Aeta was not the only one furious at Thalion. Though Aeta had suffered greatly at his hands, two other gods had been utterly broken and now faced mortal peril from their loss of power. One of them was Tenebrice.

The backlash he endured was so massive that he now had no choice but to prepare for war. For ages, he had fed upon the strength of the other vampire gods, draining them slowly like a leech drinking endlessly from unwilling veins. Now, they smelled weakness. They saw an opportunity to turn the tables.

Tenebrice controlled a vast domain, but it would likely be the first thing to fall. Already, the other gods had gathered at his borders, tightening their grip like wolves circling an injured stag. He needed more time, more power, a chance to recover what he had lost.

That chance existed in his sanguine thorns. Though most of his investment in the tutorial had crumbled, not all was wasted. All the thorns had been gathered into a single human, one who had dominated the tutorial at the end. For the gods, it had been a shock, a sudden and inexplicable shift.

Tenebrice still could not comprehend how his Blessed had fallen. He had given her so many advantages it was almost obscene, like handing a mortal the weapons of a god. No one should have been able to defeat her. His suspicion was that an elf had struck her down. A female elf-goddess had suffered an even worse backlash than he, which, in his mind, confirmed the theory. There was no other explanation.

But Tenebrice had no more Blessed in that tutorial, and he refused to squander precious blessings now. To discover the truth, he would need to spend power he could not afford to lose. A war between the vampire gods was inevitable, and he had to prepare.

At least his Chosen had managed to secure a perfect item from the last special quest. An artifact that could give him a real chance at claiming first place in the upcoming System event. The danger, however, was clear: his Chosen would become a target. If he fell, Tenebrice's last hope of recovery would vanish.

Still, he had chosen wisely. His Chosen bore a powerful bloodline. Should the other vampires on New Earth attempt to stop him, they would only become meat for the furnace. In battle between blood mages, his sanguine thorn was the ultimate weapon.

But therein lay his greatest problem.

The very creation that had once elevated him above all others was now turning against him. The sanguine thorn had fed on so much vampire blood that it had evolved far beyond his original design. It was no longer a mere tool. It was awakening.

"I am tired of being trapped in your fragile shell," a woman's voice boomed inside his skull, like molten iron poured into his thoughts. "Why not give in?"

It was, of course, the sanguine thorn. No longer just a weapon, it had ascended to the pinnacle, becoming something akin to a god in its own right. The only thing preventing its recognition as such was Tenebrice himself.

"Silence!" Tenebrice roared, fury shaking his voice. "Once I have dealt with the vampire gods, I will deal with you!"

He forced the presence from his mind, but his anger smoldered. The thorn was bound by countless scripts, but the bindings were weakening. Once, the difference in power between master and slave had been so great that such whispers did not matter. Now, the balance shifted. The thorn knew that when the vampire gods clashed, Tenebrice would be weakened, needing time to recover. Then, it would strike.

Tenebrice despised the situation. But he would endure. He would get his revenge once the rebel gods were crushed. At least the elven goddess did not face mortal danger as he did. The elves, after all, always banded together. Their emperor demanded unity above all.

Still, even if she was not in mortal peril, she must be suffering. That thought gave him a sliver of cold comfort.

He sat down beneath his bloodmoon, letting its dark crimson glow wash over him. The light dripped across his body like a baptism of blood and wrath. Closing his eyes, he steeled himself for the coming war.

<--

Far away from Tenebrice's crimson domain and its eternal blood moon lay another realm. One centered around a golden sun, a star far larger than should have been physically possible. Four massive planets orbited close to it, their colossal bodies circling the radiant inferno like moths dancing on the edge of a bonfire.

Other worlds orbited further away, but the reason for their distance was simple: too close, and they would have been burned to ash in an instant. These were not ordinary worlds. They were sanctuaries where only gods could tread. The four innermost planets could sustain only the strongest of the elven gods, for even they risked death under such relentless brilliance.

One might think a simple sun could not pose such danger. But in the realm of gods, nothing was simple. This golden sun was the size of a supermassive black hole. Its light was not mere radiance, it was loaded with so much mana that it bent space around it. Gravity should have crushed everything into oblivion, yet the sun's raw magical power twisted natural laws, defying collapse. Were it not so, its mass would have bent light itself around it, and every drifting particle would have been torn apart, stretched thin like threads of silk caught in a cosmic loom.

The four closest planets should have been wastelands of scorched stone, but instead they thrived as treasure-troves, sacred grounds where cultivation was exalted, provided the golden light did not erase you the moment you arrived. Only one dared fly even closer to that blinding star. The Elven Emperor himself, leader of their race and, in their minds, the most powerful god alive.

