I stepped down from the stairs leading from the caldera and onto the enclave's main thoroughfare, the Voiceless Prophet's mechanical legs clicking rhythmically against the volcanic stone beside me. Within moments, a small crowd of onlookers began to gather in our wake, with kobolds, lizardmen, goblins, and other intelligent monsters maintaining what they considered a respectful distance while their eyes tracked our every movement.

The black brick buildings that lined the street bore fresh mortar and new timber reinforcements, evidence of the community's determination to rebuild after the human siege. Windows that had been shattered by ballista bolts now held glass again, their surfaces reflecting the dim red glow that perpetually illuminated our underground sanctuary. Storefronts displayed their wares openly, a sign that merchants felt secure enough to trust in the safety of their goods. The scars of war were healing, slowly but steadily.

A group of goblin children paused their game of stone-toss to stare at us with wide, curious eyes. Their parents quickly shepherded them to the side of the street, though not before each child managed a quick, awkward bow. The sight tugged at something deep in my chest; these youngsters had no care for war or how close the enclave had been to being destroyed. To them, this peaceful existence was simply normal.

"They rebuild with remarkable resilience," the Prophet observed, his mental voice carrying notes of approval. "The young forget trauma quickly, while the old remember its lessons."

Behind us, the crowd had grown larger. I caught fragments of whispered conversations, prayers offered in a dozen different dialects and tongues. The words varied, but the reverent tone remained constant. Several lizardmen pressed their scaled palms together and touched their foreheads to their fingertips, a gesture of deepest respect in their culture. A cluster of kobolds had fallen to their knees entirely, their small forms trembling with what appeared to be religious ecstasy.

The attention made my skin crawl beneath my elaborate silk robes. I forced my expression into what I hoped resembled benevolent serenity, though every instinct screamed at me to flee back to the safety of my workshop. The weight of their expectations pressed down like a physical thing, heavier than any armor I'd ever worn.

Was this how Vardin had felt in those early days after gaining his Mantle? Had the transition from respected king to worshipped deity been gradual, or had it struck him all at once like a hammer blow? The fragments of memory I'd inherited from him suggested the latter: a sudden, overwhelming realization that he was no longer merely mortal in the eyes of his subjects.

I caught myself straightening my posture unconsciously, the way a ruler might when acknowledging their people. The realization sent a chill through my mechanical frame. Was it already starting? This creeping transformation from reluctant leader to something else entirely?

The Holy Twelve had once been mortal kings and queens, flesh and blood rulers who had earned their thrones through conquest or inheritance. But millennia of worship had changed them, twisted their perspectives until they viewed ordinary beings as pieces on a vast game board. They moved nations like chess pieces, crushing entire civilizations to satisfy their whims or settle their ancient grudges.

I refused to become that. I had spent too much time since my rebirth as an outcast, longing to be accepted as an equal among thinking beings, to ever willingly place myself above them. The memory of that desperate hunger for simple recognition burned too bright in my mind.

A young orc maiden approached from the crowd, her tusks decorated with intricate silver inlays. She carried a small basket of fruit, an offering for the gods who walked among her people. Her hands shook as she extended it toward me.

I accepted the gift with genuine gratitude, meeting her gaze directly rather than gazing over her head as the distant gods might have done.

Thank you, I said simply.

The young orc's face transformed as pure joy replaced nervousness, her silver-inlaid tusks catching the crimson light as she beamed at me. She clutched her now empty hands to her chest and darted back through the crowd, her excitement infectious enough that several nearby monsters smiled despite themselves. Her parents watched with obvious pride as she disappeared among the throng.

I cradled the woven basket, examining the carefully arranged selection of cave-grown mushrooms, preserved berries, and what appeared to be some kind of root vegetable I didn't recognize. The offering represented hours of work and precious resources, given freely without expectation of divine favor or magical intervention. Though neither the Prophet nor I required sustenance, the gesture touched something deeper than hunger. This gift spoke of community, of shared sacrifice, of people who understood what it meant to give from the heart.

The temple staff worked tirelessly to maintain our sanctuary, scrubbing floors, polishing obsidian surfaces, and ensuring every torch remained lit. They deserved recognition for their dedication, and this fruit would serve as a tangible reminder that their efforts were seen and valued. Perhaps I could distribute it during the evening meal, when the day's labors were complete and everyone gathered in the communal halls.

We continued our procession through the enclave's winding streets, past workshops where hammers rang against anvils and market stalls where vendors hawked everything from crude weapons to exotic spices. The constant weight of dozens of stares pressed against my consciousness, but I forced myself to maintain the measured pace expected of a divine figure. Every step felt calculated, performative in a way that grated against my nature.

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"You are leaving," the Prophet's mental voice cut through the ambient noise of the crowd with crystalline clarity.

The statement carried no question mark, no uncertainty. He had read the signs in my posture, my wandering gaze, the subtle tension that had been building within me for weeks. I nodded once, a barely perceptible acknowledgment that confirmed his observation.

Now that the enclave is secure, I have other matters that require my attention.

"What manner of matters?"

