The village square beyond the town hall's threshold teemed with life. Bodies pressed together in excited clusters, faces turned upward to catch sight of me emerging from the building. The moment Willem and I stepped into view, a tremendous roar erupted from the gathered crowd.

"No Eyes!"

"He's back!"

"Look how tall she's gotten!"

The shouts overlapped in a cacophony of joy that struck my chest like physical blows. These voices belonged to people who had known me when I was nothing more than a broken torso riding around inside a makeshift mechanical body. Now they welcomed me as if I were a conquering hero returning from distant wars.

Garrett pushed through the press of bodies, his weathered hands outstretched in greeting. Behind him came Alain, the young man who had once helped me carry supplies, his eyes wide with amazement at my transformation. One by one, familiar faces emerged from the crowd, people I hadn't seen in nearly two years but who remained etched in my memory with perfect clarity.

I moved among them, accepting embraces and handshakes, offering warm greetings to each person. The genuine affection in their voices created a warmth in my chest that no amount of power or divine status could replicate.

Willem raised his voice above the general din, his cane tapping against the cobblestones for attention.

"Listen up, everyone! Our friend here has a proper name now. You can call them Vardiel!"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd as people tested the unfamiliar syllables.

"About time she got a real name," called out Marsha, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron.

"Nothing wrong with No Eyes," countered old Henrik, crossing his arms stubbornly. "Perfectly good name for a perfectly good... person."

Laughter bubbled up from the gathered villagers, the sound bright and infectious. I found myself smiling genuinely for the first time in months.

Willem gestured toward me with theatrical flair. "May I present Vardiel, protector of Weath and friend to all!"

The crowd murmured approval, heads nodding as they seemed to weigh the name against my appearance.

Emma Goodmak stepped forward, her sharp eyes studying my face with maternal assessment. "Vardiel," she repeated thoughtfully. "It fits you somehow; an exotic name for an exotic existence."

Before I could respond, the cheerful plucking of lute strings cut through the conversation. Clarik had positioned himself near the square's center, his instrument gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. Other musicians joined him, a fiddle here, a drum there, until music filled the air with lively melody.

"Come on, then!" Emma shouted, clapping her hands together. "Let's celebrate properly!"

The transformation was immediate. Tables appeared as if by magic, laden with steaming dishes that filled the air with mouthwatering aromas. Couples began spinning through impromptu dance steps while children darted between the adults' legs with delighted squeals.

Throughout the festivities, villagers approached me with endless questions. Their curiosity was endearing, if sometimes awkward.

"What level are you now?" Young Derek asked, his voice filled with barely contained excitement.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second. The truth (that I had transcended the System's limitations entirely) would likely terrify these simple, good people. The revelation that their protector had killed one of their gods would shatter this joyful homecoming.

Level 100, I replied smoothly.

Gasps of amazement swept through the nearby listeners. Derek's eyes widened to comic proportions.

"One hundred! You're even more awesome than I thought!"

The crowd pressed closer, their faces filled with awe and wonder. They looked at me as if I were some legendary figure stepped out of ancient tales. I couldn't help but wonder how they would regard me if they knew the complete truth: that I wasn't just a powerful warrior, but a deity walking among them.

Farmer Cedrik leaned forward, his weathered hands clasped around a mug of ale. "Tell us about the War Academy! What was it like learning alongside the kingdoms' finest?"

I settled into storytelling mode, carefully editing my experiences for this audience. I described the Academy's grandeur, the impressive instructors, and the mysterious Hellzone beneath the school. The crowd hung on every word, occasionally gasping or laughing at appropriate moments.

They made me wear the female uniform, I said, gesturing at my current robes. Female dormitories too.

Most of the villagers erupted in good-natured laughter, but young Pippa looked genuinely confused.

"Why is that funny?" she asked, tilting her head. "You're a girl, aren't you? Of course you'd wear the girl's uniform."

I smiled gently and patted her head, choosing not to explain the complexities of my genderless existence to a child.

The stories continued, each tale carefully sanitized. I spoke of challenging classes and powerful teachers, but omitted the harassment, the systemic abuse, Professor Shawe's attempted murder. These people deserved celebration, not nightmares.

I fought a Platinum Dragon in the Academy's Hellzone, I mentioned casually.

The square fell silent. Even the musicians missed a few notes.

"Another dragon?" Willem breathed. "We know about the Snapper, but..."

