But she did not act.

Xerosis understood the danger all too well.

Once she responded, once she allowed herself to be shaped by their voices, there would be no end. Every answered prayer would invite a thousand more. Every miracle would tighten the chain binding her identity to mortal expectation.

She would become what she had been avoiding all this time. A god molded by the hopes, fears, and worship of others.

A reflection instead of a self.

And so she endured the strain in silence, choosing restraint over ease, preserving her sense of self, even as the world clamored for her to become something else entirely.

Even as Xerosis labored to refine the excess of tainted faith flooding her realm, her thoughts repeatedly returned to Tide.

She was not alone in this burden, she had the Tyrannical Juggernaut at her side, an Arch-Curse/ her protector who in a way bears her divinity with her, was capable of enduring and breaking down corruption that would have overwhelmed lesser beings. Together, they could manage the strain.

Tide had no such aid.

That realization unsettled her.

Faith energy did not vanish when ignored. If left unattended, it seeped into a realm regardless, staining its foundations, reshaping its god. The only way to keep it at bay was effort or pain great enough to drown it out.

So how was he holding up?

For Tide to be allowing such excessive, tainted faith to permeate his realm without response… Siren's actions must have wounded him far more deeply than Xerosis had initially believed.

As his cousin, as family, she felt a responsibility she could not dismiss.

She would inform the others. Quietly. Without alarm. And they would watch over him from a distance, not to interfere, but to ensure he did not bear the weight alone until it crushed him.

Divinity did not make one invulnerable. He was a perfect example of that.

Meanwhile, among the humans, the words spoken by the godlings during the court began to take root.

Along with it was the chant "For Humanity" which did not fade after the verdict, it spread. It appeared in rallies, in quiet gatherings, whispered between workers and spoken aloud in halls of governance. But it was not the words alone that mattered.

It was the idea behind them.

Humans began to understand something fundamental: their safety was not something to be passively awaited from above. It was not solely the responsibility of gods, godlings, or their leaders.

It was theirs.

Leadership was no longer viewed as an untouchable authority, but as a role entrusted by the people and one that could be questioned, corrected, or replaced. If rulers made decisions that endangered humanity, then it was humanity's duty to hold them accountable.

This shift did not ignite rebellion.

It sparked awareness.

Alongside this awakening came guidance hidden in the godlings words, on how humans might safely approach the supernatural forces of their world. Not through blind worship or hopes, but through understanding: learning the nature of gods, the limits of divinity, and the rules that governed power itself.

Sadly, humans came to a painful realization.

They had missed their chance.

There had been a time, long before the court when the godlings themselves had walked theor lands. Not as rulers or enforcers, but as teachers. They had journeyed from settlement to settlement, speaking of the gods, of doctrine, of balance, and of how mortals might exist alongside with the emerging divinities.

At the time, hamany but few had truly listened.

People nodded along, repeated the words they were given, and feigned understanding while the godlings were present. Once they left, once their eyes turned elsewhereli, fe resumed as it always had. Crops needed tending. Coins needed earning. Doctrine faded into background noise.

To most, the teachings had never truly mattered.

All they remembered was the promise, that the ascended gods, unlike the Origin Gods, would bless their believers. That worship alone was enough. That prayer would bring favor.

They prayed.

And when no answer came, they moved on.

That era passed quietly, the moment lost without anyone realizing its weight.

Now, after the words spoken by the godlings in court, the truth struck with brutal clarity: power had always been within reach. Not gifted freely, not seized through faith alone—but attainable through understanding, through effort, through a willingness to truly learn what had been offered.

It had been there, at their fingertips.

They simply had not taken it.

This realization stirred something new, regret, yes, but also resolve.

With this awakening, many began to look toward the old man from the court, the one who had demanded justice not for wealth or vengeance, but for the chance to reclaim his hope. To become a scribe once more. To document the gods, their doctrines, and their relationship with mortals as it truly was, not as rumor or hollow prayer had painted it.

In him, people saw a second chance.

If knowledge had been neglected once, it would not be ignored again. This time, they would listen. This time, they would record, study, and preserve what was learned.

The age of blind faith was fading.

And in its place, humanity began reaching for understanding.

They understood that what the old man would write was more than a record.

It was hope.

Not only the common folk sensed it, the nobles did as well, as did rulers and councils across kingdoms who felt unease settle into their halls. The godlings words at court had not merely inspired the masses; they had threatened the very structure of human rule.

Nobles knew the truth of their own power. They were not chosen by divinity nor elevated by fate. They were what they were because of the resources they commanded, the armies they funded, and the systems they controlled. Authority flowed downward from them, not outward from the people.

The idea of a society where this order was reversed was unthinkable.

A world in which ordinary people wielded power, real power was not a dream to many of them. It was a nightmare.

And it was not only the nobles who felt disturbed. Many among the common folk felt it too, though they struggled to articulate why. The godlings words sounded righteous, even liberating, but liberation carried danger. A society where everyone wielded power did not feel safe, it felt volatile.

Especially when that power was foreign to the human race.

Godlings were born unique. Power was intrinsic to them, shaped from birth, tempered by time, and understood as part of their existence. Their societies were built on the assumption of everyone wielding power knew its cost.

Humans were different.

Human civilization had been built on limitation. On cooperation born from weakness. On restraint enforced by necessity. To suddenly introduce widespread power without the culture, discipline, or understanding to wield it was not progress, it was chaos.

To many, it felt like pushing humanity toward failure.

The godlings ideals were sound in theory.

In practice, they risked tearing apart everything humans had built to survive.

The fourteen accused godlings stood as the perfect example.

They were the proof the nobles needed, living evidence of what happened when civilians wielded power without restraint, when emotion was given the means to enact itself unchecked. Power had made them feel untouchable, elevated above consequence, emboldened enough to ignore direct orders from their leaders.

And people had paid the price for it.

This was precisely what the nobles feared would happen if power were spread among humanity without structure or control. The godlings were not monsters by birth, they were civilians once.

So when hope among the masses began to falter, when people realized they had missed their opportunity to truly learn, to truly prepare, the nobles felt relief.

They did not celebrate openly, but inwardly, they were grateful.

Petitions soon followed.

From every continent came formal requests, pleas thinly veiled as diplomatic concern. Each asked the same thing in different words: something must be done before it is too late. Before humanity reached for power it could not understand. Before society fractured under forces it was never meant to hold.

The Western nobles received these petitions with calm assurance.

They had already begun.

Even without outside pressure, plans were already in motion across the Western Continent, carefully layered, deliberate, and vast in scope. Plans concerning all humans under their influence.

Nothing could be allowed to go wrong.

Not now.

The court had been only one part of something much larger and the gains it had produced were undeniable. Influence. Insight. Leverage. It had reshaped the world's attention in their favor.

Naturally, their vigilance increased.

Especially toward the old man.

He was watched closely now, not as an enemy, not yet, but as a variable. Someone whose written words could shift minds if left unchecked. For the moment, nothing would be done to him. Too many eyes were on him. Any direct action would invite suspicion, outrage, perhaps even divine scrutiny.

But that did not mean he would be allowed to act freely.

Every movement, every conversation, every written word would be observed.

The old man believed he was reclaiming hope. The nobles believed they were preserving stability.