Chapter 83 - - 83 - If No God Will Save Them

Chapter 83: Chapter - 83 - If No God Will Save Them

It was midnight when Verek and Xandra walked through the village, tending to the last of the sick villagers. The moon hung low and pale, casting silver light upon cobblestone paths that had known their footsteps since childhood. Yet despite the quiet serenity of the night, Verek’s chest burned with something far less peaceful.

Jealousy.

Every word Xandra spoke seemed to orbit around him—Lord Lucien. The noble who had descended upon their humble village like a falling star, who had spoken to the High Priestess herself, who had opened doors Xandra had only ever dreamed of knocking upon. Verek had watched her eyes light up whenever that name passed her lips, and each time, something inside him twisted a little tighter.

"Lord Lucien did so many things," Xandra said, her voice carrying that familiar warmth. "He talked to the High Priestess and got me into the cathedral. That was my biggest dream, you know, Verek. He’s like an angel in the form of a noble, helping our village."

Verek kicked at a loose stone, watching it skitter across the dirt path. "Yeah... he did help the village."

The words came out flat. Disinterested. He couldn’t help it. How could she not see? How could she not notice the way he had been there for her through every storm, every hardship, every sleepless night? He had been her constant, and yet she spoke of Lucien as though the man had hung the very stars in the sky.

"It’s hard to believe that Archbishop Lady Arianwen came herself to let me join the cathedral," Xandra continued, laughing softly, her joy genuine and unguarded. "I’m so happy."

"I’m happy for you, Xandra." Verek forced the words out, though they felt like gravel in his throat. He stopped walking, and she paused beside him, her brow furrowing slightly. "So... after you join the cathedral, will you forget about me?"

The question hung in the air between them, heavier than he had intended.

Xandra’s expression softened, and she placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Why would I forget my biggest supporter, Verek? You helped me ever since childhood. I’ll always be in your debt."

Her smile was warm, genuine—the same smile that had carried him through every dark moment of his life. And in that moment, Verek felt his courage rise.

"Then what do you think about marryin—"

The blast tore through the night like a thunderclap from heaven’s fury.

Before Xandra could even register what had happened, the world erupted into chaos. Fire bloomed across the village like terrible flowers, petals of flame consuming thatched roofs and wooden walls. Screams pierced the air—people who had been sleeping moments ago now waking to find themselves trapped in infernos. The smell of burning flesh and wood and smoke filled her nostrils, choking her.

Xandra’s eyes widened in horror. These were people she had grown up with—families she had shared meals with, children she had watched take their first steps, elders who had told her stories beneath the old oak tree. They were burning. Dying. And she stood frozen, paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the nightmare unfolding before her.

Then instinct took over.

She rushed forward, hands glowing with healing energy, but the burns were too severe—blackened flesh that refused to knit, wounds that seeped and bled and screamed. Her magic, so reliable in times of sickness, was utterly useless against this. She tried to save one, then another, but there were too many.

Too many burning. Too many screaming. Too many dying.

"Xandra, we need to run!" Verek grabbed her arm, his face pale with terror. "It seems like Lord Pasha is attacking the village to take revenge! Come with me!"

"Come with you where?" Xandra tore her arm away, her voice cracking. "Our village is burning, and you want me to leave them without even trying to help? Maybe if we ask Lord Lucien—"

"Lucien? Lucien?! Are you out of your mind?!" Verek’s voice rose, sharp and desperate. "Can’t you see? Everyone is already dead, basically! Your precious Lucien isn’t here to help! Why are you so obsessed with him, anyway? I’ve done so much for you, and you don’t even think that you should be grateful!"

The words stung. But Xandra was already turning away, her heart breaking but her hands still moving. There was no time for arguments. No time for hurt feelings. There was only the work that needed to be done.

"Verek, go fetch water," she ordered, her voice steadier than she felt. "And bring blankets from homes that aren’t burned. Please. Just go."

She didn’t wait to see if he obeyed. She ran to the well, hauling bucket after bucket of water, pouring it over those closest to her—the ones who still had a chance, the ones whose burns were mild enough that her healing could take root. She worked frantically, desperately, her hands raw and bleeding, her vision blurred with tears she refused to shed.

There was no time to mourn. There was only survival.

But then the nightmare grew worse.

Realm masters—dozens of them—poured into the village like a tide of death. The fires had been a trap, a way to flush villagers from their homes into the open where they could be slaughtered. And slaughtered they were. Xandra watched in horror as soldiers cut down men, women, and children with sickening efficiency. One soldier laughed as he collected heads on his spear—six of them, faces frozen in their final moments of terror.

The villagers fought back with whatever they could find—pitchforks, kitchen knives, bare fists—but against realm masters, they were nothing. Mortals with no cultivation, no power. Their resistance was as futile as waves crashing against a cliff.

Then a soldier spotted her.

"Let’s capture her!" he shouted, grinning with yellowed teeth. "She’ll be a fine addition to Lord Pasha’s harem! Looking so good for a village girl, isn’t she?"

Horses thundered toward her. Xandra’s heart seized in her chest.

Verek saw them coming. He saw the soldiers, saw their weapons, saw the hungry look in their eyes as they rode toward the woman he loved. And instead of running to her defense, instead of standing beside her, his body moved on pure instinct.

He hid behind a house.

