The Guardian gods Chapter 692

But what grated them the most... was their fellow godlings.

The other half, the ones who seed far too comfortable among mortals.

So of them laughed with humans, played with them, explored the city streets with them completely unaffected by the ticking mortality of their new companions. They found humans amusing, interesting, even charming. They blended effortlessly into human gatherings, festivals, and daily life.

It was infuriating.

"Let them enjoy their toys," one rfolk muttered darkly.

"They will tire of them soon enough."

The division fueled heated exchanges, sharp tongues, sneers, and pointed remarks but never escalated beyond verbal spats. No godling wanted to spill blood within a foreign empire without cause.

Instead, the disinterested faction acted with quiet dignity.

They simply left.

Not the Empire entirely yet, but far enough to reclaim their peace of mind. They ventured into a large forest bordering the imperial capital, cleared an area with minimal effort, and created a temporary settlent. A resting place. A waiting place.

They reasoned that eventually, their curious companions would exhaust their fascination with mortals and rejoin them. When that ti ca, they would all depart together, as originally intended.

As for anger toward the Emperor or Empire?

That fire had not yet been lit.

Whatever the Empire was planning... Whatever strange ga these humans were playing...It still intrigued the godlings more than it offended them.

And besides, the forest settlent had beco its own kind of enjoyable chaos.

It was rare, almost unheard of for Apelings, Harpies, Werewolves, and rfolk to gather closely in one place without formal purpose. Their races usually kept to their natural environnts or ancestral lands. But here, away from the humans and free from the Empire’s stiff rules, they mingled freely.

Apelings swung between branches as Harpies tossed them fruit in midair. Werewolves wrestled and matched strength under the moonlight. rfolk crafted pools and streams using their magic, laughing loudly whenever a land-dweller slipped in.

A small festival atmosphere erged, one that was spontaneous and entirely their own.

So while one half of the godlings wandered the human capital indulging in mortal amusents...

The other half forged a small, wild haven of their own.

anwhile, the godlings who chose to remain among humans quickly beca a nuisance, at least in the eyes of the city leaders forced to host them.

Unlike their more reserved counterparts who retreated to the forest settlent, these godlings had a very... twisted understanding of "fun."

They laughed loudly, disrupted routines, ignored rules, and seed to find great amusent in unraveling the careful order the Empire had built.

And worse, the common citizens adored them for it.

To the city leaders and nobles, it was infuriating.

While the "respectable" godlings kept to themselves in the woods, these troublemakers dove straight into human society and began tugging on every thread they could find.

They interfered with trade routes "for sport." They slipped into noble estates uninvited, making themselves at ho. They challenged formal rituals and traditions without hesitation. They stirred up harmless chaos wherever they walked.

The godlings broke the Empire’s ticulously crafted lifestyle, yet the common folk found them fascinating instead of frightening.

What made it worse was the undercurrent of envy.

The nobles could see the spark in their citizens’ eyes. The desire for the freedom godlings enjoyed. The hunger to escape the rigid structure of Imperial life.

That alone was dangerous.

But the godlings didn’t stop there.

They casually revealed truths the Empire had worked centuries to bury.

To humans, mana was a passive, limited thing, an invisible river they absorbed unconsciously until they reached their natural cap. Magic as a profession simply didn’t exist for them. Magic was for the Emperor’s chosen few, the elite, those who are lucky to have been permitted the knowledge.

But the godlings? They treated magic as casually as breathing.

They talked freely of their holands, where children learned their first spells before learning to hunt, where anyone could choose a magical profession, where mana was shaped and molded every day.

They spoke of sorcery as though it were a simple household skill.

For humans born in a kingdom that restricted magical education, the idea was intoxicating.

The more the godlings spoke, the more the people listened. The more they listened, the more they dread.

The godlings noticed this quickly.

And, delighted by human curiosity, they decided to escalate matters further.

They took on rchant professions.

rchant.

The very word made the nobles tremble.

