Chapter 48

Chapter 48. Creeping Chaos

Which was precisely why it made no sense.

If Rag had taken Heimdal's strongest typhoon—the one he actively wielded—it would have been understandable.

A force of the same Natural Lineage; he could have attributed it to vessel compatibility.

Or, just as Skadi had granted Cryos 'invincibility.'

If Rag had taken the Authority of 'evasion'—which deflected all attacks—that, too, would have made sense.

But why that one?

Why, of all things, had he dredged up the mass of chaos suppressed at the deepest layer?

As though he'd been targeting it from the very start.

As though his soul was somehow aligned with that chaos.

Click.

Heimdal's footsteps stopped.

His thoughts solidified.

Countless fragments flickered through his mind.

The image of Rag sealing his typhoon with bare hands.

The selection orb turning black.

The annihilation of the Mad God Tulkachya.

And.

The forbidden name the boy had casually dropped the very first time they met.

—So, is 'Force Majeure' in the Tower of God too?

Heimdal's eyes flew wide open.

His pupils shook violently.

"......"

Now he felt he could be certain.

Rag.

That bizarre hatchling.

'......Force Majeure.'

He was undeniably connected to the Absolute God, Force Majeure.

Force Majeure.

The Absolute God of this Tower.

A name that inspired dread in all.

Not even the Twelve Sovereign Gods dared speak it aloud.

Not everyone followed blindly.

But one thing was beyond dispute: it was a name that everyone feared.

Long ago.

In the primordial age.

It was said that Force Majeure had climbed this Tower alone.

And destroyed every god that stood in the way.

Thus it reached the apex.

An unreachable summit no one could touch.

But it rarely showed itself.

Only when a world met its ruin.

Only in that fleeting instant did it appear.

Watching the destruction of worlds.

Listening to the screams of living beings as they despaired and crumbled.

That itself was the Game of that absolute existence.

No god had ever come face-to-face with Force Majeure.

Because to do so was believed to mean annihilation.

The instant you met its gaze, your soul was erased.

That was the legend—and the truth—that drifted through Asgard.

And so, a contradiction.

A mere Seed could not possibly know that terrible name.

Because not even all Supreme Tier gods were aware of it.

A forbidden word known only to the rare few who had survived across the long ages.

But the boy had been different.

From their very first meeting, he'd spoken Force Majeure's name without batting an eye.

—So, is 'Force Majeure' in the Tower of God too?

That brazen question still rang in his ears.

And now the boy had taken Creeping Chaos on top of it.

Through the flimsy channel of a mere Apostle God contract.

A horrifying power that even Heimdal himself had feared and sealed in the abyss.

Ripped away as though it had belonged to the boy all along.

The puzzle was coming together.

It hadn't been coincidence.

The summoning of the Dragon of Catastrophe, Angragon, during the Floor 1 trial.

That hadn't been a lucky jackpot.

The Primordial Calamity had been drawn to the boy's soul and descended of its own accord.

The same went for the black color of his Disaster Aptitude.

The Administrator had called it 'Null.'

But that was wrong.

It was the abyss that swallowed everything.

A color that touched the very essence of Force Majeure.

"......Ha."

Heimdal forced a smile.

The hand brushing across his face trembled faintly.

If all of this was connected to Force Majeure.

If a fragment of that Absolute God dwelled in the boy's soul.

Then Rag.

That bizarre creature had been born as a Seed meant to climb the Tower from the very beginning.

With a single purpose.

To shake this Tower.

To rip out by the roots the stagnant, rotting Tower of God that had ground to a halt!

Whether it was the Absolute God's design or simply a mutated anomaly didn't matter.

The boy was the eye of a coming storm of ruin.

'Am I afraid?'

No.

The corner of Heimdal's mouth twisted into something eerie.

Perhaps the end of this road was his own death.

Perhaps he'd be strangled by the very Authority he'd given away.

Perhaps the tiger he'd raised would devour him.

But it didn't matter.

If the boy became a great enough typhoon.

