NOVEL NEXT Chapter 42: the shocking disclosure
The hall, crowded by gods regulating each corner of the seven heavens, held its collective breath as the weight of anticipation weighed upon their divine forms. Beads of sweat shone on their foreheads, trickling down like droplets of dew under a scorching sun, but nobody dared to move. The tension in the room was palpable, thick, suffocating, and silent, as if the air itself was waiting for one command.
The God of Heaven, seated in brilliant majesty upon his throne of gold, raised his head from its resting place against his right palm and did so with slowness and deliberation. His pupils of gold shone like molten metal, catching the light as he straightened and leaned back against the high back of his throne, the picture of heavenly authority. His voice rumbled deep, even, and unmodulated, like thunder across the hall, demanding attention and yielding compliance. "Let the meeting begin," he said, each word dripping with an absolute authority that had no room for doubt or dissent.
The gods in their seats moved a bit, their heads hardly turning as glances flickered across from one to another, seeking the first among them to make a start. It was a silent defiance, an unrelenting pressure, until finally, an old man rose from his place in the fifth row.
His appearance betrayed an age well beyond mortal comprehension-a man with the semblance of seventy years, his hair short and gray, his beard a thick bandholz of white. Though the skin was marked with the faint lines of time, it glowed softly with divine energy. Wrapped in a flowing purple garment with embroidered landscapes, he exuded quiet dignity even as every move spoke to his nervousness.
With a firm clenching of the scroll in his right hand, the old god stepped out from his seat. His strides, although quick, were cautious lest with any step, the omnipotent forces around him might stir.
He stepped down from the tiered seating, moving toward the plane at the base of the throne. In the middle, where the light of the Heavenly God's gaze bore down like a spotlight on him, he stopped. With shaking hands, he extended the scroll, his head slightly bowing to push it forward. His voice, though composed, had a slight tremor as he spoke, and the weight of the moment weighed him down. "By your grace, this is the report that I have recorded these past 110 years."
The Heavenly God inclined his head to one side; his expression unreadable, he nodded to the right. An instant it flew downwards in a streak of light, fetched the scroll, and turned with an elegance and quickness incomprehensible to any mortal. The very next instant, the scroll was laid on the hand of the Heavenly God. "Give me full details," he ordered, his tone level, yet with a certain rising expectation that brooked no tardiness. The old god, dripping with sweat, took a deep breath as he started unrolling the scroll before his eyes scanned its content.
Y-yes," he stammered; his voice cracked once and then righted itself. "There have been a lot of attack cases in the lower heavens, especially in the last four realms. Further, there are reasonable rumors flying around that a group by the name of Heavenly Reformers are the ones who have committed them." After his trembling words were over, he really stood at the point of collapse, beads of sweat falling onto the shining floor below him.
The murmurs that erupted among the gods were like ripples in a great ocean, growing in volume with each passing second. Speculation, concern, and outrage mingled in their hushed voices, the air vibrating with the collective weight of their fears. This was short-lived, though, as a voice burdened with pure power cut through the noise like a blade through stone. "Archivist of the Heavens," the Heavenly God boomed, his voice echoing across the chamber.
The words hit the old man like a tempest, and he felt it with the full force of his title. A coldness ran down his back, sharp and biting, while a dull ache spread across his temple, as if his name had now become a command too big to bear. Shaking, he could only croak in reply. "Y-yes," he replied, his body buckling under the weight of his own title.
The golden pupils of the Heavenly God bored into him, their light like molten suns, relentless and searing. "What solution have you employed, as the one charged with maintaining the eternal records of the heavens, to ensure this chaos does not etch itself into our history?" His words carried the weight of judgment, each syllable piercing the air with exacting authority.
The old man's lips quivered for a moment, and no word came out. It was as if the room had shrunk and the silence just compressed to squeeze the voice out of him. Finally, he found his voice: "I have tried everything within my reach to get an explanation, but it appears those heading the organization are cunning beyond one's understanding. They do things with an accuracy which even Heaven itself seems to miss. Their presence is never seen, yet their movements are as if they understand our mechanism." His voice caught, his body shaking in the expectation of the due punishment for his failure perceived.
