Chapter 84 - - 84 - Forsaken Divinity

Chapter 84: Chapter - 84 - Forsaken Divinity

"If there is no god willing to save them," she said, her voice flat and ancient, carrying the weight of a thousand shattered prayers, "then I will become the one who does."

Lucien’s mask nearly cracked. A smile twitched at the corner of his lips before he suppressed it with practiced ease, his expression returning to that careful neutrality.

’This is the potential I saw in her,’ he thought, his mind racing with dark satisfaction. ’Innate authority: Forsaken Divinity. I was right about her.’

His eyes traced the silhouette of her form—the terrifying power radiating from her small frame, the beautiful, devastating figure she cut against the burning village.

’The right choice. The only choice.’

The village had been burning for hours when Lucien first arrived. He had come immediately upon hearing the news, slipping through the shadows like smoke, watching from the darkness as Warrick Pasha’s forces ravaged the settlement. He could have saved them. With a wave of his hand, with a single command, he could have ended it all in an instant.

But he waited.

He wanted to see the village burn. He needed more people to die. From his vantage point in the shadows, he watched the flames consume homes, heard the screams of the dying, witnessed the terror in their eyes. Each death was a necessary sacrifice. Each life extinguished was fuel for the transformation he sought.

He was waiting for her to break.

Xandra, the village priestess, had always possessed something extraordinary beneath her gentle exterior. Lucien had sensed it the moment he first laid eyes on her—that flicker of something ancient and terrible sleeping within her soul. But it required the right catalyst to awaken. Kindness wouldn’t do it. Love wouldn’t do it. Only despair, absolute and crushing, could shatter the walls she had built around her power.

When Warrick’s soldiers cornered her, when the hammer came down toward her, Lucien moved. Not to save her—no, he appeared in that exact moment to push her over the edge. To give her one final trauma before the transformation could begin.

He saw it happen.

Xandra’s eyes, once filled with desperate prayer, went empty. Then they ignited with something far more terrible than faith. Her beliefs shattered like glass, and in that moment of absolute abandonment, her innate authority awakened.

Forsaken Divinity.

The power of a god rejected, of faith betrayed, of prayer turned to poison.

Xandra began to float, her dark dress billowing around her like funeral shrouds caught in an unholy wind. She raised her hand forward, and her voice, when she spoke, was no longer that of a gentle priestess.

"You think mortals do not have any reason to live?" she said, her words echoing with a resonance that made the air itself tremble. "You came to this land. You tried to erase my home."

Her hand moved forward, and darkness fell upon the soldiers who surrounded the survivors. It wasn’t death that came for them—it was something far worse.

One by one, the soldiers began to scream. Their skin peeled away from their bodies, pulled by some invisible, malevolent force. It happened with surgical precision, layer by agonizing layer, until they stood naked and raw, their muscles exposed to the air, their blood vessels pulsing in the open.

They tried to run, but each step was pure agony. Those who fell to the ground screamed even louder, unable to rise, their exposed flesh grinding against the dirt. It was hell manifest.

No soldier was spared. Only Warrick Pasha remained untouched, left alive for a more brutal punishment. The noble fell to his knees, his mind unable to comprehend what he was witnessing, his body trembling with a terror he had never known.

"Now it’s your turn," Xandra said, her voice flat and ancient once more. She moved forward, her hand pointing toward him, darkness gathering at her fingertips.

And then—

Lucien moved. He was behind her in an instant, his arms wrapping around her from behind, pulling her against his chest. When he spoke, his voice cracked with emotion, and there were tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Xandra, please," he said, his voice raw with desperation. "I don’t want anything to happen to you. Please come back to me. Please."

For a moment, nothing happened. Xandra remained floating, her power still crackling in the air around her. Then, slowly, the tension in her body began to ease. Her hand lowered. Her feet touched the ground. Tears started falling from her eyes, and her clothes shifted back to their normal state—the simple attire of a village priestess, modest and gentle.

’That was close,’ Lucien thought, relief washing through him. ’Her body is too weak to handle this power. At least for now. If she had used more, she could have died. Did I push too far?’

A pause.

’No. I don’t think so. It was the right decision.’

"My lord Lucien, please," Xandra said, her voice small now, broken. She turned in his arms to face him. "I want you to punish him. Please, my lord. I can’t see him alive when my people have gone."

Lucien cupped her cheeks, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. His touch was gentle, almost reverent.

"I’ll do that," he said softly. "Don’t worry. Don’t dirty your hands with his blood, Xandra. Let me carry this burden for you."

He released her and turned toward Warrick Pasha, who was still kneeling on the ground, his face pale with terror.

"Finally," Lucien said, his voice dropping to something cold and predatory. "We can settle this, Warrick Pasha."

Warrick’s eyes darted around, searching for an escape that didn’t exist. "Do you think you can get away after killing me? I am the ruler of this land!"

"Oh, I don’t ’think,’" Lucien replied, a cruel smile playing at his lips. "I just know that I can get away with it." He stepped closer, his presence looming over the trembling warlord. "Now, what were you asking me today in the cathedral? Let me remember... Oh yes. You wanted to know what kind of family I belong to, didn’t you?"

Warrick said nothing. There was no point.

"Have you heard of the Vale family?" Lucien asked, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Warrick’s eyes widened—a flicker of recognition, then horror.

