[...You may allow Avenor to use half of the Divinity Points to advance his Rank or reestablish the connection(Altered).]

My mind froze on the final line. Not only had the system offered me to raise Avenor's rank, but it also gave me the chance to mend the severed connection.

But perhaps I could do both.

Guidance.

[Guidance Advanced Feature – 10 Divinity Points]

If you choose to reestablish the connection with the vessel, its rank may be increased later via blessings.

Reestablish Connection (Altered): It is possible to mend what was broken by the mark placed upon it. However, for your divine power to function, the vessel will lose its mark and the skill Hollow Core.

My excitement drained at once.

If this battle had taught me anything, it was that Avenor was a formidable weapon against deities. Not because of his strength, but because Hollow Core made him immune to their power. If he had not possessed it, then I myself would have been forced to destroy the Mother, and with it, perhaps invite penalties that would ruin all the work I'd done so far.

Hollow Core was more than a defense. It was a blade aimed at the heart of the gods themselves. That was its true strength and it was not something I could allow to be discarded.

This skill is simply too overpowered to give up. But the connection…

No matter how I turned it over in my mind, both paths carried regret. If I chose one, I would lose the other.

So I took the path that minimized loss. I would let Avenor increase his Rank. The connection could wait, some chance might come later. But if I sacrificed Hollow Core now, it would likely be gone forever.

I probably would have chosen to restore the connection if this decision had come before the raid on the nest. But not now, not after seeing the tension between us begin to ease. I could not say whether Avenor and I would ever reach complete trust, yet at the very least he no longer looked at me as a god waiting for his failure to cast him aside. And after he charged headlong into uncertainty, facing an opponent he must have known outmatched him, I felt I had to answer in kind. Reward his trust, his dedication. This was, after all, the one rule I had set for myself: always return what you are given.

The cavern still hissed with the aftermath of the Mother's spell, embers drifting through the air like dying fireflies. Into that haze surged my power. Crimson energy swept across the battlefield, coiling toward Avenor's unconscious body. It wrapped around him in thick, serpentine streams, tentacles of divinity grasping not to crush, but to bless.

Avenor's body arched as the energy sank into him. Scars closed, bones hardened, muscles reknit. His skin gleamed with the sheen of reforged steel.

He rose from the cavern floor, hovering in the air, the crimson aura cascading off him in waves.

I had no time to savor the sight.

Through the shattered barricade of charred spider eggs, Velmoryn poured in, their steps echoing in the cavern.

Akrion limped at the head of what remained of his warriors. His armor was blackened, dented across the chest where heat had warped the metal. Half his face was blistered raw, the skin cracked, and every breath rasped through seared lungs. Hatred burned in his eyes, one that only deepened when he saw the sight before him. The Mother's corpse lay cut to pieces, and Avenor hung suspended above ground, his body bathed in divinity.

"What…" The word tore out of him, hoarse, as his greatsword slipped from numb fingers. The blade hit the stone with a ringing clang that covered up the rest of his words.

The other Vaels also emerged, each battered in their own way. Dariel staggered forward with his body covered in blood. Mirion's berserk fury had passed; he leaned heavily on his axe, chest heaving, eyes still wild. Othrien's robes were drenched in sweat, his hands trembling after mana exhaustion. Shelya fared worst of all - her back scorched black, patches of hair burned clean from her scalp. The moment her skill faltered, her body had withered, leaving her hunched and frail, an old woman standing where a battle-mage had been.

"Praise High Father!" Ninali's voice cut through the crowd. She was barely upright, her legs buckling beneath her, yet she still pressed index and middle finger to her chest and traced my symbol. Her lips trembled, but the fire she had cast earlier, an inferno that boiled monsters alive in their shells, had already marked her as a formidable mage in the eyes of the others.

The warriors around her shifted uneasily. Some looked at her with reverence, others with a kind of wary, as if she was a threat they needed to maintain a distance from.

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"Praise High Father!" another voice answered. "Praise High Father!" "Praise High Father!"

The chant spread in ripples, Velmoryn voices rising until even those without my mark raised their weapons in salute. The cavern seemed to tremble under their collective shout.

Not all joined. Othrien and Lyle remained silent, though smiles pulled faintly at their lips. Shelya's expression twisted, and her voice rose.

"Praise the Goddess!"

Only a handful joined her, the sound feeble against the roar of my name. Too many of her followers had perished, and Akrion's warriors, almost all of them, lay burned or broken under the Mother's last spell.

"What's happening with Avenor?" Rodon's question slipped out. He leaned against Mia, his arm slung over her shoulders, body near collapse. He had meant it only for Aria, but in the lull between chants his strained voice carried. It came out sharp, almost panicked, drawing heads from every side. Some harsh, others sympathetic. Among my believers, many mistook his words as proof of loyalty, as if he were shouting concern for a brother-in-arms.

