After finishing up their preparations, the pair of magi set off on a trek to find the two wanderers they had spotted earlier. Their descent down the statue's platform was slow and arduous. With most of the snow blown from the storm piling up, it was hard to see their footing, let alone the path they needed to walk through.

How annoying… Every step forward felt no different from going through a muddy swamp. Except, there was the added numbness of the cold piled on top of the usual movement problems.

Deciding to take a quick break, Soren turned momentarily to stare at the colossal dragon they had rested under for the night. Its massive figure could dwarf numerous monuments back on Earth. And yet here, it was nothing more than a relic of a bygone era. A statue representing a dragon god imagined by some desperate craftsman in the past…

It made him wonder how so many of these so-called imagined gods were even imagined in the first place. Even with [Eyes of the Fairy], the information he was able to obtain was both jumbled and obscurely patchy… As if some parts of the history were erased from the Beyond…

Seeing Myrin walking off in the distance, Soren finally sped up his pace to catch up to him. He adjusted his cone hat after every step—afraid that it might fall off.

"Say," he called out to his elven companion. "Do you think that perhaps the Six Divines of today hold some connection to this place?"

The question startled Myrin in more ways than one. He turned to face Soren swiftly, eyes full of fear:

"That's a sacrilegious question, Soren! The Age of Heresy is a dark chapter in our history—linking it to the gods is highly disrespectful!"

Soren's lips sank. "Apologies. Won't do it again."

Myrin sighed. "Don't worry… Though, to answer it anyways…

"No, I don't believe so. The statues we see here were all born out of the desires of mortal men. They who imagined the divine when the skies overhead were dark… There is no evidence to suggest that there is a connection. In fact, a majority of the god statues here are all so uniquely different from one another that even historians were left puzzled…

"After all, a society of peoples tends to homogenize their culture. And yet, what we see here is a mishmash of ideas and concepts, all baked into different flavors and scents… Every statue evokes a unique emotion, as if nothing about the gods depicted were ever made from a collective…

"They are all individualistic."

Soren couldn't disagree. With how many statues there were, ideas should have been prone to spread… Logically, you would see more sculptors copying from each other's works—creating enhancements and deciding on changes based on what they had been inspired by from others… And while that was true to some degree, a majority of the statues retained their uniqueness.

No, it wasn't just simply artistic divergence. It felt more intentional than that—as if each sculptor was clinging desperately to their original vision, convinced that the uniqueness of their piece was key.

That if their god stood apart from the rest, it might listen more closely…

And clearly, their ambitions had failed. If they had truly succeeded, would they not have seen the rise of more deities in this world? Myrin was right. Even if there were similarities, that was not enough evidence to conclude anything.

"Besides," Myrin said while walking ahead, "the rise of the Flower Maiden—Praise the Blossoms—only occurred during the third age. A blessed flower that blooms even on the most ruinous of days…"

Soren ignored the fluff and honed in on the most important aspect of his answer:

"The third age…"

Myrin nodded with a slight chuckle. "Indeed… Also known as the Age of Twilight. Named after the prosperity that the Flower Maiden brought to the fractured mankind of the past…"

Soren scoffed, "Prosperity? Didn't you tell me that humanity was enslaved back then?"

"Ah, yes." Myrin sighed. "But you're slightly mistaken about the history. Humanity—especially after the Age of Heresy—was a husk of its former self. Its cultures were destroyed. Its societies—demolished. By the end of the Second Age, during the ushering of the Flower Maiden, many humans voluntarily became Her worshippers.

"In fact, it was Her ascendance that ended the Second Age… The world, after several thousand years, had finally obtained another god. And indeed, it was a prosperous time. Humans and elves lived side by side. Although elves hold a higher connection to the fae, that did not stop the humans from showing their devotion."

Everything he had been hearing up to now shook Soren to his core. It was the complete opposite of everything he had read in Celestine… Not that he read all that much about history—his focus was mainly on the study of magecraft itself.

He decided to ask:

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"So then what changed?"

"A good question," Myrin replied with a chuckle. "It's really simple, actually:

"The War of Swords."

Soren's eyes widened for a bit. "I see now…"

"Yes, all of it traces to that dreadful war…" Myrin said with a nod. "After the Flower Maiden, two other deities were born: The Slumbering One and another which was unexpected to many… The Beast of Knowledge. Their birth signalled a shift in how the world was structured. Divisions were once again sown. And that eventually culminated into the bloody war you know of today."

Taking another step forward, Myrin paused to catch his breath then looked toward the direction they were heading. The silhouettes of the three individuals were still visible, despite the distance. Though, what was different this time was that they were not the only ones to notice.