If he could sweep away the entirety of this dull, stifling order of Asgard.

That alone held sufficient value.

Should the boy someday wield Creeping Chaos in its fullness.

Then Heimdal would celebrate in earnest.

He'd toast to his own judgment proving right, and gladly clink glasses.

Because.

'I just need to become stronger.'

I just need to climb higher than that monster.

I just need to become so overwhelmingly powerful that I can never be devoured.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Heimdal placed a hand over his chest.

For the first time in a long while.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his heart was pounding.

The drumbeat of struggle, forgotten across millennia—no, tens of millennia.

Blood that had gone cold was boiling again.

He'd been bored.

Since reaching the Supreme Tier, everything had lost meaning.

His rivals hid away, and those below couldn't climb.

Eternal peace was the same as eternal ennui.

But now he had a purpose.

The most interesting toy and most dangerous monster—one that might even threaten him.

A smile settled on his lips.

An arrogant, savage smile befitting the God of Typhoons.

A fierce tempest stirred within his eyes.

Heimdal's frozen clock had finally begun to tick once more.

***

HUMMMM!

The heart of Floor 55.

A colossal Crystal blazed with blinding light.

Where the glow subsided, a vivid emblem was inscribed.

A swirling typhoon crest.

Heimdal's mark.

A declaration.

Absolute proof that the master of this floor was under the protection of the Ruler of All Things.

A seal confirming that I had fully become his Apostle God.

From now on, no god in Asgard would dare trespass on Floor 55.

Even Investigation Chief Abdulla would tuck tail and flee at the sight of this emblem.

I lowered my gaze.

A blue flame flickering on my palm.

The Winter Flame.

The spoil Heimdal had wrenched from Skadi and tossed to me.

A Sacred Relic akin to a Supreme Tier god's heart.

Just holding it, I could feel the boundless cold and Authority sealed within.

But.

'I can't use it yet.'

I clicked my tongue.

A Sacred Relic was formidable on its own, but unleashing its full power required a condition.

'I need a Divine Throne.'

The Divine Throne.

I had to place this upon a god's seat for its effects to manifest across the entire territory and empower my vassals.

The problem was that I had no Throne left.

A Divine Throne wasn't handed out for free just because your floor went up.

I'd learned that when I saved the Frost Tribe elves.

Erecting a Divine Throne required 'faith.'

An overwhelming, blindly devoted, ceiling-breaking torrent of prayers.

I'd already spent the single Throne built from the elves' faith.

I'd offered my Extreme Frost Authority to create Perennial Frost.

And bestowed that power upon Seria and the elves.

In other words, activating the Winter Flame required a new Throne.

And to build a new Throne?

Another tidal wave of faith.

'Where am I supposed to find more devotees?'

I stroked my chin and turned my head.

Where my gaze landed.

The four black knights, still kneeling.

Death's Four Knights.

No—the four ancient barbarian brothers.

Freed from their chains, they waited in perfect stillness.

I walked toward them slowly.

Massive frames.

A ferocious aura radiating from them.

In terms of immediate combat power, they surpassed Seria—the strongest fighters on Floor 55.

I looked down at them and asked.

"Where is your tribe?"

They were ancient warriors.

They, too, must have had a people they'd sworn to protect.

Wasn't that why they'd refused to submit to Cryos and resisted to the very end?

The eldest brother, Turan, raised his head from the front of the line.

A mournful blue light wavered behind his helm.

"......In the Fortress of Winter."

A heavy voice laced with the rasp of metal.

"Skadi's domain. In the deepest reaches of that frozen prison, our kin are held in slavery."

I clicked my tongue inwardly.

'Skadi.'

The Queen of Winter.

A Supreme Tier god's stronghold.

A territory so far beyond Cryos's that comparison was meaningless.

Obviously, storming it right now was out of the question.

Heimdal's protection had its limits.

The Apostle God shield prevented others from attacking me—it didn't cover me charging into someone else's home base.

I was still far too weak for a head-on war with Skadi.

A long road ahead.

I had to devour more Authorities and climb higher.

