From his vantage point, hidden behind a blackened boulder, Zhuo watched the awakeners prepare for battle. Some were sharpening their weapons, others adjusting their armor, but what truly caught his attention were those kneeling in prayer.
Whispers of devotion filled the air.
Not to each other. Not to their leaders.
To gods.
Zhuo arched an eyebrow, listening.
"Solmara, bestow your light upon me."
"Vaelthir, Lord of Storms, let my blade strike true."
"Orin, keeper of shadows, guide my steps in the dark."
"Elyssara, Divine Empress, shield us with your eternal grace."
Zhuo frowned.
"Who are these gods?" he muttered under his breath.
He had never heard these names before.
His eyes darkened slightly as he thought back—he had once walked a world where the gods were ever-present, their power absolute, their names woven into the very fabric of reality.
He remembered how mortals had once called upon the Primordial Pantheon, deities whose very presence could split the heavens and sunder the earth. He had seen temples bathed in divine radiance, watched kings kneel in servitude to celestial overlords.
And yet, these names…
They were not the ones he knew.
"Are they new gods that arose after I fell into slumber?"
The idea irritated him.
Had the world changed so much? Had the divine thrones been shattered and rebuilt?
He let out a soft scoff, shaking his head.
"Tch… doesn't matter."
Even if these gods were watching, even if they still held power, they could do nothing.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he leaned back against the boulder, arms crossed.
"Hmm… even if the gods wanted to give their blessings, they wouldn't be able to." His voice held quiet amusement as he glanced up at the pulsating sky.
"That bastard put a barrier on Earth, preventing gods from interacting with mortals. He is above god level."
He chuckled, but there was something in his gaze—a sharpness, a knowing edge.
A being—**someone even the gods could not defy—had severed their connection to this world.
The veil Barrier.
It was not simply a wall. It was a divine prison, a seal woven from the remnants of an ancient war, one that not even the gods could break.
Once, gods could descend freely.
Their voices had shaped kingdoms, their wrath had crushed empires.
Back then, a prayer was not just hope—it was a contract. The faithful offered devotion, and in return, the gods granted power, knowledge, protection.
But now?
Their will had been reduced to whispers.
The strongest of gods were still powerful, their divine might unfathomable, but they were locked away beyond the barrier.
Their touch on the world had faded.
There were still traces of their influence—blessings left behind in relics, divine bloodlines that carried fragments of celestial strength—but it was nothing compared to the past.
Even now, some mortals still claimed to hear the voices of gods in dreams, to feel their presence in moments of crisis.
But were those truly the gods themselves?
Or simply echoes—remnants of an era long gone?
Zhuo chuckled, a low, almost lazy sound, but his smirk held something deeper—something teetering between amusement and disbelief.
"Woah… he really went this far, huh?"
His eyes flickered as he tilted his head, gazing at the sky like it held the answer. A single star shone dimly beyond the swirling storm clouds, its light barely piercing through the oppressive atmosphere. The heavens felt... empty.
A world severed from its gods.
"Tch, isn't this a bit excessive?" He let out a laugh, dragging a hand through his dark hair. "I get it, I really do. But slamming the gates on the gods themselves? That bastard didn't just kick them out—he fucking exiled them."
His grin widened as he tapped his fingers against his temple, as if trying to shake loose an old memory. "And here I thought I had a flair for the dramatic."
The idea was so utterly insane that he almost admired it.
Gods, those arrogant, high-and-mighty beings who once dictated fate, now reduced to whispers beyond an impassable wall. Even if they wanted to bless their followers, even if they screamed across the void, their voices wouldn't reach.
"Hah! This is beyond just cutting off divine intervention." Zhuo spread his arms wide, as if gesturing to the entire world. "It's like someone slapped a giant 'No Gods Allowed' sign on Earth and reinforced it with cosmic chains."
He let his arms fall, shaking his head with a laugh. "Well, if the bastard wanted to make me owe him, he sure went all out."
But as the humor in his words faded, Zhuo's expression turned serious. His gaze, sharp and piercing, shifted back toward the swirling black gate. The air around it pulsed with an ominous hum, a deep, unnatural sound that seemed to gnaw at reality itself.
"He isn't the kind of man who just goes around slapping barriers on worlds for fun." Zhuo muttered, his voice quieter now, as if speaking to himself. His fingers curled into a loose fist. "And sealing away gods—making divine intervention outright impossible? That's not something you do just to show off."
For the first time since waking, something gnawed at the edges of his mind, an uncomfortable thought he had no answer to.
Why?
Zhuo knew gods.