"So this is why the monsters died," Aria muttered, ignoring Rodon's words. Her cyan eyes were fixed on the grotesque sight beneath Avenor.

"Av…" Othrien spoke before Aria could continue, though he seemed to forget the name. "The blessed one prevailed and is now ascending. He is in no danger, but some of us still are. Where are the healers?"

"Wait!" Lyle snapped suddenly, not letting Vaelari cast the spell on the Blue Tribe. She turned sharply, eyes fixed on Akrion. He stood apart, glaring at Avenor as the crimson light flared around him.

"Before the healer casts a single spell, I demand an explanation - why did you abandon our ranks and leave your kin to die?"

Lyle stepped forward, her grip tightening around her twin blades as Akrion turned to face her.

"I've not abandoned my kin," he declared, his burned face twisting in disgust. "The Blue Tribe was never bound to protect weaklings who can't even stand on their own."

"When we discussed the strategy, you agreed to every part of it!" Lyle continued flatly and took another step toward him. "A true warrior's word is an oath, not a promise to discard when it suits them."

"You lecture me about honor? About a warrior's duty?" Akrion snapped, eyes darting to where his greatsword lay. But Lyle was already there, her boots planted firmly on the blade.

"You brought what, a thirty Velmoryn?" His lip curled. "And even they needed the protection of our glorious Blue tribe?"

"And where are they now?" Lyle's voice dropped cold, every syllable honed as she advanced closer.

Akrion didn't respond.

"Your proud warriors. Where are they?" She repeated, her smirk widening as she saw the vein bulge on his temple. "Why don't you answer? Where are your glorious swords now? What have you achieved after abandoning us to die?"

Akrion's teeth ground audibly.

"You filthy wretch," he spat, voice shaking with barely leashed fury.

The insult drew a ripple across the crowd, and Akrion swept his gaze over the Velmoryn, searching for support. Despite the rage twisting his features, there was calculation in his eyes. He wasn't acting blindly. He knew if he attacked here, he would lose.

"I should never have allied my forces with yours," he growled, glaring at the gathered tribes with the arrogance of one who believed himself above them. "We should not have bled ourselves for wastes like you."

Lyle's blades caught the dying embers on the stone, their edges glimmering red as she raised them.

"I'd challenge you to a duel, but honor is wasted on you."

She lunged.

"Vael Lyle, don't!" Othrien's voice came, but words were all he could do. He had nothing left to give, no mana for even the smallest spell. His eyes darted to Mirion and Dariel, but both stood still, watching, offering no move to intervene.

"Help Vael Akrion!" The call came weak, muffled. Fewer than five voices answered - the last of the Blue warriors. They staggered forward but stopped short as the Brown Tribe surrounded them, stronger, unscathed by the Mother's spell.

The air grew heavier. Steel hissed as Lyle closed the distance, and Akrion raised forearms, bracers ready to catch the strike.

But the impact never came.

A wall of darkness materialized between them, swallowing the glint of her blades.

"You failed Lord, and failed miserably at that," a voice hissed from behind. Eralon stepped from Akrion's shadow, his figure unfurling from the gloom like smoke given form. "But the magnanimous Father grants you one last chance."

Akrion said nothing, but the curt nod he gave proved he had been waiting for this.

The air warped. A portal bloomed open, swirling black and violet, its pull sucking inward.

"Enter," Eralon commanded, extending a trembling hand. His skin drained pale as the portal drew on him. "The Fifth Daughter is already here. We must not make her wa…" His words choked off into a wet cough. Blood spattered across his lips, his body shuddering under the strain.

Akrion spared him a glance, brief, cold, and stepped through the portal. In an instant he was gone.

The crimson runes shimmered to life beneath Eralon as he staggered, swaying as though drunk. His knees buckled, his palms slapped against stone, and he collapsed forward, face striking the cavern floor. He clawed weakly toward the portal, but before he could drag himself further, a cold voice froze him in place.

"You aren't going anywhere."

Crimson collar coiled tightly around his neck. The portal snapped shut as his control over mana was wrenched away.

Aria stepped close to him, crimson light showering her face from the diagram above her.

"You are going to tell me everything," she hissed, "or you will never reunite with your God."

Even before her words finished, my focus was elsewhere.

I had known this campaign would not end with the nest. But I had hoped that Eralon might be the final obstacle. When the Night God was given the punishment and stripped of the right to wield divine power in the mortal realm, that hope had almost felt real.

But nothing came so easily.

Beyond the cavern, in the frozen forest, a tall woman walked barefoot across the snow. Not a single step left a mark. Her long black hair streamed behind her, and her gown, sheer in places, hung like a veil of shadows across her body. From her neck dangled a heavy medallion, gothic in its craft, etched with twin crescent moons.

The Apostle of the God of Night and Moons had come.

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