The Gods' Game [ Book 1 | The Forgotten World ]

Before a world can rise to greatness, someone must first believe that it deserves to exist. - Ero-sensie ____________________________ The Throne Beyond Eternity Before the first star was born, before time learned how to move forward, and before the emptiness between worlds acquired a name, there existed a place untouched by creation. It was called the Eternal Sanctum. No mortal had ever seen it. No ordinary god could reach it. Even the most ancient beings, creatures whose lives stretched across billions of years, knew of its existence only through fragments of forbidden legends. The Eternal Sanctum floated beyond the boundaries of all known realities. There was no sun above it, yet everything shone. There was no earth beneath it, yet its foundations extended into an immeasurable distance. Rivers of silver light flowed through transparent channels carved into magnificent white pillars, while countless stars moved slowly beneath a crystalline floor. Far beyond the pillars stretched an endless sea of darkness. Within that darkness floated worlds. Millions of them. Perhaps billions. Some appeared as tiny spheres wrapped in clouds. Others resembled enormous galaxies compressed into the shapes of planets. A few were so strange that their forms could not be understood by any ordinary mind: worlds shaped like spiraling towers, worlds surrounded by rings of fire, and worlds whose surfaces shifted between physical matter and luminous energy. Every one of them had been created. And every one of them existed beneath the authority of a god. At the center of the Eternal Sanctum stood a throne. It was neither made of gold nor carved from any known substance. Its surface resembled polished white stone, but beneath it flowed an endless current of stars, as though the throne contained the entire night sky. Behind it rose a circular structure of enormous golden rings. Each ring rotated at a different speed, carrying symbols that represented the fundamental laws of existence. Time. Space. Life. Death. Energy. Creation. Destruction. And countless principles that had never been given names by any civilization. Upon that throne sat a solitary figure. He appeared to be an elderly man with long silver hair and a beard that fell across his chest. His face carried no visible scars, and his eyes were calm, reflecting a depth that made the surrounding stars seem insignificant. He wore a simple white robe. There were no jewels on his fingers, no crown upon his head, and no weapons within reach. He needed none. His name was known by every god, though few dared speak it without reverence. The Creator. The being who had brought everything into existence. He rested one hand upon the arm of his throne while observing the countless worlds floating before him. For a long time, he remained silent. Then he lifted his eyes. "One thousand years." His voice was quiet. Yet the moment the words left his lips, every golden ring behind the throne stopped rotating. Across the Eternal Sanctum, the stars trembled. "Another cycle has passed." A transparent screen of light appeared before him. It displayed an immense structure composed of millions of names, titles, symbols, and numerical values. The Divine Ranking System. Every god had a position within it. Some occupied the highest levels, commanding universes filled with civilizations that had mastered unimaginable powers. Others remained near the bottom, ruling over undeveloped worlds whose inhabitants had barely begun to understand the forces of nature. The Creator moved his finger. Millions of names shifted across the screen. Then he stopped at one particular entry. A small, dimly illuminated symbol appeared. It represented a world at the edge of a distant cosmic region. A world whose divine ruler possessed one of the lowest rankings in existence. The Creator studied it for several moments. "Still there," he murmured. Something resembling amusement crossed his face. "Interesting." A faint light flickered within his eyes. "Let us see what you have become." He raised his hand. The entire Eternal Sanctum responded. Golden symbols ignited across the floor. The enormous rings behind his throne began rotating once more, faster and faster, until they formed a brilliant wheel of divine light. Then the Creator spoke the words that would awaken millions of worlds. "By the authority of the First Creation, I hereby announce the commencement of the next Thousand-Year Divine Tournament." His voice traveled beyond the Eternal Sanctum. It crossed dimensions. It passed through the boundaries of universes. It reached the highest celestial kingdoms and the lowest mortal settlements. It entered divine temples, ancient battlefields, royal palaces, hidden cultivation sanctuaries, and worlds whose inhabitants had never even heard the word god. In every realm governed by the Divine Ranking System, the announcement appeared in the sky. A thousand years had passed. The Gods' Game was about to begin. And in a forgotten corner of existence, one particular world was about to receive the news that would change its fate