The Covenant Chamber was quiet, save for the faint hum of the thrones hovering in the starlit dark. Cefketa sat reclined upon his. The scales on his neck peeked through his robes, catching the glow like shards of night, eyes half-lidded as he watched the streams ripple across floating panes of Vaylora. Humanity screamed, laughed, prayed—all in response to children playing god.

"They cheer for the only thing they know in a sea of the unknown," Cefketa murmured, a smile tugging at his lips. One pane showed Manic dangling a leviathan from chains like a child with a toy, laughter echoing across the world. Another showed Mythara standing over mountains of prostrating snowmen, scythe dripping with silence, his gaze worshiped as divine judgment.

A third flickered with scarlet light—Bloody Mary, carved through a den of Vampires. Every movement was a flourish, every kill a brilliant stage performance painted in crimson. "They crown themselves with laughter, reverence, theater… and the humans bow. How fitting." Zyvaroth chuckled.

Cefketa's clawed finger tapped softly against the armrest. He then turned towards the others, eyes narrowed, "I am a bit surprised."

"What do you mean?" The 3rd Seat Nethyros spoke as Lord Cefketa's eyes landed on her.

"You seem rather… callous towards the death of your people." Cefketa points at the plane that showed Shango dissolving a Leviathan into atoms.

"Every Vaelthora knows, you stop being our people once you break the chain of command. They defected. If your Tiny Tots hadn't dealt with them, I would have myself once things settled down." Nethyro's face was filled with rage and discontent.

That school of Leviathan had long since left Firmatha Sangaur, using her absence in the Human world to live carefree lives. The only rage she felt was that she could not kill them herself.

"There'll be plenty more deserter fish for you to hunt later." The 2nd Seat Vaerros laughed as he slapped the armrest of his throne.

Across the world, humanity reacted like ants struck by fire.

In Paris, the café tables along the Seine rattled as every screen replayed Manic's upside-down grin. Students chanting and drinking, shouting, "We're going fishing!" as though quoting scripture. While priests in the cathedrals muttered that blasphemy had never worn such a charming mask.

In New York City, Wall Street screens abandoned stock tickers for the Leviathan fight. Traders in expensive suits howled at Bumi's salt hammer as if it were a touchdown. But in boardrooms above them, corporate elites argued whether to sponsor "Pantheons" like sports teams—or blacklist them as dangerous cults. Even capitalism scrambled to crown new gods.

In Lagos, a megachurch thundered with cries of salvation as a pastor replayed Mythara's storm-splitting scythe. Congregants pressed foreheads to the ground, claiming prophecy fulfilled. Across the street, another pastor denounced him as Antichrist, his congregation screaming just as loud. A fistfight broke out between pews—religion reborn in real time.

In Tokyo, neon graffiti has already spread across Shibuya: "Fishing!" sprayed in pinks and yellows, tagged with chains and cartoon Leviathans. Arcades replayed Manic's antics on every screen. Youth gangs claimed themselves "The Wildlings," painting their grin on leather jackets. A movement disguised as a meme had already begun.

In Cairo, imams split their sermons—one calling Bloody Mary a divine scourge sent to cleanse the impure, another calling her the Devil's harlot. Worshippers left mosques to march in rival directions, banners raised. Both sides bled red in her name.

Governments scrambled in the background—some denouncing the broadcasts as dangerous propaganda, others quietly discussing which "Pantheon" to align themselves with. In living rooms, dorms, temples, bars, humanity is divided into camps. While every Tiny Tot Team filled them with awe and wonder, three rose above the rest: The Wild Ones, The Judges, and The Crimson Court. Quasi-religions forming at the speed of light, worshipping these teams turned modern-day Pantheons.

The scarlet pane drew Cefketa's gaze again. Bloody Mary's broadcast was unlike the others. She stood in the ruins and let it act as a theater, every strike a dance, every splash of blood a painted flourish across the walls. She continued to slice through monsters in time with her steps. Humanity watched in a trance.

"Look at her," Zyvaroth mused, pride glinting in his eyes. "Even in slaughter, she understands theater. The humans lap it up. They mistake art for salvation."