They weren't the benevolent, ever-loving protectors mortals liked to imagine them as. No, they were beings of power, of laws, of judgment. Some were cruel, some were kind, but none were simple.
And most importantly—they didn't meddle without reason.
Zhuo narrowed his eyes, deep in thought.
"They aren't saviors. They don't just hand out blessings and miracles because they feel like it. But they also don't go out of their way to destroy without a cause."
He exhaled sharply.
"So what the hell happened? What could possibly warrant exiling gods from an entire world?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered.
For a brief second, Zhuo considered the possibility—the terrifying possibility—that the bastard had foreseen something coming.
Something so dangerous… so catastrophic… that even the gods had to be cut off.
Zhuo's fingers twitched. His grin was long gone.
"... Tch."
He leaned back against the boulder, looking up at the sky again.
For the first time in a long time, he felt it.
That itch.
That deep, gnawing curiosity.
Something big was coming.
And Zhuo needed to know what.
Zhuo let out a long, exaggerated sigh, dragging a hand down his face.
"Ahh, man… This is such a pain."
He slumped back against the boulder, kicking a small rock with the tip of his boot. It tumbled down the slope, completely unaware of the existential crisis he was having.
"If I'd known all this crap was waiting for me, I would've gone straight to that bastard's domain and beaten the answers out of him before descending!"
He threw his hands up dramatically. "But nooo—'Let's just descend and figure things out on the way,' I said. 'How bad could it be?' I said. And now look at me!" He gestured at himself. "Mortal state! Weak as hell! Stuck behind a rock watching a bunch of people pray to gods I've never even heard of!"
He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Ugh, why do I do this to myself?"
Then, as if the universe itself wanted to mock him, a gust of wind blew past, kicking up dust straight into his face.
Zhuo froze. Blinked.
Then he let out a deadpan "Really?"
He coughed, waving the dust away, and muttered under his breath, "I swear, even the wind has an attitude in this world."
Suddenly His gaze flickered to Seraphine, her presence standing out amongst the rest like a wolf amongst sheep.
She had the look of someone with history—a person who had bled for their convictions.
Intriguing.
Still, his interest only held for a moment before boredom set in.
Zhuo hated boredom.
Which is why he decided to entertain himself.
With a lazily elegant flick of his wrist, reality warped—just slightly, just enough.
A plush, crimson velvet chair materialized behind him, so luxurious it would've belonged in a king's palace.
Next came a can of soda, hissing with condensation as it popped into existence in his left hand, and a tub of buttered popcorn in his right.
To complete the look, he willed a pair of 3D glasses onto his face—thick, black-framed, with the classic red and blue tint.
He leaned back into his summoned throne, crossing one leg over the other, looking for all the world like a man settling in for a private screening.
"Ah… nothing like a front-row seat to humanity's struggles."
The chair, the soda, the popcorn—none of it should exist.
Not here, not now, and certainly not conjured with the mere wave of a hand.
Zhuo tilted his head, his sharp eyes flickering with amusement as he took in the little spectacle he had created.
This wasn't true creation, not in the way that divine beings—or even the strongest awakeners—could forge something from the raw essence of the world.
No, what he had done was something simpler.
He had merely borrowed.
A trick learned from an old habit—extracting remnants of memories, fragments of nostalgia from the minds of those around him, and piecing them together into something tangible.
It wasn't nearly as effortless as it looked.
Even now, shackled in his current state, bound by the fragile limits of a mortal shell, Zhuo could feel the strain—the subtle resistance of reality pushing back, as if the world itself rejected his casual defiance of its laws.
"Tsk." He took a sip of his soda, lips quirking into a half-smirk. "Even something this small is annoying to maintain."
The carbonation fizzled against his tongue, sharp and sweet, a taste pulled from the memories of a random passerby.
He popped a piece of popcorn into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Too salty.
"Huh. I think I got the ratio wrong."
For a man who had once commanded forces beyond mortal comprehension, it was an oddly humbling mistake.
Still, as far as guilty pleasures went, this was one of his better ones.
Most awakeners spent their time sharpening their blades, refining their techniques, or meditating in tense silence before a fight.
Zhuo?
He preferred a front-row seat and a bucket of snacks.
Leaning back in his chair, he adjusted his 3D glasses—another ridiculous little detail that no one else in this world would understand.
"I wonder if anyone would believe me if I told them about action movies. Or streaming services. Mortals have such fascinating little distractions these days."
A thought struck him.
If one of the captains turned around and saw him now—lounging comfortably while they prepared for battle—would they lose their minds?
Probably.
And that idea alone nearly made him want to be caught.
Unfortunately, his amusement was short-lived.
The gate opened. ! !