I paused beside a fountain carved from volcanic rock, its clear water bubbling up from underground springs, carried here by the piping system I had created. The sound provided cover for our mental conversation, though I doubted any of the surrounding monsters possessed the ability to intercept our thoughts.

There are old debts that need to be paid.

The words tasted bitter even in my mind. Kolin Redflight's face surfaced from the depths of memory: cold eyes, cruel smile, the casual dismissal of an innocent girl's death. Mallie had deserved better than being struck down by his mage's lightning while trying to protect her village. The people of Weath deserved better than living under the thumb of his father, a man who viewed them as expendable resources.

I had made promises in the heat of rage and grief, vows that had sustained me through countless battles and the long, painful process of growing strong enough to honor them. The time for waiting had ended.

Can you maintain the enclave's safety in my absence?

"My children and I are more than capable of such a task," the Prophet replied with unmistakable confidence. "The Voiceless grow stronger each day, and the natural defenses of this place serve us well."

If circumstances change, if danger threatens the community, will you be able to contact me as you did before?

The Prophet's massive form shifted slightly, his mechanical legs adjusting to accommodate his weight as he considered the question.

"My reach extends only within or near Hellzones. The chaotic energies of our once-sanctums amplify my Mind Speech beyond its normal limitations. Outside such areas, you will be beyond my voice."

I processed this information, filing it away for future reference. The Northern Kingdoms contained a few Hellzones, though none as large or well-established as this Central one. If I planned my route carefully, I could maintain some level of communication with the enclave during my journey.

I don't yet know the full range of my own Mind Speech, I admitted. But I look forward to discovering its capabilities.

The Prophet's mental chuckle resonated with dark amusement, a sound like grinding stone mixed with genuine mirth.

"May fortune favor your ventures, young god."

We reached the eastern gate as the crowd finally began to disperse, their curiosity satisfied by our public appearance. Beyond the gate lay the twisted landscape of the Hellzone proper, where reality bent in impossible ways and creatures from forgotten nightmares stalked among crystalline formations.

The Prophet turned toward the gate without ceremony, his mechanical limbs carrying him forward with steady purpose. A dozen Voiceless emerged from the shadows, their crab-like forms moving in perfect silence as they fell into formation around their creator. They had been venturing into the Hellzone with increasing frequency lately, hunting the more dangerous monsters that roamed the outer territories.

The Prophet's newfound mobility had transformed him from a stationary oracle into an active force for the enclave's protection. Already level thirty and rising, his Ancestor Might attribute boosted his statistics well over a thousand in each category. Short of encountering an Apocalyptic Dragon, few creatures in this existence could threaten him.

I watched until the small procession disappeared into the crimson mists beyond the gate, then called up my status display. The familiar blue screen materialized before me, its text sharp and clear against the volcanic backdrop.

Name: Vardiel

Level: N/A

Species: Dirtborn [GOD]

Gender: N/A

Age: 1

Titles: Original, Vanquisher of Qordos, Defender of Weath, Dragon Slayer 3, Fugitive, Magistricide, Godslayer, Apostate, God of Weaponry

Strength: Limitations Removed

Endurance: Limitations Removed

Dexterity: Limitations Removed

Intelligence: Limitations Removed

Wisdom: Limitations Removed

Attributes: Ancestor Might (Descendants: 467), Invulnerable Flesh, Integration, Court Style Swordsmanship, Weath Defense, Blessing of Kaldos, Enchantment, Titan Slaying Style, Mantle of Armament, Mobilize

Abilities: Mind Speech, Mind Sight, Language Comprehension, Assembly, Analyze, Depository, Mana Manipulation, Blade Skill, Brace, Momentum Redirection, Mana Shell, Internal Forge, Arsenal, Tunnel

Most entries remained unchanged since my last review, though the notation indicating limitless growth potential still sent a thrill through my mechanical frame. No longer bound by the system's artificial constraints, I could grow as strong as my efforts and experiences allowed.

I scrolled down to the Attributes section, scanning through abilities I had grown accustomed to seeing. Then my gaze caught on an entry that hadn't been there before, or perhaps one I had simply overlooked in previous examinations.

Blessing of Kaldos

Curious, I selected the entry and watched as additional information populated the screen.

Hidden Attribute: Received by all who have studied within the hallowed halls of the Kaldos Academy of War. Increases all experience gain by a factor of 3.

A harsh laugh escaped my throat before I could suppress it. So that explained the legendary efficiency of War Academy training. Kaldos had cheated, granting every student a hidden blessing that tripled their advancement rate. No wonder Academy graduates consistently outperformed their peers from other institutions.

The blessing still functioned despite Kaldos's death, probably locked into the system's core programming. I wondered briefly if I possessed the ability to create similar boons now that I wielded his power. The potential applications were staggering.

But such considerations would have to wait. I had a path to follow, a destination that called to me across hundreds of miles of dangerous territory. The Northern Kingdoms awaited, and with them, the Kingdom of Aspiration. Somewhere in that realm, Duke Redflight continued his petty tyrannies, blissfully unaware that judgment approached on divine mechanical limbs.

The time had come to honor old promises and settle ancient scores.

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