"Maelric, get it through your head. You stand in the sun. Purging the filth is your mandate."
"I exist in the shadow. My duty is to chronicle the darkness, not to caution you against it."
The Commander in the shadows let out a cold snort. The Holy Order operated on a dual system within every diocese: the Priesthood and the Inquisition. They were designed to check and balance one another, ensuring no single Bishop could monopolize the faith or steal the flock.
"The Inquisition is not here to wipe your ass."
The voice was freezing, devoid of empathy. This wasn't an excuse; it was a statent of jurisdictional fact. Furthermore, the Commander had never liked Maelric. Watching the Cardinal fumble his responsibilities brought him a twisted sense of entertainnt.
"Of course, once you render a verdict and file the proper requisitions, we will follow doctrine. We will execute the filth and the heretics with absolute impartiality."
"Maelric, within the bounds of the law, we are simply a knife in your hand."
"Since when does the butcher take counsel from his blade?"
"Hahaha..."
Laughter echoed from the dark corner as Cardinal Maelric collapsed back into his chair, defeated.
A butcher's knife. That was the taphor Maelric had once used to dean the Inquisition. Now, the Commander had turned the blade back on him, using Maelric's own arrogance to absolve himself of negligence.
"Notify the High Priests of the other four Great Dioceses," Maelric whispered after a long silence. "Initiate the Hall of Echoes protocol. I will convene the Council to awaken the Goddess and seek an Oracle."
During tis of war, the Inquisition was obligated to facilitate communication across the realm.
"As you wish."
The shadow dissolved, leaving the room empty. Yet, the weight on Maelric's heart only grew heavier.
"The shepherds could not resist their greed," he muttered, his hands trembling. "They slaughtered the lambs in secret, ate their fill, and told the farr the flock was safe."
"The flock is safe... heh... heh..."
"Damn this filth... I will scrub it all away!"
Maelric's chest heaved, his heart hamring against his ribs. He had made his decision, but the foundation of his world had cracked.
"Oh, Goddess... is there truly a darkness that the Light cannot banish?"
For the first ti, Maelric doubted the absolute nature of his faith. He had always believed that where the Holy Light shone, there was truth, beauty, and goodness. But now he saw that behind the blinding light, monsters were eating flesh and drinking blood.
As the farr of this diocese, Maelric felt profoundly lost.
The Divine Kingdom, Stoneheart Temple.
The path of ascension was cruel.
Compared to the three primary branches of the Giant Race—Stoneheart, Ironbone, and Starveil—the other species within the horde faced a harrowing journey. The Obsidian Golems, the Gnolls, the Buffalofolk... for them, the pilgrimage through the Stoneheart Temple was a torture of the soul.
The Titan bloodline was the progenitor of giants; it favored its own kind. Converting to Orion's lineage was natural for a giant, but for a beast-man, it was a violation of biology.
Yet, despite the agony, there were those who dragged their broken bodies forward.
Dirtclaw, the Hell-Drake Hound, was the vanguard of this suffering.
When he first entered the Stoneheart Temple, it had been easy. Orion controlled the laws of this space, ensuring the realm didn't reject the foreign species. Dirtclaw had walked with his head held high.
But as he waded deeper into the Sea of Blood, the latent power of the Stoneheart Titan began to invade his system, attempting to rewrite his genetic code.
Pain beca his only reality.
Dirtclaw was exhausted. His consciousness flickered like a dying candle.
He had started the journey in his Gnoll form. When the pain beca unbearable, he shifted into his Hell-Drake Hound form, finding temporary relief. But it didn't last.
As the concentration of the divine blood thickened, Dirtclaw's mind began to fracture. One mont, he believed he was a hound of hell; the next, a majestic dragon. His body, enslaved by his wavering will, morphed uncontrollably.
Fur gave way to scales, snout to beak, and back again. Every transformation tore muscle and rearranged bone, doubling his agony with each shift.
"His mind is fading. Is this the limit of his potential?"
High in the firmant of the Divine Kingdom, Orion watched.
As the creator of the Stoneheart Horde, he cared deeply for his subordinates. He watched the struggle below with intense focus, particularly Dirtclaw.
That the creature had risen from a common Gnoll to this point was already a miracle. Orion wanted Dirtclaw to seize more from this trial, to deepen his reservoir of power. If he could grasp the potential of a Demigod, he would beco a cornerstone of Orion's forces.
Orion had always favored the "Mad Dog."
"Dirtclaw. There is one more mountain ahead. If you cross it, you earn the right to challenge the throne of a Demigod."
Just as Dirtclaw's consciousness began to sink into the black abyss of sleep, Orion's voice thundered in his ntal landscape, resonating like a celestial bell.
"I... am I asleep?"
"I heard the Master..."
"I... where am I?"
"Right. The Stoneheart Temple. I ca for power."
Dirtclaw snapped awake, his fragnted mind coalescing around the voice.
"One more mountain... I have to cross it... beco a Demigod!"
"One more mountain... cross it... Demigod!"
"..."
Clarity returned, bringing with it a singular, maniacal obsession. He muttered the phrase over and over, a mantra to keep the pain at bay.
A Demigod. A concept he had never dared to dream of.
Now, Orion himself had promised the opportunity. How could he give up? How could he let a chance that ca once in ten thousand years slip through his fingers?
"I will cross it... I will cross it!"
Dirtclaw moved. He began to run, his speed increasing with every desperate stride.
However, in the sky above, Orion's expression shifted from encouragent to shock.
In Orion's vision, what was charging forward was not Dirtclaw's body. It was his consciousness—his soul.
The mont his spirit surged, Dirtclaw's physical body collapsed, sinking into the depths of the Sea of Blood. The flesh dissolved instantly, its essence devoured by the red tide.
Orion had never seen this before.
He imdiately extended his divine senses, rging with the fabric of his Kingdom to understand the phenonon.
"Divine Calling?"
"The God of the Grave?"
"Holy hell."
Orion was stunned. His Divine Kingdom had just birthed a deity.
"No, not a true independent God," Orion corrected himself as the data flooded his mind.
"A Divine Attendant. A servant deity holding a specific portfolio derived from the overarching concept of the Abyss. He is forming a Divine Portfolio based on 'Burial' and 'Death'."
"In other words, Dirtclaw is becoming a part of my Pantheon."
Orion quickly grasped the chanics. Dirtclaw's will had resonated perfectly with a specific, vacant concept within the Divine Kingdom. Because Orion had set the rules to accept these alien races, the Kingdom itself was now nurturing Dirtclaw, elevating him from a mortal follower to a functional component of Orion's divinity.
"The God of the Grave..."
"Well, that was unexpected."
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