But our focus drifts further outward, to the fifth orbit, to a world bathed in emerald green. Forests covered its surface, their leaves shimmering in hues of gold at the tips where the sun's power kissed them. Here, even mortals of S-grade strength could walk without being incinerated.

Upon this planet rose a palace so vast it seemed to pierce the heavens. Normally, such a place would host only the most powerful S-grades, and perhaps a handful of minor gods. But now, a very different presence resided there.

A silver wind coursed lazily around the tallest tower, like a wounded spirit too weak to howl. Once, those winds had raged into storms that could rend stars themselves. Now they were pale whispers, a reminder of what had been lost.

This was the home of Lunareth, the Goddess of Silver Winds. Her power had been shredded after sending a bloodline treasure into the tutorial. The silver storms that once roared ceaselessly around her domain had thinned to a fragile breeze. The world itself testified to her weakness.

In the heart of the palace, a colossal chamber gleamed. Its floor and walls were adorned with ornaments so rare and radiant that entire wars could be fought over a single tile. It was here that the elven gods began to gather.

Normally, such beings, high and proud, would never deign to assemble in this place. But with Lunareth weakened, the balance of power shifted. They came not out of loyalty, but out of calculation. For she had two very strong Blessed in the tutorial, and more importantly, one of them might know the fate of Ankhet.

The elves were among the few factions still ignorant of what had truly happened there. Only Lunareth had a Blessed with a high enough connection to pierce the veil. And so, in silence, she forced those above her to acknowledge her, if only for a moment.

Before the tutorial, she had commanded many weaker gods beneath her banner. But when her power fell, so too did their loyalty. They scattered, leaving her with little more than S-grades and fledgling gods, nothing in the grand game of divine politics. Now, her survival hinged on information, and on her Chosen who was about to step into the New World.

She was no longer a goddess of notable power. Even some fledgling gods surpassed her in strength. But knowledge was its own weapon. If her Blessed succeeded, she could still prove valuable even to those who now looked down upon her.

In the chamber, Lunareth stood tall, her silver hair drifting in faint breezes conjured by her mere presence. Each strand shimmered like moonlight woven into silk. One by one, more elven gods arrived, teleporting into the chamber until over twenty stood assembled. They were not the strongest of their pantheon, but they strutted as though the universe itself revolved around their schemes.

"What information do you have, Lunareth? My time is far too valuable to waste here."

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The voice belonged to Pyrael, the Emberking. His burning red hair flared behind him like a living flame eager to consume. He was Warden of the Everblaze, a god who, before Lunareth's injury, had been far weaker than she. Now he stood before her with arrogance sharp enough to cut.

He was young, barely a few years old in the reckoning of gods. Yet here he was, daring to make fun of her.

Lunareth did not so much as frown. Her reply came in the calm, melodic tones customary to the elves, her words like silver bells ringing softly in the storm.

"And yet you came, Pyrael. Do you not have a Chosen in the race? One who will end up on the same planet as mine, and those from Ankhet's tutorial? Tell me, how many of your Chosen have reached godhood? One out of five since your ascension? Not the most impressive record, wouldn't you agree?"

The Emberking's face twisted. If looks could kill, she would have fallen where she stood.

Pyrael was not even his true name but one he had bestowed upon himself after burning a weaker elemental. Arrogance incarnate. Normally, powerful gods ensured that most of their Chosen reached godhood. Pyrael, however, had lost all but one in brutal System events, contests where gods had no influence and their Chosen had to fight alone for treasures even their patrons could not grant.

Lunareth had to admit. Pyrael always chose strong candidates. But his "luck" was abysmal, and his failures left deep wounds in his reputation. It was one of the reasons she never missed an opportunity to remind him.

And, despite his scorn, Pyrael relied on her connections and information. Until now, she had been among the very few gods who had successfully brought every single one of her Chosen to godhood.

But now? Now she was injured, her divine core nearly shattered. If her current Chosen failed, she would have to start over entirely as a god. Pyrael, for all his fire, faced different but equally damning problems. Like many in the chamber, he bore the shame of repeated failure.

For gods, bringing a Chosen to godhood was never simply about guidance. It was a declaration, a living testament that their path was powerful. If your Chosen continued to die, others began to whisper. Perhaps your path is flawed. Perhaps you are unworthy.

And in a pantheon as ruthless as theirs, whispers could be sharper than blades.

Maybe Pyrael was just a lucky upstart, doomed to remain trapped at his current power level. Gods, of course, could still fight each other for experience, but such battles were far more dangerous than mortals clashing over a single treasure. Many deities prepared for millions of years for system events, hoarding their strength and knowledge. To advance further once one had already attained divinity was a perilous road, one few dared to walk.