forever. ___________________________ The Lowest-Ranked God In a distant region of the cosmos, far beyond the territories of the powerful divine rulers, existed a world known as Eryndor. From a distance, it looked unremarkable. It was a sphere of blue oceans, green continents, towering mountain ranges, and enormous forests that stretched across thousands of miles. Two moons circled its skies, one pale silver and the other faintly violet. During the night, countless stars illuminated its atmosphere, while rivers of naturally occurring mana flowed beneath its surface. Eryndor was not a dead world. It was not barren, nor was it devoid of life. Millions of people inhabited its cities, villages, kingdoms, and hidden settlements. Humans shared its lands with beastfolk, elves, dwarves, spirit-born creatures, and countless other races. Magical beasts roamed its wilderness, ancient ruins concealed forgotten treasures, and powerful warriors devoted their lives to mastering the energy that flowed through their bodies. By ordinary standards, Eryndor was a prosperous fantasy world. But by divine standards, it was a failure. Its civilization had advanced slowly. Its strongest warriors struggled to reach levels of power that other worlds considered commonplace. Its divine resources were limited, its connection to higher dimensions was weak, and its god possessed so little influence that most powerful divine rulers could not even recognize his name. Within the Divine Ranking System, Eryndor occupied position 9,872,416. Its ruler was ranked even lower among the world's divine authorities. The reason was simple. For thousands of years, Eryndor had failed to produce a champion capable of making a meaningful impression during the Thousand-Year Divine Tournament. Its previous representatives had lost during preliminary matches, often against opponents whose worlds possessed vastly superior resources. Some had been defeated by warriors who could split mountains with a single strike. Others had fallen to opponents who manipulated space, controlled ancient spirits, or wielded techniques passed down through civilizations millions of years older than Eryndor. With every defeat, Eryndor lost opportunities. Divine resources that might have strengthened its mana veins were allocated elsewhere. Ancient cultivation manuals remained beyond its reach. Powerful interdimensional merchants refused to establish permanent trade routes with it. Even the divine guardians who once watched over its borders had gradually withdrawn. The world continued to live. But it had been left behind. At the highest peak of the continent known as Arvand, beyond a mountain range covered in snow, stood a small temple. It was called the Temple of the Last Star. Its walls were constructed from ordinary gray stone. Moss covered its outer pillars, and several roof tiles had fallen during a storm three hundred years earlier. The courtyard was small enough for a dozen people to stand comfortably within it. There were no golden statues. No rivers of sacred fire. No magnificent gates guarded by immortal soldiers. A single stone staircase led to its entrance. And at the end of that staircase, an old man was attempting to repair a broken lantern. He sat on a wooden stool with a small hammer in one hand and a piece of metal in the other. His silver hair was tied loosely behind his head. His dark gray robe had been patched several times, and the sandals on his feet were worn thin. He looked less like a god and more like a retired village craftsman. The old man tapped the lantern. Once. Twice. A third time. The lantern flickered. Then it went dark. He stared at it. "...Unbelievable." He turned the lantern over, examined its interior, and sighed. "I created the first stars in this world, yet I cannot repair a simple lantern." A voice came from behind him. "Perhaps because you insist on repairing it instead of buying a new one." The old man did not turn around. "Buying one requires money." "You are a god." "And?" "You could create gold." The old man finally looked over his shoulder. A young woman stood in the temple doorway. She appeared to be in her late twenties, with long black hair tied into a neat ponytail and sharp golden-brown eyes. She wore a dark blue robe embroidered with silver patterns, and a narrow sword rested at her waist. Her name was Seraphina Vale. She was the high priestess of the Temple of the Last Star, the only formal religious institution dedicated to Eryndor's ruling god. She was also the only person in the temple who regularly reminded him that being a god did not excuse him from his responsibilities. The old man raised the broken lantern. "Creating gold would be wasteful." Seraphina stared at him. "You spent three hours trying to repair a lantern worth two copper coins." "Four hours." "That makes it worse." "It was a difficult repair." "You broke it yesterday." The old man paused. Then he slowly placed the lantern on the ground. "Seraphina." "Yes, Lord Aren?" "Have I ever mentioned that your honesty is one of your least attractive qualities?" "Several times." "And yet you continue." "I consider it my sacred duty." Aren