Tyrant's return: Reborn as a Good-For-Nothing Young Master

[Karma total: 1,048. You now have enough to send an oracle to your chosen paladin.]

The system informed him.

Fenrir didn't respond right away.

He stood atop his floating platform of black stone, surrounded by the vast nothingness of the divine veil, watching the world below through countless translucent lenses.

Each one showed him a fragment—rivers flowing, cities growing, fires burning in hearths, prayers whispered in temple corners.

And among them, one image remained still: a lone armored man sitting in meditation before an altar carved with names of the dead.

Elden.

Still so human, and yet unknowingly the center of a storm that threatened to divide Fenrir's growing world.

A man who rejected worship, yet inspired it. A man who could kneel for the dead but refused to bow to power.

"I want him. Not as a tool—but as my voice. If he walks my path willingly, it'll shape a faith no sword could force."

Fenrir muttered.

He raised his hand.

"Send the oracle."

He ordered.

[Confirmed. 10 karma deducted. Oracle transmission in progress.]

A thin thread of light streamed from his palm. It pierced through the veil, descended into the mortal realm, and vanished into Elden's body like a whisper slipping into his spine.

Fenrir did not need to speak aloud. His words would settle into the soul—clear, commanding, undeniable.

You who stood against kingdoms. You who refused the crown.

[ You have been chosen.

Not to be worshipped. But to carry the truth.

To become the Whispering One's blade. His hand. His oath.

Your trial awaits. Go to the Shrine of Ashened Light. There, my messenger will find you.]

The moment passed. The oracle was delivered.

Fenrir pulled his hand back and exhaled slowly.

Now all he could do was watch.

Hours passed. Time was slower below. The night crawled toward dawn.

Then Fenrir saw it—Elden's quiet movement. The man donned his armor, wrapped his cloak, and mounted a horse without alerting a soul.

No words. No banners. No speeches.

He simply left.

A sharp grin tugged at Fenrir's lips.

"Good. He listens."

He murmured.

[Paladin Candidate has accepted the summons. Trial conditions are now in effect. Descent protocol approved. You currently possess 1,038 karma. Entering the world physically will consume 1,000.]

The system confirmed.

"I'm not descending yet."

Fenrir said.

He walked slowly across the empty divine space, shadows pooling behind each step.

His fingers curled as he shaped the land Elden would travel to—a wild, overgrown valley, forgotten by time and filled with the remnants of magic older than the stars.

In its center, he formed the Shrine of Ashened Light—a crumbling sanctuary surrounded by silent sentinels and buried memories.

He did not fill it with monsters or traps.

This wasn't a test of strength.

It was a test of truth.

Elden's truth.

The man had been raised a hero by those who wanted to worship flesh. Let him see the line between reverence and reality.

Let him stand before the silence of a real god's will and choose what kind of servant he would become.

Fenrir clenched his hand and felt the shrine settle into place.

[Trial zone completed. Messenger may now be placed.]

The system reported.

"Not yet."

He shifted his gaze back toward the mountain temple.

Already, chaos brewed. Fenrir could see the priests moving like hornets, searching rooms, shouting orders, suspecting betrayal.

He didn't need to hear them to know what they were saying.

They feared they had lost their god.

And perhaps… they had.

Fenrir watched quietly. He could see the cracks forming in their faith.

Not just doubt—but fear. Fear that their mortal idol had turned his back on them. That the god who had once silenced their blasphemy might now claim their champion.

"Let them panic. Let their control collapse. The more unstable they get, the stronger Elden's path becomes."

He muttered.

The system pulsed.

[New Quest Phase: Await Elden's arrival at the Shrine.]

[Your direct presence may be deployed at any point during the trial. Remaining karma: 1,028.]

Fenrir turned from the temple and focused on the distant valley.

Elden was already halfway down the highlands, riding fast, chasing a voice that only he had heard.

The man didn't realize yet that his journey would define the next age of the world. That his decision would determine whether a god's truth would echo across generations.

But Fenrir knew.

And as the stars shifted above the mortal realm, Fenrir sat upon his throne of stone and silence—watching.

Waiting.

Preparing.

The first trial had begun.

The valley welcomed no one.

Fenrir had crafted it that way.

Beneath the weight of layered fog and hollow winds, the Shrine of Ashened Light rested in ruins.

