, a part of him wasn’t sure if he was just justifying cowardice... or resisting a destiny he hadn’t asked for.

Rattan suddenly leapt to his feet, eyes wide with relief as his mage staff pulsed with light. A voice echoed through it—it was one of the teachers, calling for the students to gather.

He didn’t hesitate. Practically throwing himself at the staff, Rattan darted out of his room like sothing was chasing him. In a way, sothing was—his own thoughts, clawing and spiraling inside his head. The teacher’s tily call felt like a lifeline. Anything to escape the weight of what had been gnawing at his mind.

Bursting into the corridor, he hurried down the familiar path until the walls gave way to the large, open training grounds. As he stepped into the clearing, he ca to a slow halt, eyes widening in awe.

There, in the center of the grounds, stood the construct they had spent the past week helping to prepare. It was now fully assembled—an imnse, circular platform that spanned the size of a small building. Runes shimred faintly across its surface like veins of light, pulsing with quiet energy.

Before Rattan could take it all in, a sudden shimr in the air caught his attention.

He blinked—and a goblin mage appeared midair, suspended effortlessly, arms folded behind his back.

Gasps rippled through the crowd. Without hesitation, the teachers dropped to their knees in reverence. The students, unsure but obedient, quickly followed.

This was no ordinary mage. The aura radiating from him made it impossible to think otherwise. A fifth-stage caster.

The mage didn’t acknowledge the crowd. His sharp eyes swept over them briefly before shifting forward. Then, with a flick of his fingers, a glowing magic circle sprang to life in front of him.

Without a word, he began weaving spellwork into the circle. His hands moved like a blur—fluid, precise, and impossibly fast. The teachers leaned forward, their eyes locked in silent study. The students tried to follow, but the complexity and speed of the gestures left them lost.

Even so, none dared look away.

Sothing profound was being done before them—sothing most mages would never witness in their lifeti.

And for the first ti in days, Rattan’s mind fell silent.

Within seconds, the spell was complete. The fifth-stage mage now held a condensed sphere of light, its surface warping the air around it as if reality itself bent under its weight.

Without hesitation, he hurled it toward the center of the massive circular construct.

As the glowing orb approached, the runes painstakingly carved and infused by the students and teachers lit up in response, one by one, like a chain of igniting stars. A deep, resonant hum rose from the platform—steady and chanical, yet almost alive.

The ball of light slowed as it reached the center, expanding gradually until it filled the once-empty circle.

And then—

The light solidified into an image. A shimring, stable portal.

Gasps filled the training grounds.

What unfolded before their eyes was sothing most had only read about in texts or heard in hushed rumors.

Through the gate, at a staggering distance, hung a thick, dark red cloud churning ominously above the battlefield. From the depths of that crimson storm ca the unmistakable roar of two armies locked in brutal conflict.

The students squinted, trying to make out what lay so far beyond, but the distance was too great for unaided eyes. The teachers, however, had co prepared—each casting a vision-enhancing spell, their irises shimring as their focus snapped forward with supernatural clarity.

What they saw made so of them recoil in horror.

One teacher stumbled backward, hand over their mouth. Another let out a strangled cry.

Through the magnified view, they saw a demon—towering and grotesque—gripping a ratman soldier by the torso. The ratman thrashed helplessly as the demon opened its maw and vomited molten lava onto him.

The screaming figure writhed as the lava consud his body.

Then, with terrifying indifference, the demon raised what remained and swallowed the ratman whole.

And that was only one small mont in the hellish chaos unfolding beyond the gate.

Soone else saw it too.

Unlike the other students, Rattan’s vision suddenly sharpened, unbidden. It was as if sothing within him had awakened, granting him the sa clarity as the teachers—whether he wanted it or not.

And he didn’t.

As the scene through the portal expanded in his sight, the sheer brutality of the war unfolded in raw, rciless detail.

He didn’t want to see this.

"Please... stop. I don’t want to see this."

The words echoed through his mind, again and again, each repetition more desperate than the last. But the vision didn’t fade. If anything, it grew clearer.

Tears welled in Rattan’s eyes and slipped down his face.

There, in the thick of the chaos, he saw a young ratling—no older than ten—clutching a steam-powered rifle that looked far too heavy for his small arms. The child’s hands trembled as he tried to aim at a demon lumbering toward him.

But he was frozen.

Terrified.

The demon drew closer, its hulking body casting a shadow over the trembling ratling. Around them, the battlefield raged on—ratn and monsters locked in a desperate fight for survival—but none of them noticed the child.

None of them could afford to.

And then—

The demon reached out, smiling like a predator savoring the kill. With a swift motion, it snatched the ratling from the ground.

Snap.

The child’s scream pierced Rattan’s soul as one of his arms was torn clean off.

Rattan’s knees buckled. He gripped his robe so tightly his knuckles turned pale, yet the image persisted.

The demon was laughing. Laughing as it ripped away the child’s leg, feeding off the agony like it was the sweetest wine.

The ratling’s body twisted in tornt, his cries shrill, ragged, and unending—until, finally, a shot rang out.

A precise, well-tid bullet struck the demon through the head.

It crumpled to the ground, releasing the bloodied, half-conscious child.

Relief surged through Rattan, but it was short-lived.

Another demon turned its gaze. It had heard the cries. It had seen the wounded prey.

It was coming. This demon—larger, crueler, and far more twisted than the last—approached the child.

Without hesitation, it conjured a glowing thread of fire, thin and impossibly sharp, a string of abyss fire. With a flick of its clawed hand, the thread pierced the child’s torso.

The boy convulsed violently.

The thread glowed from within him, illuminating his tiny fra like a lantern of agony. His scream, once sharp and full of life, was now cracked and strained—more a broken song of terror than a cry for help.

The demon smiled as if admiring its handiwork. Then, with grotesque care, it slung the child over its shoulder, the fiery thread keeping him suspended—alive, conscious, screaming.

Like a grim ornant.

Like a music box that wailed instead of sang.

And still, the demon marched forward, dragging death in its wake, the child’s tornted cries echoing above the roar of battle.

Then, suddenly—

Rattan’s vision snapped back to the present.

The world around him returned, the sounds of magic humming through the portal, the awe of his peers, the presence of the fifth-stage mage.

But Rattan was no longer standing.

He had collapsed to his knees, his face wet with tears, his chest heaving. His whole body trembled—not from pain, but from the weight of what he had just witnessed.

The students and teachers turned at the sound of his fall.

Their gazes lingered, curious. Concerned.

But then Rattan lifted his head, forcing a smile to his face—a grotesque, broken parody of joy.

"It’s... such a beautiful sight," he said softly, voice trembling.