The Vale family. Everyone knew it was a fallen house, reduced to whispers and cautionary tales. Until Lucien Vale had his breakthrough and reformed everything. He had rebuilt Clafton City from the ground up. He had erased entire bloodlines for the crime of hurting his sister. His group were the only ones to emerge from the ancient breach without losing a single important figure. He was the champion of Princess Sylvie, the youngest to ever reach the peak of the spirit forge realm.

Humanity’s pinnacle. And Warrick Pasha had made an enemy of him.

The noble realized his mistake, but it was far too late.

Lucien grabbed Warrick by the shoulder, his grip like iron. He looked into the man’s eyes and activated his most painful skill.

Abyssal Soulburn.

He released his grip, and Warrick collapsed, his body unharmed but his soul beginning to burn.

Warrick screamed—a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. He rolled on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames that weren’t there. He poured water over himself, desperately trying to cool his burning skin, but nothing worked. The fire was inside him, consuming him from within.

Warrick’s mind began to unravel. He bit his nails first, then used them to claw at his face. The scratches deepened, blood pouring down his cheeks. He kept scratching, through skin and muscle, until half his face had been torn away, showing only bloody bone beneath.

He was in unimaginable pain. But he wasn’t dying.

’Irony,’ Lucien thought, watching the spectacle with cold satisfaction. ’Enemies want to kill each other. But for me, the most painful punishment isn’t death—it’s living miserably forever. Death is a mercy, and I can’t give that to anyone. Especially not someone like him.’

"Is it over?" A voice came from behind him.

Lucien turned to see Isalyn approaching, her divine soldiers and priestesses flanking her. She had arrived just now.

"Yeah," Lucien said, his voice weary. "It is."

Isalyn stepped closer, lowering her voice so only Lucien could hear. "What should we do now, my lord?"

"First, heal everyone you can. Save as many as possible," Lucien instructed quietly. "And bring all the bodies. All of them."

Isalyn’s eyes flickered with understanding. "And the dead?"

"I’m going to revive most of them. All the children and women, at minimum." Lucien’s gaze swept over the village. "If I revived the entire village, it would be too suspicious. We’ll leave the few adults who were already dead. Make everyone else fall asleep. Only Celbeth can remain awake to witness this."

Isalyn raised her staff, and a wave of divine energy washed over the village. One by one, the survivors collapsed into unconsciousness. Only Celbeth remained standing, watching with wide eyes as Lucien prepared to do something she had never seen before.

"Lucien," Celbeth said, her voice uncertain. "What are you planning to do?"

Lucien didn’t answer immediately. He was surveying the bodies, counting them, memorizing their positions.

"Just wait and see," he finally said, a faint smile crossing his lips. "Watch how I bend the rules of this realm."

He closed his eyes and raised both hands toward the sky. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, ghostly forms began to rise from the dead bodies below—souls, shimmering and translucent, floating upward like tendrils of smoke.

Celbeth’s breath caught in her throat. Isalyn, who had never seen this once before, watched with reverent silence.

Lucien was controlling the souls. Manipulating them. Guiding them back toward their bodies.

A demonic realm master, Celbeth realized with a start. The manipulation of souls was considered a demonic activity, forbidden by every righteous sect and holy order.

But Lucien didn’t care. A man who could bend the very rules of realms wasn’t bound by petty words like "demonic" or "righteous."

He lowered his hands, pressing the souls back into their bodies. One by one, the dead began to groan, their eyes fluttering open. Isalyn moved quickly, her healing magic washing over them, making them fall unconscious again and healing their wounds all at once.

When it was done, Lucien, Celbeth, and Isalyn stood together, surveying the quiet village. The survivors slept peacefully, their wounds healed, their dead returned to them.

Isalyn was the first to speak. "My lord," she said carefully, "why did you save so many people? Why revive them? Wouldn’t it have been better for Xandra to be in despair? That would motivate her to become stronger, to become useful."

Lucien shook his head. "Pain is a good source of motivation," he explained. "But if everyone is dead, she’ll have no reason to live. And we’ve already punished Warrick, so living for revenge won’t work either. But if some villagers survive, she’ll be motivated to work on herself. The loss she suffered will be a reminder not to be weak."

He reached into his void and pulled out a small vial filled with a shimmering liquid. Celbeth and Isalyn both recognized it immediately.

"Deepdream Elixir," Celbeth breathed. "Lucien, what are you—"

"It’s another way to make her feel indebted," Lucien said calmly. He uncorked the vial and drank it in one smooth motion.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then his eyes rolled back, and he collapsed to the ground, unconscious.

Isalyn rushed forward, her heart clenching with fear. Even though she knew it was just a potion, just a sleep that would last ten days, seeing the man she had always viewed as the strongest in the world lying helpless on the ground...

It ached. It ached in a way she hadn’t expected.

Celbeth stood frozen, her face pale. Neither of them was happy.

The pale light of dawn crept through the cracked wooden shutters, casting long shadows across the modest room. Xandra’s eyelids fluttered open, consciousness returning slowly like the tide washing ashore. Her vision cleared, and there, seated at the edge of her bed, was a figure that made her breath catch in her throat.

A priestess with hair like spun moonlight sat before her, robed in the ceremonial whites and golds that marked her station. The intricate embroidery along the sleeves—celestial patterns woven with threads that seemed to capture starlight—left no doubt in Xandra’s mind. This was no ordinary clergywoman. This was the High Priestess herself.

And then she saw the face.

Recognition struck Xandra like lightning, and she shot upright, her heart pounding against her ribs. "You saved our village years ago," she breathed, her voice trembling between shock and overwhelming joy.