Chapter 38: Your Loyal Servant Welcomes Your Arrival.

Chapter 38 Your Devoted Follower Welcomes Your Arrival

"Great Priest of Fate, Seer of the Future's Peacock Plumes, Prophet from the Twilight's Apocalypse... Your people await your return..."

Kurt folded his broad wings and knelt before the altar, praying ceaselessly for a miracle—

A miracle that could snatch all his kin from death's maw.

According to the totems and written records left by their ancestors, his people were originally born on a verdant, bounteous continent, where green mountains and clear waters once thrived under the sun's ascent and moon's descent...

Though by now, the ancient legends of the "sun" and "moon" had long faded from existence, Kurt could still imagine them—radiant as pearls, surely.

At the very least, they must have been far more beautiful than the terrifying "Twilight."

After the sun and moon vanished, chasms sundered the earth like massive blades, carving the once-unbroken land into small, fragmented regions. Soon after, a Twilight of decay and silence descended upon the land.

Any living thing exposed to its baleful amber glow would desiccate in an instant, turning to dust. Before long, the Twilight's dominion became barren, devoid of any plant or animal life.

This was the first calamity Kurt's ancestors faced—cataclysmic environmental shifts and a sudden scarcity of resources, reducing their population by nearly half.

The world before them seemed to twist into an alien, nightmare visage in the blink of an eye.

Yet the disasters were far from over.

The more horrifying truth was this: though the Twilight initially covered only half the land, it was slowly devouring what remained.

This forced the people to migrate again and again, fleeing to the safe zones beyond the Twilight—where an opposing, warped vitality of "Life" thrived.

Here, plants and animals grew and reproduced at preternatural rapidity, their bodies bloating to gargantuan proportions, their lifespans extending many times over, evolving and mutating ceaselessly.

Life's majesty lay in its tenacity—no matter how harsh the environment, so long as a sliver of hope remained, Life would cling to it, forging survival's path.

Kurt's ancestors were no exception.

They cunningly wielded the power of "Life" in this land, deliberately courting transformations that would better suit their survival.

Thus, the first leader fixed a grave gaze at the distant Twilight and declared:

"We can become creatures that burrow beneath the soil. Then, the Twilight will never find us."

And so, the first generation after the Twilight's descent gradually shrank in size, their mouths growing incisors suited for gnawing tubers, their claws sharpening for digging...

They nearly took on the form of rodents, with only their faces faintly retaining traces of their former selves.

Their habitat shifted from the surface to the underground, where they lived in labyrinthine warrens.

Yet doom came anew—when the Twilight swallowed the land above, the creatures below perished alongside it.

This was the second calamity, entombing the multitude of their people underground. Only a handful survived, fleeing to distant lands.

After rebuilding their numbers, a second leader was chosen.

This one surveyed their surroundings, then fixed his gaze upon the sky-piercing emerald sentinels.

He said: "We survive by the grace of 'Life,' and the green trees are its chosen. Let us draw closer to them, that 'Life' may forever shelter our lives."

Thus, the second generation grew armor of bark, their arms branching into foliage-laden boughs, their feet rooting deep into the earth like trees.

They stood tall among the forests, stretching skyward with countless others, drinking in the rain and drawing nourishment from the soil.

A century later, the third calamity arrived as foretold.

Their deep roots made escape impossible. They desperately absorbed the power of "Life," struggling against the all-consuming "Twilight."

But in the tug-of-war between growth and decay, decay emerged victorious, leaving behind only petrified titans where once-mighty trees had stood.

The once-thriving people withered again, their survivors few.

Just as despair threatened to consume them all, a prophet unlike any before was born. A mysterious encounter befell him, drawing him into a game called the "Playground of the Gods."

For a time, the prophet vanished from sight. But when he returned, he was adorned in alabaster plumage, each tipped with gilded ocelli—resembling a sacred white peacock.

These eyes held the power to pierce time's veil, allowing the prophet to predict the Twilight's advance—when it would encroach, which lands it would claim first.

Thanks to his precise prophecies, the people escaped the Twilight's grasp time and again, gradually regaining their numbers.