From Arsenal, I withdrew a massive emerald the size of a chicken's egg. Its faceted surface caught the torchlight, casting green reflections across nearby faces.

One of the Platinum Dragon's eyes, I explained, passing the gem to the nearest villager.

The emerald traveled from hand to hand, each person handling it with reverent amazement. Their skepticism gradually transformed into wonder.

Willem's voice cracked with emotion. "You've made all of Weath proud, my friend. A double dragon slayer as our protector!"

I laughed, the sound carrying like wind chimes in summer breeze. Actually, I'm a triple dragon slayer.

Silence descended like a heavy blanket. Killing one dragon marked someone as a hero. Two dragons created legends. But three? That bordered on impossibility.

I raised my right arm, letting the sun illuminate the black scales covering my gauntlet.

Made from the hide of an Apocalyptic Dragon, I explained. Killed it in the Central Hellzone on my journey to reach maximum level.

From Arsenal came a six-inch fang, its surface gleaming like polished obsidian. I handed it to the nearest villager, watching disbelief slowly transform into shock, then pure delight.

"Vardiel the Three-Time Dragonslayer!" someone shouted.

The cheer that erupted nearly knocked me backward. The entire square seemed to vibrate with their enthusiasm.

A familiar chime echoed in my mind as a system notification appeared:

You have gained the title Dragon Slayer 3!

You have slain three dragons, a feat that marks you as truly legendary. You do greatly increased damage against all dragons.

I dismissed the prompt with amusement. Even now, the System insisted on cataloguing my achievements.

The celebration stretched through the afternoon hours, seamlessly flowing into evening as torches replaced fading sunlight. I moved deliberately through the crowd, ensuring every villager received personal attention. Old Henrik gripped my hand with weathered fingers, tears streaming down his cheeks as he thanked me for saving his family. Young mothers lifted their children so they could touch my robes for luck. Even the village's newest residents, families who had arrived after I left, approached with shy smiles and genuine warmth.

Each conversation carried weight. These weren't mere pleasantries exchanged between strangers. We had endured hardship together: my desperate early days when I could barely construct a functioning body, the terror when Kolin's soldiers descended upon our peaceful village, the grief that followed Mallie's death. Those shared experiences forged bonds stronger than blood.

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As midnight approached and the festivities began winding down, I found myself standing near the center of the square, the place where Mallie had fallen in battle. The memory brought a familiar, panful ache to my chest, but also profound gratitude.

Whatever divine responsibilities awaited me, whatever conflicts lay ahead with gods and kingdoms, this truth remained constant: Weath would always be home. These people had accepted a broken monster and helped transform it into something greater. That gift transcended any power or title I might claim.

When the last villager retired to their homes, I positioned myself within the Town Hall while extending my consciousness across Weath. Though my physical form remained standing in the center of the building, my Mind Sight expanded outward like an invisible tide, sweeping through every street and alleyway with perfect clarity.

The ability had grown significantly since my early days as a broken torso. Where once I could barely perceive ninety degrees in front of my face, I now commanded complete three-dimensional awareness. My vision flowed through cottage walls, across moonlit farm plots, and deep into the surrounding forest. Every blade of grass, every sleeping rabbit, every rustling leaf registered in my perception.

Nothing would approach Weath undetected. Not while I maintained this vigil.

Hours passed in peaceful silence. My consciousness traced familiar patterns: the baker's house where warmth still radiated from banked ovens, the blacksmith's forge where cooling metal clicked softly in the darkness, the mill where water continued its eternal dance over the wheel. These people had offered sanctuary to a monster when I needed it most. Protecting their sleep seemed the least I could offer in return.

Dawn's first golden threads began weaving through the eastern sky. The villagers, conditioned by years of agricultural life, stirred naturally with the approaching sunrise. I withdrew my extended senses and emerged from Town Hall before anyone else stepped outside their homes.

The cemetery lay beyond the village's eastern edge, where ancient oaks cast protective shadows over weathered headstones. Three graves clustered beneath the largest tree's sprawling canopy drew me forward. Fresh flowers decorated each marker, evidence that the villagers continued honoring their dead.

Moskin's headstone bore simple, honest words: "Devoted Father and Husband. Strong of Back, True of Heart." The inscription captured his essence perfectly. He had been a man who preferred action to empty speech, whose calloused hands spoke more eloquently than any poet's verse.