"Or spectacle for faith," Varythiel, 8th Seat, whispered, her voice like glass shattering. "Their worship will wither as quickly as it blooms."

"Perhaps," Veydris, 6th Seat, purred, 6 tails flicking lazily as she reclined. "But worship is a currency, and human desire can be shaped. Gods are the promises of that currency buying their desire."

"Bah." Vaerros, 2nd Seat, slammed his fist against his throne. His tusks gleamed in the starlight. "Promises mean nothing without strength. These children put on a show, but hardly show strength. Even Mythara-" His words halted when his gaze lingered on the snowy plain.

His eyes were then forced on the image of Mythara.

"The Yetis… are formidable. And their leader was… decent." Vaerros proclaimed, surprising the others. He rarely gave out compliments regarding strength.

"Define decent." Lunara, the leader of the Werewolves and 7th Seat, asked. His golden eyes narrowed.

"Not nearly as strong as you are now, wolf," Vaerros rumbled, "but about as strong as you were when you became a Seat. A decade ago, I expected him and the Yetis to settle here eventually, and thought he would have become the 8th or 9th Seat." Vaerros shrugged, but his tone was heavy.

The chamber shifted uneasily. Everyone's eyes narrowed as they stared at Mythara's frozen image, scythe bisecting storms and mountains alike.

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"I didn't pay him much mind before," Vaerros admitted, tusks glinting with hunger. "But I would very much like to fight him now." His eyes widened with madness, and his lust for battle rolled off him nearly thick enough to see.

The 4th Seat Ferradon grumbled, his beard bristling. "Careful. That hunger of yours blinds you, battle-manic. Every time you speak of fighting, you sound like a child wanting to fight its own shadow."

"Shadows?" Vaerros roared, the veins in his neck swelling. "That boy carved mountains apart with a scythe-swipe. You call that shadow-play?"

"You glorify too quickly," Varythiel hissed. "A single trick does not make a worthy foe. He is still young and inexperienced. Calm yourself."

"And yet," Lunara interrupted softly, his voice carrying the calm of a seasoned alpha, "he fought not for slaughter, but for survival. For strength that could mean peace. That alone makes him more dangerous than your brute-force bravado, Vaerros. If you face him, it will not be for the glory of battle; he will be carrying his entire belief with him. Can you handle that, under your current restrictions?"

The orc's jaw tightened, tusks grinding against one another. For a moment, it looked as though he might rise from his throne. But then Cefketa's chuckle rippled through the chamber, and the tension stilled.

"He'll get his chance… very soon." Cefketa chuckled.

The chamber quieted again, the flickering light of the streams painting alien shadows across their scaled, furred, and armored faces.

Cefketa leaned forward, claws steepled before his mouth. His voice sank into the dark like venom.

"Do you see it? Already, they divide themselves. Some laugh, some pray, some swoon for theater. They call it choice, but it is only instinct. Ants bowing to whichever foot threatens first."

He let his gaze linger on Mythara's image—the scythe cutting storm and mountain alike.

"They see him as judgment, a god who divides life from death. And yet, even as they bow, I see only a boy. A boy is afraid and uncertain of what he is. Too afraid to wear a crown even when given to him."

The pane shifted back to Manic, chains dangling leviathans as chat feeds exploded into neon worship. Cefketa's lips curled.

"And him. They call him a fool, a jokester, a troll. Do you know why humans love him? Because he is unpredictable. Because he is their chaos, and they mistake chaos for freedom."

Finally, his eyes flicked to Bloody Mary, waltzing in blood.

"And she… she knows what I know. That humans crave spectacle. Not the truth. Not power. Spectacle. They will kneel to whoever gives them the most beautiful lie."

He reclined again, his robe falling open just enough to reveal the scales shimmering along his chest, and the scale rot nearly completely healed. He had lived as a human for most of his life, and he understood their nature better than anyone. It was comical, almost sad, how easily they were to predict as a whole.

"They will prance around as new Gods. The humans will worship, they'll create new religions, they'll tear each other apart. The children will save, humanity will bow. The more humanity bows, the higher these children climb. " Cefketa's grin widened, his fangs glinting in the dark. "—then comes the fall."

