TuxedoTranslations

Chapter 45

As the blood drained from his body, the man lying on the ground felt his thoughts growing heavy, his body gradually losing sensation, leaving only a deep chill seeping in from the moss-covered stone wall, making him cold all over.

It was as if he could hear the footsteps of Death drawing near.

On the verge of death, the light faded from his eyes, leaving them vacant and unfocused. His vision was filled with a boundless white void, yet in his ears there was the rolling sound of thunder.

Was this the kingdom of the gods?

He felt no joy — only a deep anger from the depths of his soul.

An anger born of betrayal.

He had once been the prince of the Tulip Kingdom, and in his childhood he had heard the tales of the Thunder God in the temple.

It was said that when the peoples of the continent faced barbarian invasions, the gods appeared one after another to protect humanity. Among them, the Thunder God was the most valiant — his lightning could split the heavens, and wherever he passed, there was thunder and lightning. He destroyed countless enemies, fierce and formidable, the embodiment of justice, strength, and courage.

As a boy, he had placed deep faith in such a god, as brave and wise as his own father, a savior of the people, and regarded him as his patron deity.

He once dreamed of joining the temple to become a brave warrior — just as the prince of the Rose Kingdom had joined the Temple of Love, and the prince of the Iris Kingdom had joined the Sun God’s temple. As a fellow prince, he wanted to follow his own faith.

But he was not a man favored by the gods. His magical talent was not enough to make him a temple warrior.

Even so, he never abandoned his belief in the Thunder God.

He promoted the Thunder God until he became the mainstream faith of the devoutly diverse Tulip Kingdom. Day after day, he trained his body and strength. Following the teachings of the holy texts, he prayed to the Thunder God over the severed heads of evildoers he had slain himself, begging for the god’s blessing on his kingdom, and hoping that he might become a warrior like the Thunder God himself.

Even the priests of the Thunder God’s temple considered him the most devout of believers.

Had nothing gone wrong, as crown prince he would have inherited the throne, upheld the Thunder God’s teachings, and striven to become a wise ruler.

When the day came for him to be crowned king, he had planned to have a Thunder God priest place the crown upon his head.

But disaster crept in silently.

His uncle colluded with the king of an enemy nation and several domestic nobles to launch a coup.

His father was assassinated during a military campaign to suppress the rebellion, leading to the death of many soldiers.

On the day he received the news, he was betrayed by someone close to him and thrown into prison.

And those who betrayed him and his father were none other than the very priests of the Temple of the Thunder God he had trusted as the embodiment of justice.

For so-called “interests,” they twisted truth and lies, and in the name of the gods declared that his uncle, the rebel, was the just side.

Blood surged within him, and flames of fury blazed in his chest.

The blade of betrayal pierced deep into his soul, tearing apart all he had once trusted, filling him with unprecedented despair and hatred.

Was that what the gods’ chosen priests were like?

During the years he languished in prison, he prayed relentlessly to the Thunder God, begging for punishment to fall upon the traitors.

The Sun God, the Thunder God, the God of Love… he prayed to all the gods in the heavens. Yet none of those deities, praised in the holy texts for protecting and guiding humankind, ever answered him.

All he received was news of the usurper’s coronation and the selling out of his country, plunging his heart into utter hopelessness.

Once the usurper’s throne was secure, for reasons unknown, the Temple of the Thunder God did not kill him.

Instead, they exiled him to the god-forsaken city of Thorns.

This so-called “exile” was no release — they sold him, as a criminal, to a noble-controlled arena to become a slave fighting wild beasts.

Strong-bodied prisoners were always in demand as gladiators, and his former identity as crown prince became nothing more than a source of amusement and wagers for the nobles.

When he escaped from the arena, a black-robed man who hated him found him.

“Die, tyrant!”

That hatred came without reason — by now he was nothing but a lowly slave.

The man was undoubtedly insane.

Yet even with his strong body, he was no match for magic — that god-given power.

The black-robed man defeated him with magic, then, as if venting endless hatred, stabbed him over and over with a dagger.

It was then he saw what was beneath the black robe — priestly vestments.

Priests. Priests again!

His fury surged like an unstoppable flood, sweeping through his soul until it consumed him completely.

He had been utterly devout to the gods, had lived by their teachings, taken the holy texts as truth, and been upright and merciful, committing no sin.

So why had the gods and their priests cast him into the abyss, left him for dead, and stolen his father and kingdom?

If his soul was pure enough to enter the divine realm after death, why would he be subjected to such divine punishment?!

Did gods truly exist in this world?

And if they did exist — yet never descended, never saved him, never protected his kingdom, never restrained their priests, and even colluded with evil — why should he worship such gods?

In the cloud-darkened sky, thunder roared, low and oppressive, as if echoing the rage in his heart, or as if the Thunder God were answering his challenge to faith.

He realized the truth — but too late.

He was dying.

He could feel death’s pull on him and could no longer summon the magic in his body.

Yet his heart was full of unwillingness. He would not die like this. He would not be slain by some madman out of nowhere. He would not become a ghost under the hand of a priest. He would not let the usurper sit high upon the throne.

He wanted to live, to vent the fury in his heart.

He would rather give up entry into the divine realm than walk the world as an agent of vengeance.

He must live!

Only by living could he do all of this!

Never before had he so desperately wanted to live, so longed for a miracle.

It didn’t matter who it was — so long as they could let him live, he would even devote himself to demons.

Before sinking into eternal darkness, he prayed one last time.

“Are you still alive? Don’t die!”

Through his fading consciousness, he suddenly heard a clear, youthful voice.

At the same time, he felt a warm, strange power seeping into him — like a gentle light piercing the heavy clouds, struggling against death to pull him back.

His heart seemed to be struck by a hammer, suddenly leaping into life again, in disbelief.

Who had answered his prayer?

The power flowing into him brought his vision slowly into focus; the white void faded, centering on a head of pure white, short hair.

It was a white-haired boy.

White magical particles fluttered around him; his wounds were healing rapidly. It was unmistakably magic, yet he heard no incantation.

Unbelievable — even to cast a small fireball, magicians had to chant, praising their patron deity; only a few great mages could shorten the chant.

Was this child a god?

Conflicted emotions surged in him. His throat moved, and countless words welled up.

“Ah, you’re responding — that’s great! You’re alive!”

His faint movement drew a burst of joy from the boy, who was overjoyed simply that he still lived.

Who was this child?

He didn’t know him; there was no white-haired god in any legend.

Under the boy’s healing, he gradually regained some strength.

In a voice deep as rolling thunder, he asked, “Are you a god?”