Overgrown with silver moss and roots that shimmered faintly with old magic, the shrine had no grandeur—only stillness. It was not meant to impress, but to reflect.

It had no guards.

No traps.

No curses.

The only true trial lay buried beneath the quiet.

Fenrir hovered far above, watching the lone figure grow smaller and smaller as Elden made his way down the last ridge.

He rode without hesitation, yet the god could feel the questions forming in his mind. Fenrir could almost hear them.

'Why me? What does he want from me? What makes a god choose a man like me, who never asked for worship?'

And they were exactly the right questions.

[Candidate is approaching trial grounds. Would you like to deploy your messenger?]

The system informed him.

Fenrir remained still.

"No. Not yet."

He wanted Elden to reach the shrine alone. To walk across the stone steps and enter the faded sanctuary.

To feel the silence and understand that gods, unlike mortals, did not offer answers so easily.

Faith built on blind belief was weak.

Fenrir needed something stronger.

Down below, Elden dismounted. His armor bore no sigils—just the scars of battles long since fought.

Sword sheathed, he stepped carefully into the moss-covered ruins, eyes scanning everything, hand resting loosely on the hilt.

Fenrir folded his arms and watched.

Elden crossed the first threshold and paused.

The wind, quiet before, suddenly shifted. Not loud. Not threatening. But purposeful. It whispered through the broken columns, and every gust seemed to guide him deeper.

At the shrine's center stood a cracked altar.

Elden approached it slowly.

Then stopped.

Fenrir leaned forward slightly, watching the tension build. The man's hand tightened around the hilt.

Not in fear—more like caution. Awareness. He could sense it. The presence. The watching.

Fenrir waited.

And then—Elden spoke.

"I'm here."

His voice did not waver.

"If this is a trick, I'll see through it. If this is real… then say what you need to say."

The wind stilled.

A moment passed.

Then another.

And Fenrir allowed just the faintest pulse of divine energy to seep through the veil.

It rolled over the altar like mist catching firelight. Elden didn't move—but he saw it. Felt it. The hairs on his arms rose. His breath slowed. His soul stirred.

And from that silence, the system spoke inside Fenrir's mind.

[Now would be an optimal time to begin the trial.]

Fenrir answered aloud, voice low.

"Let it begin."

Below, the moss at Elden's feet shifted.

From the ground rose three obelisks—old stone, curved and engraved with spiraling script not seen in this world for thousands of years.

They did not glow. They did not hum. But they spoke.

Not in words, but meaning.

The first pulled at the mind. The second weighed on the heart. The third… lingered just out of reach.

Elden stepped toward the first.

He touched the stone.

And a pulse echoed through Fenrir's divine senses.

The Trial of Truth had begun.

From above, Fenrir observed carefully. His essence hovered in the divine veil, but his awareness stretched through the obelisks, flowing with the trial's structure.

Inside Elden's mind, visions stirred.

Not illusions. Not fantasies.

Memories.

They rose like ghosts—moments from Elden's past. His youth in a broken kingdom.

The day he first picked up a sword. The first man he killed. The first time he wept for a fallen comrade. The day his followers called him a god, and he said nothing.

Fenrir watched how Elden faced each vision. Not with denial—but acceptance.

The man did not turn away from who he had been.

He did not justify.

He did not flinch.

[Trial of Truth: First Phase—Passed.]

Elden turned to the second obelisk. The one that weighed on the heart.

This one did not show him memories.

It showed him possibilities.

What would have happened if he had accepted worship earlier. If he had claimed the throne. If he had forged an empire in his name.

Kingdoms kneeling, armies following, temples built in his image.

And it asked, without words:

'Would you take it now, if offered again?'

Fenrir watched Elden stand in silence.

Then slowly shake his head.

"No."

The visions faded.

[Trial of Truth: Second Phase—Passed.]

At last, Elden stepped toward the third obelisk.

This one did nothing.

No glow. No vision. Just a silent, worn stone.

Fenrir waited.

Elden knelt before it. Not in worship. Not in submission.

But in stillness.

He closed his eyes and said nothing.

And that, too, was an answer.

[Trial of Truth: Final Phase—Passed.]

A gust of wind swirled through the shrine.

The altar lit with a single line of white flame.

Fenrir exhaled.

"That's enough for now."

He opened his hand.

And with it, prepared to send his messenger—his voice in flesh.

The real test was only just beginning.