But instead of anger, out came the unexpected decree: and from the Heavenly God his thoughts churning with suspicions and calculations leaned forward, now commanding and amazingly thoughtful, was the following: "Very well," he said in a voice that was both decisive authority and strategic foresight, "I will grant you permission to command angels of the third rank (those ones with three pairs of wings) and below."
Gasps rippled through the assembly; the gods exchanged wide-eyed glances, the weight of the Heavenly God's words slowly seeping into their minds. Such authority was rarely granted, even in times of crisis. Even the old man was taken aback; his knees buckled under the unexpected honor. "Thank you, for your grace." he managed to whisper, his voice choked with both relief and gratitude.
The Heavenly God's gaze swept over the assembly, his golden pupils radiating an unspoken command. "If there is none left to report, you may return." The Archivist of Heaven straightened with difficulty, retreating with steps that were reverent, his back weighed down not by punishment, but by duty.
As the Archivist ascended back to his seat among the tiered assembly, another figure descended. The God of Astronomy and Foresight moved forward, his gait confident yet measured, though his expression betrayed uncertainty. Standing before the assembly, he hesitated, his body stiff with indecision as though searching for the right words to pierce the silence.
"If you have something to say, speak," the Heavenly God commanded, his tone as calm as it was pressing. His golden pupils locked onto the hesitant god with a gaze that pierced like a sword, the weight of expectation forcing the latter to tread carefully. It was a gaze that demanded truth and precision, a superior wordlessly commanding his subordinate to lay bare every thought without omission.
"Yes, Your Oneness," the God of Astronomy and Foresight finally replied, his voice carrying the weight of awe and reverence, though trembling under the god's radiant authority. "During our watch over the guarding stars, an anomaly occurred." He paused, collecting his thoughts as sweat glistened on his brow.
"The dark sky that holds the stars quaked violently, as if the very fabric of its existence was on the brink of being torn asunder. It was as though the heavens themselves were losing their foothold, ready to relinquish their grasp on all they protect." His voice, though low, was steady enough for the farthest gods to hear, each word sinking heavily into their hearts.
The assembly held its breath, hanging on his every word. The God of Foresight continued, his voice becoming quieter, as though the weight of his revelation burdened his spirit. "Through Stellar Divination, I attempted to unravel the cause of this disturbance. And within the realm of foresight, I caught a glimpse, fleeting, faint, a dark figure. It was indistinct, obscured, and before I could discern its true nature, I was forcefully ejected from the domain of foresight.
The experience was... overwhelming." His voice faltered briefly, and he glanced around nervously, as though the very memory of the experience left a lingering fear in his heart. "However, during my journey here, I attempted another reading, seeking further clarity about this figure. My findings..." He paused, his tone sinking lower as the weight of his next words pressed upon him
The Heavenly God's golden gaze narrowed slightly, a silent demand for more. "What next?" he asked, his voice low yet thunderous, pressing down on the god like the weight of an eternal mountain. It was a tone that allowed no evasion, no withholding, only truth.
The God of Astronomy and Foresight swallowed hard, his sweat now pouring freely. His heart thundered in his chest, the sound ringing in his ears like a drumbeat of dread. Summoning the last of his courage, he finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. "It is connected... to our actions in the Primordial World."
His words landed like a strike of lightning, hammering the hall into silence. The tension was immediate and visceral, the atmosphere charged with disbelief and fear. Every god in the room turned their wide eyes toward him, their gazes sharp with suspicion, their thoughts racing. Even the Heavenly God himself seemed to stir, his expression unreadable as he shifted his posture.
The youthful god leaned back against the throne, his right leg resting casually atop his left knee, his elbow propped on the armrest. Slowly, he placed his head in his palm, his golden pupils glimmering with interest, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the corner of his lips. "Interesting..." he murmured, his voice like the low rumble of a distant storm, carrying both intrigue and the promise of impending judgment.