This time, their mutation took the form of the "white peacock," emulating their messiah.

To honor him, they built towering altars and grand temples, proffering their holiest relics and proclaiming him their sole leader and High Priest.

The High Priest accepted gladly, vowing:

"I will seek a way to save our people completely within the 'Playground of the Gods'—so long as I stand, I will forever protect my people."

This promise kindled hope within their breasts.

True deliverance—was such a thing possible?

If they could escape the Twilight's pursuit, if they no longer had to migrate every few years, if they could reclaim the vast, beautiful lands and heavenly orbs of their ancestors' tales...

How wonderful would that be?

If that day truly came, their newborns would never wake crying from nightmares of the Twilight.

Their elders would no longer have to lurch into Twilight's embrace to conserve resources...

The glorious future promised by the High Priest filled their dreams, and for a time, all seemed to be moving toward a more radiant morrow.

Until, over two hundred years ago, the alabaster High Priest bid them farewell for the last time—and never returned.

Before leaving, he gathered all his people and solemnly declared:

"I go now to the final game. If I succeed, I will become Fate incarnate."

"Only by apotheosizing can I save our people from the Twilight Calamity and the Tree of Life."

"Remember my sacred epithet. When danger comes, pray to me. So long as I live and remain conscious, I will answer."

—Now, 236 years after the High Priest's disappearance, the Twilight's threat looms once more.

Trapped with nowhere left to flee, Kurt, the interim hierophant of this generation, prepared a formal Prayer Ritual and knelt before the altar, uttering a last, desperate supplication.

He would not abandon hope until no answer came—for this might be their only chance.

"We pray for your safe return, and beg you to bless your people once more..."

Kurt's voice had grown hoarse, his throat parched as desert sands. The candles on the altar neared their end, their guttering flames casting eerie shadows over the sacred sigils and litanies inscribed in vitae.

Just as his pinions sagged leadenly and weariness near stole his voice, a voice both thunderous and gossamer resounded through the sanctum: "—Thy entreaty hath reached mine ears."

The voice reverberated in overlapping waves, rippling through the silent heart of the temple like concentric waves, as though thousands spoke as one, their voices harmonizing to convey His will.

Kurt's eyes flew wide. Before him, the flames at the candle wicks suddenly surged higher, stretching into something that looked like...

—A snake.

The image of that cold-blooded creature, adept at lurking in dense forests, silently unfurling its powerful coils to strangle its prey, sprang instantly to Kurt's mind.

This strange, threatening sight froze the joyous smile on Kurt's face, sending an unexplainable chill down his spine.

On the altar, the blood used as pigment began to writhe and twist, its crimson hue seemingly pulled by some invisible force, converging until it formed two slender red serpents.

The red snakes swayed their delicate tails, gliding gracefully toward Kurt.

Though their bodies were composed of blood and their heads bore no eyes, Kurt was absolutely certain: He was staring at him.

Kurt shuddered, for in the records left by their ancestors, not once had the missing High Priest been described as a serpent.

Or rather, had the High Priest taken the form of a snake, their people wouldn't look like peacocks now but would instead drag long serpentine tails...

So, what unknown entity was responding to his prayers and speaking to him now?

Would it, like the High Priest, save them from peril, or would it, like the dreadful "Twilight," bring fatal calamity in an instant?

Fear of the unknown hung over Kurt. His claws clenched involuntarily, his tail feathers fluffing up slightly, yet he dared not flee—nor even react without permission, lest he provoke this unfamiliar deity.

Kurt knew, as the representative of his people in this dialogue with an unknown god, his response and demeanor at this moment could very well determine the survival or extinction of his entire race.

Under the gaze of the red serpents, Kurt had little time to hesitate.

Cold sweat quickly beaded, dampening his pristine peacock feathers. After only a brief pause, he silently drew a deep breath and bowed reverently before the altar. The feathers framing his golden eyes fanned out behind him like a resplendent robe.

"Oh great and merciful deity, your loyal devotee humbly welcomes your arrival."