shook his head. He was the god who ruled Eryndor. His full divine title was Aren, God of the Fading Star. Among the millions of divine rulers, he possessed a reputation so insignificant that even other low-ranking gods rarely mentioned him. His divine residence was an aging temple. His treasury contained fewer resources than some wealthy mortal merchants. His followers numbered only a few thousand dedicated worshippers, most of whom lived in isolated mountain settlements. And according to the Divine Ranking System, his combat authority was so low that he would be considered a minor divine administrator rather than a serious power. Yet Aren did not seem particularly troubled by any of this. He stood, brushed dust from his robe, and walked toward the temple entrance. "What brings you here so early?" he asked. Seraphina's expression changed. The teasing disappeared from her face. "My lord, the sky has changed." Aren stopped. "What do you mean?" "Something appeared above the capital. It was visible throughout the continent. Our priests say the announcement reached every city simultaneously." Aren looked toward the horizon. Beyond the temple, the mountains descended into green valleys, where morning mist drifted between the trees. Far in the distance, the faint outlines of Eryndor's capital could be seen beneath the rising sun. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he closed his eyes. His awareness spread across the world. He felt the oceans moving beneath the moon's gravitational pull. He sensed the faint currents of mana flowing through the earth. He heard the distant cries of magical beasts in the forests and the quiet prayers of his scattered followers. And above the capital, suspended in the heavens, he felt a foreign presence. A message. A command. An announcement that carried the authority of the highest divine order. Aren opened his eyes. For the first time that morning, the relaxed expression on his face disappeared. "Oh," he whispered. Seraphina watched him carefully. "My lord?" Aren looked up at the sky. "It seems the thousand years have finally passed." Her eyes widened. "You mean..." "The tournament." The word seemed to hang in the air. Seraphina had studied the histories of the previous Divine Tournaments since childhood. She knew the rules, the rankings, and the devastating consequences that followed defeat. But knowledge was one thing. Standing at the beginning of another tournament was something entirely different. "My lord," she said slowly, "does this mean Eryndor must send another champion?" Aren gave her a tired smile. "Unfortunately." "But we have no qualified candidates. The strongest warriors in our kingdom have barely reached the Saint Realm. Even Captain Darius has not broken through to the Divine Warrior stage." "I am aware." "Then what are we supposed to do?" Aren looked at the broken lantern lying near his feet. For several seconds, he seemed to consider the question with great seriousness. Then he shrugged. "Find someone who can win." Seraphina stared at him. "My lord." "Yes?" "That is not a plan." "It is the beginning of one." "It is an impossible beginning." "Most beginnings are." Seraphina pressed her fingers against her forehead. She had served Aren for more than sixty years. Despite her youthful appearance, she was an accomplished spiritual cultivator whose lifespan had been extended through decades of meditation and divine blessings. During those years, she had learned many things about her god. He was patient. He was strangely knowledgeable about ancient histories. He rarely became angry. And whenever the situation became truly serious, he possessed an infuriating habit of acting as though nothing unusual was happening. But this time, she could not accept his calmness. "My lord, I need you to understand something." Aren glanced at her. "If we fail again, Eryndor may lose the remaining privileges granted to us by the Divine Council. Our access to interdimensional trade could be restricted. Our mana reserves may decline further. Other worlds might gain the right to claim some of our unprotected territories." She took a breath. "And if the consequences are worse than those recorded in our histories, we may not survive the next thousand years." The wind moved through the courtyard. Aren's gaze drifted toward the mountains. "I understand." "Then why do you look so unconcerned?" He was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. "Because fear has never made a weak world stronger." Seraphina looked at him. Aren continued. "If we are destined to lose, worrying about it will not change the result. If we have a chance to win, then we must discover it. Either way, we cannot spend the remaining months mourning a defeat that has not happened." She lowered her eyes. For all her frustration, she could not argue with that. Then Aren added, almost casually, "Besides, I have a feeling this tournament will be different." Seraphina frowned. "Different how?" He looked toward the sky. "I don't know yet." It was an honest answer. And somehow, that frightened her more than anything else he had said. To be continued ____