They set up stalls in marketplaces, informal, bright, eye-catching stalls that drew attention like magnets. And what did they "sell"?

They pulled out vials of shimring liquid, magical potions they drank like water in their holand.

Potions, of course, were not unknown to the humans of the Empire.

They were familiar with them, had heard of them, seen them guarded behind glass in noble pharmacies, or watched wealthy rchants purchase them for ergencies.

But for the average citizen? A single potion cost months of wages.

A luxury item, Sothing normal people only dread of affording.

So when the godlings arrived with mischievous grins and began selling the sa potions for the price of one day’s work?

The entire cities fell into stunned silence.

And then chaos.

The potions the godlings offered weren’t weak, diluted human-made concoctions, either. These were potent, vibrant vials made with techniques humans had never been taught:

potions that boosted strength and speed,

potions that improved one’s performance in bed, to the scandal and delight of many, potions that helped vegetation grow rapidly, turning barren soil lush in a day.

The godlings knew exactly what they were doing. They understood the cause and the effect and they enjoyed every mont of it.

Before they ever began mingling with humans, the godlings had already understood the Empire’s "ga" Maybe not directed at them but it was clear the Empire was betting on them to lash out or act in a ceratin way.

So the godlings decided to play their own ga.

And win it.

They found it absolutely hilarious watching the leader’s faces tighten into constipated expressions as they rushed to lecture the godlings about "value."

"These potions are treasures!" the nobles insisted. "You’re selling them far below their worth! You’re being taken advantage of! This is foolish!"

The godlings blinked innocently, pretending not to understand.

"Ohhh... treasure?"

"Ohhh... value? That stuff ans nothing to us!"

"Want one? Here! Take it!"

And they gave potions away for free.

Right into the hands of the very leaders who tried to stop them.

The leaders hesitated just for a mont, but they accepted the gifts.Of course they did. Their pride could only fight temptation for so long.

Watching them take the potions, trying to hide their eagerness, trying to pretend they weren’t thrilled... that alone sent the godlings into fits of laughter.

It was a perfect ga.

They were turning the Empire’s own suppressed desires, its hidden greed, its fragile pride, its rigid hierarchy against itself.

And they weren’t even doing it out of malice.

They were doing it because it was fun.

Fun to watch powerful humans squirm. Fun to watch commoners awaken to possibilities forbidden to them. Fun to unravel the Empire’s careful balance by simply... being themselves.

The nobility saw a threat. The common people saw a miracle and the godlings saw a playground.

The Empire had always believed its citizens were obedient because they were loyal.

They were about to discover that obedience lasted only until the mont soone showed the people what they had been missing.

Of all the godlings causing havoc, the druids were the ones delivering the deepest wounds to the Empire.

And, ironically, they weren’t even trying.

Where the rchants-godlings played mischievous gas and the curious ones teased nobles for fun, the druids acted out of pure sincerity. They simply did what druids always did:

teach, heal, guide, nurture.

They moved through the Empire’s towns with quiet footsteps and gentle voices, stopping to observe sick crops, injured animals, or overlooked plants growing between the stones. To them, these were silent cries for help. And they responded instinctively.

But their actions had consequences far beyond what they imagined.

A sect began forming around them, humans who eagerly followed, listened, took notes, practiced, experinted. These humans had never been taught that the weeds growing in the gutters had dicinal properties... or that certain herbs mixed together could treat fevers better than noble-sanctioned doctors... or that the way they treated their pets could awaken spiritual bonds.

The druids taught that a loyal pet could grow stronger through affection, that a forest was not a wild danger but a guardian,

that nature had its own language, one humans had simply forgotten.

With every passing day, more humans flocked to them.

And without realizing it, the druids opened the minds of the Empire’s people to divinity.

They spoke the nas of Krogan and Ikenga, not with reverence or ceremony, but with casual familiarity, like ntioning old friends.

It wasn’t that humans were ignorant of the gods.They weren’t.