Katherin's marker stood beside her husband's, its surface carved with careful precision: "Beloved Wife and Mother. Her Love Knew No Bounds." Even in death, their positions mirrored their marriage: side by side, supporting each other through eternity. She had never trusted me completely, suspicion flickering in her blue eyes whenever we spoke. But her fierce devotion to family had shone like a beacon, impossible to miss or dismiss.

Between them lay the smallest grave. Mallie's headstone, crafted from the finest stone the village could afford, displayed words that made my chest tighten with grief: "Malladay of Weath. Daughter, Friend, Light of Our Lives."

My flesh hand reached out, fingertips tracing the carved letters of her name.

I did it, Mallie, I said to the morning air. I made it through the Academy. It was difficult, but I survived every challenge they threw at me.

The silence stretched between us, filled only by distant birdsong and rustling leaves.

You would have been magnificent there. I know you would have. Your archery skills, your determination, your unshakeable optimism; you would have grown stronger, made lasting friendships, become the protector Weath needed.

But she hadn't. She wouldn't. All because one nobleman's son chose greed and cowardice over mercy.

Duke Barson Redflight remained a threat to my home. To these people who had become my family. His son had already stolen too much from Weath; I would not permit the father to continue that legacy of destruction.

I miss you, Mallie. Every single day. I hope that wherever you are, you've found the happiness that was stolen from you here.

Standing slowly, I turned away from the graves and walked back toward the village center. The time for vigils had ended. Now came preparation for the long journey to Further Vale, where a reckoning waited.

As I moved through the village, I stopped in front of a familiar circular stone building. The temple dedicated to the Holy Twelve stood unchanged since my last visit, its weathered stones bearing intricate carvings that spiraled around the curved walls in endless patterns of devotion. Religious symbols intertwined with scenes of the gods' supposed victories, each carving polished smooth by countless faithful hands over the generations.

I eyed the small entranceway, measuring it against my current form. When I was last here, I could barely fit under the low-hanging entrance; there was no way for my eight-foot frame to enter without damaging the ancient structure. I had wondered back then why the entrance to this holy structure was so deliberately constricted, but now understanding flooded through me. The design forced all who entered to bow their heads, to humble themselves before approaching the divine figures within.

My Mind Sight flowed forward, penetrating stone and mortar with ease. The circular interior revealed itself in perfect detail: twelve alcoves carved into the walls, each housing a wooden statue of the gods. They stood silently as I remembered them, frozen in poses of eternal judgment and power.

Kaldos dominated the first alcove, followed by Mirrin. The statues continued around the circle: Altanava, Luderenil, Ayen, Vardin, Clethu, Naori, Jothas, Prostas, Kanis Rael, and Lakosh.

I gazed upon each figure, noting how well-maintained they appeared. Ludwig, the priest of Weath, must tend them with devoted care. Fresh oil gleamed on the wood, and not a speck of dust marred their surfaces. The old man's dedication remained unwavering despite his advancing years.

Where was Ludwig? I hadn't seen him at the celebration last night, which struck me as unusual. The priest had always been present for village gatherings, even if only to offer prayers for the festivities. His absence troubled me more than I cared to admit.

I wondered what he would say if he knew that two of his precious gods no longer walked among the living. Would his faith crumble, or would he find some way to rationalize their deaths? The thought of causing him such pain sat poorly in my chest.

As if summoned by my contemplation, the door to a nearby house creaked open. Ludwig emerged, moving with careful deliberation. Age had carved deeper lines into his weathered face since our last meeting, and his white hair had thinned considerably. Yet his dark eyes remained sharp and focused as they found me standing before his temple.

The old priest hobbled toward me, his gnarled hand gripping his walking staff with obvious need. Each step seemed to require conscious effort, and I noticed how his shoulders curved inward, as if the weight of years pressed down upon them like a physical burden.

"So," he said, nodding stiffly in greeting. "You have returned."

I bowed respectfully, lowering my head despite the significant height difference between us.

Keeper Ludwig. I hope you are well.

"Well enough for an old man," he replied, though his trembling hands suggested otherwise.

I didn't see you at the celebration yesterday.

"Age has finally caught up with me. I'm not in any shape to attend such gatherings anymore."

I grimaced, noting how his posture seemed more stooped than before, how his fingers shook even while gripping his staff. The vibrant, cantankerous priest I remembered was fading before my eyes, replaced by a frail shadow of his former self.

Before I could inquire further about his health, Ludwig spoke again, his voice carrying an edge of suspicion I remembered well.

