"That's Orgod! He's older, sure, but my mom always said the older a mage gets, the stronger they are!"
"That's the City Lord! I saw him once—bought a shop from his hand back then."
"All these years, and he still hasn't forgotten us."
"Back then, our banners reached across the fused worlds. Our warbands smothered every flicker of rebellion."
From the soot-caked shacks poured throngs of paupers—gaunt faces, bent spines, filth in every crease. But their dull eyes now blazed with light.
"Master of Chaos, save us! Give us food… I'll do anything for you!"
A woman clutching a baby dropped to her knees. Others followed, one after another: "We're weak, but if you can take our families out of this prison, this worthless life is yours!"
More and more prostrated themselves, begging for divine mercy. Orson only frowned. This was not his creed. He had no use for blind, ignorant worship. What he wanted was for Earth's trialists to rise, to aim at him as a standard and grow strong.