'But.'

I looked at the four knights before me.

In terms of immediate fighting power, I couldn't ask for better.

I had to solidify them as extensions of my own limbs.

I held out the Winter Flame in my hand.

"Take it."

Turan's eyes widened.

The other three knights jolted and raised their heads.

"......?"

"This isn't mine."

I said it plainly.

"I'm told you were originally its guardians. So you should hold on to it."

Turan's thick hand trembled faintly.

They knew exactly how much this Sacred Relic was worth.

A crystallization of absolute power that even gods couldn't hide their greed for.

And I'd handed it to vassals I'd only just taken in, as though it were nothing.

"And."

I looked them straight in the eyes.

"Wait."

"......"

"Someday, when my power has grown enough to drag the Queen of Winter from her throne."

A promise.

"I'll rescue your tribe as well."

The wind died.

The four knights held their breath.

An immeasurable span of time.

They'd been stripped of their selves under Cryos's yoke, forced into slaughter.

No god had ever listened to their suffering.

No one had ever promised to save their kin.

Gods only took.

They commanded, exploited, and trampled.

But the man before them was different.

He'd severed their chains.

He'd returned their seized spoils to their rightful owners.

And he'd declared he would breach a Supreme Tier god's territory and rescue their clan.

What of the Frost Tribe elves?

Seeing their state, this promise was no lie.

Tremble, tremble.

Turan's massive frame shuddered.

Kalak, Barkan, and Urk were the same.

Bodies of the undead—swept up in a maelstrom of living emotion.

Clatter.

Turan set down the greatsword in his grip.

THUD!

Turan slammed his head against the ground.

An impact so fierce the earth rang.

The remaining three brothers tore off their helms and struck their foreheads to the earth in unison.

"We swear."

Turan's voice cleaved the air of Floor 55.

This was not submission through oppression.

Nor obedience through brainwashing.

"Of our own free will."

It was the purest oath offered by souls who had reclaimed their full freedom.

"For the eternal span until these souls wear to nothing, we shall follow none but our lord!"

The oaths of four ancient warriors.

The moment their reverberating pledge faded.

Ding!

[The ancient warriors offer their true faith.]
[The oaths of free souls intertwine.]
[Faith has broken through the threshold.]
[Hidden Quest: 'The Barbarians' Divine Throne' begins!]
—A new Divine Throne has been created. However, the Throne is incomplete. Rescue 100 barbarians sealed throughout Asgard. Only then will the Throne be made whole.

......Hm?

I was dumbfounded.

I blinked a couple of times.

Another enormous throne was materializing in the air.

A second Divine Throne, following the first that had been born from the Frost Tribe's prayers.

'It can be created like this?'

I could hardly believe it.

Half-formed though it was.

I'd assumed that erecting a Throne required the prolonged prayers of countless devotees.

But apparently not.

Numbers and time weren't what mattered.

The weight of the soul.

If the depth of the oath was overwhelming enough, the faith of just four could forge a god's seat.

Millennia of oppression endured by ancient warriors, distilled into faith of one hundred percent purity.

Proof that such faith was far heavier and vaster than the half-hearted prayers of tens of thousands.

I let out a bemused laugh.

Then I looked at the blue flame in my hand.

The Winter Flame.

The masterless Sacred Relic blazed fiercely on my palm, as if it had found where it belonged.

Without hesitation, I reached out.

I pushed the Winter Flame into the newly formed second Divine Throne.

WHOOOOSH!

The Throne devoured the blue flame.

RUMBLE!

A massive tremor rippled across all of Floor 55.

[The Sacred Relic, 'Winter Flame,' has been seated upon the Divine Throne.]
[The Sacred Relic's effects manifest across the entire territory.]
[The ancient warriors, 'The Four Barbarian Brothers,' are resurrected!]

RUMBLE!

The dark miasma sloughed off Turan and his three brothers.

Pallid undead skin flushed with life, and hearts that had long since stopped began to beat again.

The ancient barbarians who had stood against the Last Season were reborn.