The chamber said nothing. Even the other Seats were silent, watching him, their own hungers checked by the dragon's smile.

"Understand," he said, voice soft enough to force everyone closer, "for humans, worship is not won. It is engineered."

"There is a sequence. A law older than their tribes." His finger traced sigils in the air, each word blooming as thin aquamarine light before dissolving into the dark. "Shock. Relief. Debt. Division. Choice. Betrayal."

He counted them on his fingers.

"Shock: We have already achieved it. Their worldviews ruptured. Monsters on morning shows. Gods at dinner."

"Relief: The children arrive with smiles and domes of safety. Villages spared, ships saved, storms severed. Relief attaches gratitude to a face."

"Debt: Gratitude turns to obligation. See how they write hymns in the chat? How do they name themselves after these teams? Debt must be encouraged—subtly, sweetly."

Zyvaroth smiled, fangs half-hidden. "You would have them tithe?"

"Tithe? No," Cefketa chuckled. "Participate! Rituals are the leash they beg to wear. Oaths. Pilgrimages to sites they've saved. Auctioned salt shards from Bumi's hammer. "Harmless, yes—but habitual. Worship wearing a modern coat."

"Division: This part requires finesse. They must believe they are choosing freely while we choose for them."

He gestured, and three panes remained: wild waves, white blizzard, a theater of crimson.

Cefketa's eyes cooled. "Choice comes next. We will let them compare gods the way they compare phones. Polls, metrics, weekly highlight reels. We'll leak a 'neutral' analysis that ranks pantheons by effectiveness, aesthetic, and moral consistency. Choice makes ownership. Ownership makes addicts."

Cefketa's gaze returned to Mythara's frozen scythe. "Betrayal is inevitability dressed as an accident. A child dies on a stream. A city saved, but at a cost the camera cannot edit out. A leader caught begging for a god's attention while his people starve. A secret dragged into daylight that the public already half-believed."

His grin was almost kind. "We will not need to invent it. We will schedule it. They will see that gods are not infallible and see no consequences for their mistakes. "

The chamber held its breath.

He swiped his hand—and the planes turned into pictures of the world leaders that were coming to greet them in 3 months.

"Their little summit in three months, we'll call it, 'The Pilgrimage of Peace'—will be the starting point. We show them Firmatha Sangaur in all its glory, a true paradise. Afterwards, we make our moves."

Ferradon scratched his beard. "And what of the tools? You promised a plan for industry."

Cefketa nodded, pleased. "Ferradon, after The Pilgrimage of Peace, secretly floods their black markets with counterfeit Heka-tech. Make it alluring, almost safe. Let a few help, a few fail. After seeing our advanced tech, Governments will naturally turn to you for regulation. You will smile and offer contracts. When the fakes fail spectacularly, who will the mob blame? The gods who 'inspired' them."

Nethyros's voice rolled like the tide. "And the seas?"

"Like Vaerros said, you still have your deserters," Cefketa said. "But you will deal with them publicly. A choreographed indictment. Make the world watch you police your own, and they will ask why Heka cannot do the same."

Vaerros grinned, tusks bright. "And the fight?"

Cefketa's eyes gleamed. "Of course. During the Pilgrimage, we will host a Rite of Measure—a challenge in neutral ground. Something with spectators. Something with rules. Not a war; a trial. We invite Mythara to cross blades publicly—him against a chosen champion. We praise his courage even as we shape the ring, the lighting, the story. If he wins, the world believes in him more—and expects perfection. If he loses, the world believes in us—and expects obedience. Either way, the narrative belongs to us."

Lord Cefketa rose, robe falling open over healed scales like night cured to glass. His voice dropped to a hush; the chamber could not escape.

"Prepare for the Pilgrimage of Peace," Cefketa finished, as he began to walk out of the Chamber. "Vaerros, Prepare for the Rite of Measure. The rest of you should also prepare. Prepare to be merciful."

He turned a final time to the panes—Manic laughing into the gale, Mythara's scythe still carving the horizon, Bloody Mary bowing to an ovation of screams.

"Let them rise," he whispered. "I will not pull the ladder."

His purple eyes glowed with sinister insight. "I will sell them the sky."

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