He loved her. He truly did. But terror had seized his limbs, and his logic—his cowardly, miserable logic—had screamed at him to save himself. He crouched in the shadows, listening to the thunder of hooves, and hated himself with every fiber of his being.

Xandra, meanwhile, had no time to think. No time to even feel the betrayal she would later realize was waiting in her heart. A soldier dismounted and approached her, swinging a massive hammer in a blunt arc designed to knock her unconscious. He knew she was a realm master too—not powerful enough to kill, but strong enough to survive a hit meant to subdue.

She folded herself like a child, arms wrapped around her head, eyes squeezed shut. She waited for the blow, prayed for the pain to be quick—

But it never came.

When she opened her eyes, she saw a figure standing before her.

Blonde hair, glowing faintly in the firelight. A dark coat billowing in the wind. Eyes that held depths she could never hope to fathom.

Lucien.

He had caught the hammer. Not deflected it, not dodged it—caught it in his bare hand as though it were nothing more than a toy. The soldier’s eyes went wide with disbelief. With casual grace, Lucien tore the weapon from his grasp, then swung it in a single, fluid motion.

The soldier’s head came clean off. The spine still attached, trailing grotesquely behind, the body stood frozen for a moment—as though it hadn’t realized it was dead yet—before crumpling to the ground.

The other soldiers screamed in horror, their bravado evaporating like morning mist. But Lucien didn’t so much as glance at them.

"Don’t worry, Xandra. I’m here now," he said, his voice impossibly calm. "But first—"

He snapped his fingers. A wave of power rippled outward, and the fires—all of them, everywhere—extinguished simultaneously, as though someone had simply blown out a candle. The village plunged into sudden, smoking darkness.

The soldiers recovered quickly. They were realm masters too, and they didn’t intend to die without a fight. Fire erupted from one soldier’s mouth, a torrent of flames that would have incinerated a normal man. Lucien barely acknowledged it. He simply blew gently, and the flames scattered like dandelion seeds in the wind—then reversed course, scorching the soldier who had summoned them. The difference between them was like a pebble and heaven itself.

Another soldier hurled an orb of dark astral energy. Lucien slapped it aside as though it were an annoying insect.

Before they could launch another attack, they were bisected.

Not by Lucien. By Celbeth.

She appeared like a phantom, her blood moon katana singing through the air in a perfect arc. The soldiers froze mid-motion, then slid apart in two clean halves. She landed gracefully, pouting up at her companion.

"You could have woken me up, Lucien."

She spoke as though she had just missed a party, not a massacre. For her, these things did not matter—violence was merely entertainment, and Lucien had always ensured she was never bored.

Xandra broke. The tears she had been holding back came flooding forth, and she threw herself at Lucien, wrapping her arms around him as though he were the only solid thing in a world turned to ash. He hesitated for a moment—he had never been good at this, at comfort—but then his arms came around her, steady and warm.

"I’m sorry," he murmured. "I took so long."

Xandra couldn’t speak. She didn’t blame him. How could she? He had saved her. He had saved whatever remained of her village. And once again, she found herself drowning in gratitude toward this mysterious, impossible man.

The moment was shattered by the sound of hooves. Hundreds of them. The soldiers that remained had regrouped, surrounding them in a tightening ring of steel and hate.

And at the center of it all, riding forward on a massive black stallion, came Warrick Pasha.

"I told you I’d make you regret it, didn’t I, boy?" Warrick’s voice boomed across the burning ruins. His eyes glowed with malice, with the satisfaction of a man.

Lucien gently released Xandra and stepped forward, wiping at his eyes—tears that glistened in the moonlight with perfect elegance. If Xandra had been paying closer attention, she might have noticed the faintest hint of something... performative in the gesture. But she was too broken, too overwhelmed.

"If you had a problem with me," Lucien said, his voice carrying a tremor of grief, "you should have come for me. Why make this poor village suffer? They are humans. Like us."

’Acting is tough,’ he thought to himself.

"Humans?" Warrick laughed, a cold, cruel sound. "So you really think I care for some wretched mortals who can’t even cultivate? They deserve to die. How dare you save them. How dare you interfere in my lands! You should have fled the moment you had a chance."

"Why should I leave?" Lucien’s voice remained steady. "If I can help them, I will help them. That’s what I always believe. I’ll never run away."

"They were born in a wretched place, and they’ll die like dogs!" Warrick spat. "Can’t even handle a few fires. They should never have been born. Imagine a world with only realm masters—but you had to save them. These worms were using my land like they owned it."

"They were already living here," Lucien countered. "It was you who came later and claimed these lands as your own."

"It doesn’t matter who came first! What matters is power!" Warrick’s voice rose to a fever pitch. "If everything were in my hands, I would have killed them myself!"

Xandra heard those words, and something inside her snapped.

Not broke—snapped.

Astral energy erupted from her body, swirling in violent currents. Her robes darkened, bleeding from white to pure black as though soaked in shadow. A crown formed upon her head—sharp, pointed, holding her hair in place like the horns of some ancient goddess. Her eyes turned white, empty of all emotion.

The rage that had consumed her moments ago was gone, replaced by a terrible, absolute calm. She was no longer crying. No longer mourning. She looked at Warrick Pasha with the cold eyes of someone who had transcended grief itself.

"If there is no god willing to save them," she said, her voice flat and ancient, "then I will become the one who does."