"What happened to you?"

I assumed he meant my dramatic physical transformation. The prepared lie came readily to my lips.

I reached level one hundred at the-

"Don't lie to me," he cut me off sharply, his eyes flashing with anger. "I used Analyze on you just moments ago. The system told me nothing. It was unable to Analyze you at all."

My blood chilled. I had grown careless, too comfortable in my old home to maintain proper caution.

Ludwig stepped closer, his staff clicking against the cobblestones.

"Only those outside the reach of the system could do such a thing. And the only ones outside the system are the Holy Twelve themselves."

I frowned, realizing my secret had been exposed by my own oversight. Of all the people in Weath to discover my true nature, Ludwig presented the worst possible scenario. His faith in the gods ran deeper than bedrock; learning the truth would devastate him.

"Tell me the truth," the old man insisted, his voice carrying the authority of decades spent in service to the divine. "What are you?"

For a moment, I considered fabricating another story, something that might lessen the pain my revelation would cause. But looking at Ludwig (this man who had despised monsters yet shown me kindness when I needed it most) I knew deception would be a betrayal of his trust.

He deserved the truth, regardless of how it might wound him.

The God of War and Change came to fight me, I began slowly. Kaldos sought battle, and I thought I was fighting for my life. So I killed him in my fear and desperation.

I paused, watching emotions flicker across Ludwig's weathered features: anger, confusion, skepticism, dismay.

Thus, his Mantle passed to me. When I reached level one hundred, I awakened to godhood.

Ludwig stumbled over his words for several heartbeats before collecting himself.

"You... you stole Kaldos's power?"

I sighed, shaking my head.

It was not theft. It was more... retrieving power that was taken from me originally.

The old priest's eyes narrowed, demanding explanation.

I finally learned the truth of what I am, from Vardin, the God of Science and Knowledge himself. I am a Primordial, a sort of before-god that ruled the world before the Holy Twelve slew us and claimed our powers.

Ludwig looked physically ill, his face draining of color.

"What you claim is blasphemy of the highest order. As a man of faith, I should not listen to another word."

I recalled my encounter with Kaldos, of how my Analyze ability had shown only his name and title when used on him. But that was more than anyone else could perceive from me. How had Kaldos done it? If I could do so as well, then perhaps I could provide proof of my claims.

Focusing on the system, I attempted to alter what others would see when they Analyzed me.

[YES] [NO]

I had no clue what a Name Plate was, but I supposed it was what others saw when they used Analyze on an individual.

I selected yes and input some simple but effective words within the space: Vardiel, God of Weaponry.

Use Analyze on me again, I requested.

Ludwig complied, then his eyes widened in shock. The old man's legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees as tears streamed down his cheeks.

"It's true!" he exclaimed. "It's all true!"

Slightly panicked, I crouched down, grasping his shaking shoulders.

I'm sorry. I know this is hard to accept. I did not wish to cause you pain.

The old priest shook his head vigorously. He let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"No, no! I'm not in pain. I'm elated!"

His words confused me until he continued through his tears.

"For over eight decades, I have served the gods in temples across the Northern Kingdoms. Yet for all my time and dedication, I have not had a single prayer answered, nor caught a single glimpse of the divine."

Ludwig clutched at my arms with surprising strength.

"In my waning years, I had begun to lose faith. Why had so much cruelty and corruption gone on in the world? Why did the Holy Twelve permit such injustices to persist? How could such holy beings allow the world to be as it was? Perhaps the gods were not real after all.

"But now I have proof! You, my friend, have provided it. My faith was not wasted, my life was not lived in vain!"

He thanked me repeatedly as he wept, grateful that I had proven his beliefs held substance.

After several long moments, Ludwig wiped his eyes and apologized for his emotional outburst. I helped him to his feet, steadying him as he attempted to bow.

"I am glad to finally meet a god, even if that god wasn't one I had expected."

The spiritual and physical exhaustion evident in his frame concerned me. I aided him as we walked back to his modest home.

"Would you come inside?" Ludwig asked. "Please, tell me your story. I no longer wish to remain ignorant of how the world truly works."

I agreed, though I offered a warning.

I don't possess the complete truth. Only fragments I've gathered from my experiences, along with memories inherited from Vardin, Mulmin, and Kaldos.

Ludwig smiled, his weathered face brightening despite his tears.

"Knowing a partial truth is still better than remaining in ignorance."

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