Seeing this, Soren felt his lips curling up slightly. "I hope they're friendly…"

Uruk Merrin frowned deeply as he slowly maneuvered across the snow-filled plains. The statues overhead looked down at him from all directions, as if to pity his circumstances.

"By the serpent's grace… When will this be over?"

He heard a voice answer back, "Be patient, Uruk… The times are changing for the better… The Holy Shrine Maiden will surely bring us prosperity."

Hearing his sister's voice, he turned to look at her briefly. It was a woman of rather short stature, donned in a red colored felted coat—made from the wool of a fallen Spirit Beast. Runic symbols inscribed in yellow were stitched to its surface, laced in countless symbolic embroideries… A fur-lined cap with carefully made knots for flaps was firmly placed over her flowing jet black hair, protecting her from the cold wind…

Isha Merrin. Although she was younger than him, he always found it easy to admit that she was the more mature one out of the two. Tightening her red woven scarf, the ancestral jade beads shook slowly, as if mirroring her displeasure.

"The fate of our tribe rests upon our trust in the Maiden… As the son of the former chieftain, you must set a proper example for the youth." With her mittened hands, she firmly planted her wooden staff—the antlered skull attached to its apex shook with the motion.

Uruk looked at her for a few more moments then shook his head and sighed. "I know, but…"

"No buts! Now let's hurry back. Zaya is clearly getting tired…"

Hearing this, Uruk looked at the Spirit Beast his sister was shepherding. A white-furred creature padded silently through the snow behind her. With its head hung low, steam bellowed from its snout with each breath as it stared back into his eyes. Attached to its back with ropes was a massive sled, carrying enough hunted meat to feed them for the next two days.

Its horns—black and ridged like thunderstruck branches—dangled countless paper charms, each a symbol of the generation before them… Indeed, his sister was correct.

Zaya was getting too old.

What was once an easy hunting trip had now become a struggle…

Uruk couldn't help but be disappointed. The elders always spoke with such certainty—that the Ashari carried the blood of sky-fangs… That their presence was in itself a blessing. The shamans even claimed these Spirit Beasts had once ruled the upper winds of Tolarion—their charred horns a symbol of their mighty heritage…

But as he continued to watch Zaya struggle to pull a half-laden sled, her breath ragged, her steps dragging… all he saw was a tired beast burdened by stories she was too old to carry.

When will the tribe finally learn to let go? To him, they were nothing more than deluded fools clinging to a past that might as well had never existed…

"You're thinking of something really pessimistic again, aren't you?" Isha's frosted red cheeks puffed again in anger. "Get moving again, you damned oaf!"

"Alright, alright!" He chuckled. "Nagging me about patience—how about you take your own advice from time to time."

"What did you say?"

"... Nothing." He quickly sprinted ahead. Far past the ancient statues lining his path, the sun shone its radiance once again. It had been four days since the last time he had been able to see it.

Just as he was about to tell his sister, his ears picked up on a strange sound coming from his left. He swiftly turned in the direction, only to see two strangers standing in the distance. The shadowy pair both wore robed clothes, matched with obvious cone hats.

Southerners… No—wait. Magi?

He frowned deeply as the anima within him stirred.

"Uruk, what's wrong?" His sister asked, then, she too froze in silence upon realizing the same thing.

"Identify yourselves!" Uruk yelled out—his hand clenched tightly around his familiar spear.

"Soren and Myrin!" A voice replied back. "We are travelers from the south! We mean no harm!"

From the snowy cliff, Soren watched the scene unfold with [Eyes of the Fairy] active. He had already captured information about both of them prior to their engagement—just in case the encounter would turn deadly…

Tribal hunters… People really live and thrive in this frigid hell? He thought to himself in silence.

In a way, he should have expected it. There was no other creature more adaptable than man.

His eyes tailed back to the taller man wearing some kind of animal skull helm—its curved black horns were engraved in strange symbols… Attached to the ritualistic helm was a fur-lined cloak layered in countless feathers, paired with a simple white patterned tunic underneath.

But what truly held Soren's attention was the man's spear. Although it was simple in design, the craftsman who made it clearly knew what they were doing. The shaft was smooth and balanced, and its serrated edge—carved from gleaming ivory—had clearly come from a powerful Spirit Beast.

A 7th Class Sentinel, huh? It was obvious from the old scars and knicks streaking the old blade that the man standing before him was no amatuer.

And the same could be said about the woman standing next to him. Though her posture was calm, almost casual, there was nothing passive about her. The defiance in her eyes burned brightly, like a hawk eyeing prey. And her grip on the ritual scepter was firm… No doubt, she was readying a spellform to trigger at a moment's notice.

A 7th Class Sentinel and a 2nd Circle Magus… How delightful.

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