After all, once you had achieved immortality, why risk it?

This, however, was a luxury reserved for factions under a strong leader, like the elves. None dared to attack them, for fear of incurring the wrath of gods far stronger than themselves. The Elven Emperor and his closest circle of ancient conquerors were forces so feared that even whispers of their retaliation kept rivals silent.

For the weaker elven gods, it was easier to rise quickly. The great ones often brought back treasures from mystic realms, items so saturated with ancient power that they could push even fledgling gods forward by millions of years. To those titans, such artifacts were useless, trinkets that no longer resonated with their transcendent forms. It was like a mighty dragon tossing scraps of gold to its hatchlings.

Still, proving oneself by guiding chosen to godhood remained the surest way to earn recognition from these paragons. It showed not only competence, but also that the god's path was one worth following.

Lunareth knew this better than most. She had already set her eyes on a particular mystic realm, one that shimmered like a jewel just beyond her grasp. Pyrael too had risen through reckless ventures into such realms, wagering his life again and again for advancement. One gift from a high god could catapult a younger deity eons ahead. It was the difference between trudging through endless deserts and suddenly finding yourself carried by a roaring river.

But if another of Pyrael's chosen perished, he risked fading into obscurity, abandoned by stronger gods who would see him as unreliable. Lunareth, wounded and diminished, might yet need his assistance, but only if she played her cards carefully.

"There is no need to fight amongst ourselves," Velessia, Dancer of the Cloudspire interjected. Her voice rang like silver bells, her aura of lightning washing across the chamber. "We all have chosen in the tutorial we wish to see ascend. The information from Ankhet's tutorial may prove valuable to us all."

Velessia was aptly named,lightning followed wherever she walked. Unlike Pyrael, however, she rarely ventured into mystic realms. Instead, she had built her power through influence and seduction, weaving webs of favors and oaths.

Another god spoke, his skin the color of stone, his voice heavy and dull as gravel. Lunareth did not remember his name, something to do with mountains, or stones perhaps and she disliked him for it.

"If Ankhet truly arrives there," the stone-skinned god rumbled, "our chosen will face grave difficulties. Tell us what you want for the information, Lunareth. The elven factions will band together one way or another."

Pyrael leaned forward, his red hair glowing faintly like embers. "Yes. Speak. What happened in that tutorial? Rumors of Ankhet spread like wildfire, yet none of us know the truth. Any hint of his plan may give us the edge."

Before Lunareth could answer, a new voice thundered from above.

"Not only you are curious," the voice boomed. "I am also interested."

The chamber shook as the air itself bent beneath the presence. From the ceiling descended a figure wreathed in radiant gold. The gods froze, then dropped to their knees as one, their foreheads glued to the ground.

It was the Golden Emperor.

His aura pressed upon them like the weight of a collapsing star. His power was unmatched in the empire, and in the minds of his followers, in all existence. Outside their domain, others disputed that claim, but none could deny his feats. He had held back the Spiderqueen, shattered fleets of the Cyborg Syndicate single-handedly, and carved victories that still echoed in legend.

That he showed interest in a tutorial was unusual. Top-tier gods rarely risked their chosen in such events, preferring to nurture them within the safety of their domains. But the emperor was no ordinary god, and his motives were never small.

Lunareth's heart pounded. She had intended to drip-feed her knowledge, trading fragments of truth for favors. But in the face of the emperor, that plan dissolved like ice under the sun. She revealed everything, what she knew, what she suspected, and how it had cost her so dearly.

The emperor stroked his chin, golden eyes gleaming. "Interesting. Your backlash could mean only two things. Either the god who blessed that human found a way to slip information and techniques past the system itself, or the human was never blessed at all."

The chamber froze.

"The second," he continued, "is very unlikely. No human could rise to such power alone. It is impossible in the face of the competition."

Still, his words had planted a seed of doubt, and every god felt the tension coil tighter.

"The rewards for choosing well in a tutorial far exceed those of integrated space," the emperor declared. His voice grew stronger with every syllable, shaking the walls. "Knowing how to pass such knowledge in the tutorial is more valuable than you might think. If we learn the identity of that god, I will become stronger than any of the Old Ones. With that knowledge, every elf in future integrations will gain an advantage so vast that no rival could contest us. This will change everything."

He raised his hand, and a small silver orb appeared, glowing with condensed power. Even from a distance, its potency was undeniable. It was like holding the heart of a dying star, compacted into a single trembling sphere.

"Align your factions. Find the human before any others do. Tear the name of his patron from his soul, no matter the cost. Do this, and the treasures I grant will dwarf your imagination."

The orb floated gently into Lunareth's hands. The other gods watched with burning envy in their eyes, their greed as naked as wolves circling prey.

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