Chapter 111: A World Rewritten
Beyond the veil of Earth's atmosphere, the sky itself began to unravel.
Satellites blinked out of existence one by one disconnected from the planetary grid as if plucked from the heavens by invisible hands. Surveillance arrays spun into chaos. Gravity sensors lost calibration. Quietly, and then all at once, systems failed across every nation.
Storms erupted from clear skies. Tornadoes danced over deserts. Snow fell where it should not. Lightning struck oceans in rhythmic pulses as if the Earth itself was exhaling ancient, buried power.
The planet groaned.
Inside, amid the cosmic amphitheater lined in concentric rings of power, the Conclave of World Powers continued undaunted. The outer world could crack and churn, but within the Locus, reality was defined by will, not weather.
Ten thrones of cosmic alloy each humming with the sovereign resonance of their occupant formed the central circle. On them sat the Demigods: avatars of domain, legacy, and supernatural conquest.
As the final vote passed, a ripple moved through the center.
"With this," intoned the European King, "the Conclave now holds authority to revise the Global Awakened Accord. We shall determine the new zones of containment, of guardianship, and of sanctity."
Golden runes spiraled into the air like radiant vines, manifesting the new laws of awakened sovereignty. Mana etched them in real-time, woven into the very fabric of the planet's spiritual consciousness.
That was when Philip raised his hand.
There was no pomp in his motion. No dramatic gesture. And yet, the air shivered. Reality creaked. Some lesser mystical beings flinched without understanding why.
A ripple of attention followed.
The American Demigod opened her eyes, brows drawn. The Chinese Demigod looked on with interest.
"I have a motion," Philip said, calm as a blade at rest.
The outer rings fell quiet.
"Leave Africa alone."
A silence fell so heavy it could have crushed steel.
The American Demigod narrowed her gaze. "And if we disagree?"
Philip slowly raised his hand.
A seam in space split open beside him.
Through it, they saw the remnants of devastation the abyss where the Church of Darkness once stood. Its corrupted sanctums shattered. Its gods reduced to fragmented echoes. Even the ash recoiled from the residual purity of the strike that had erased it.
"Then," Philip said softly, "I'll assume you have a death wish."
No one laughed.
The Russian Demigod's mouth twitched into a wry grin. The Chinese Demigod inclined his head with serene assent.
The European King cleared his throat, discomfort rippling through him like static.
"Let it be entered into the Accord," he declared, his voice laced with the weight of diplomacy. "Africa is red territory. No interference. No military, commercial, or arcane incursion without a unanimous vote of seven demigods."
Philip didn't bow. Didn't thank him.
He simply turned forward, and in that silent turn, the line was drawn.
As the Conclave proceeded to its final phase, the Mystical-level beings stepped forward, offering their contributions to the shaping of the new world order.
The Witch-Covens of Europe proposed a Unified Arcane Archive, to prevent the monopolization and loss of ancient grimoires.
The Soulbinders of Ethiopia petitioned for the right to inspect the growing void fractures black rips in reality that had begun appearing in four continents.
A Philosopher-Mage from Bhutan recommended mana-weapon treaties, fearing the reckless crafting of relics powered by unstable ley cores.
Philip said nothing. He had spoken the only words that mattered.
Then came the final chant.
Golden runes spiraled skyward, sealing into the ethereal record a celestial log embedded in the astral memory of Earth itself.
As the ritual ended, something unexpected occurred.
From the center of the Conclave where the ten thrones floated Origin Mana began to flow.
Like silver fire, it poured in threads from unseen reservoirs, rushing in waves toward the demigods. Philip closed his eyes as the energy flowed through him.
He felt it not just in his body but in his soul.
He saw images behind his eyelids: the broken Origin Continent beginning to reknit, its ancient bones awakening. The shattered World Tree pushing out new roots through memory and time. Grasses bloomed across dead fields. Ley rivers trickled down hollowed planes.
Something deep within him his soulthread expanded. His connection to the laws of reality grew clearer. Stronger.
The others fed on it too.
The demigods felt their territories expanding slowly as they channeled the mana t
The mystics drank deeply replenishing their territories . The legendary beings caught the last wisps, strengthening their domains.
But Philip realized something else.
This was the true purpose of the Conclave.
It was not merely a council.
It was a ritual.
The Locus, in its ancient function, absorbed Origin Mana from the universe and released it to the world to help it grow. Each Conclave served as a harvest, feeding the demigods, expanding their territories, refreshing their domains.
And Earth paid the price.
Natural disasters raged below. The imbalance of energy triggered earthquakes, wildfires, and plagues of mana beasts. The stored reserves that the Locus had been gathering for Earth's ascent into a higher plane these were the reserves they now consumed.
In truth, the Conclave was meant to happen once every fifty years, to allow the Earth's stores to replenish. But this meeting had been called early for one reason:
To entice Philip.
To show him the benefits of joining them. To demonstrate that divine power was more than battle it was legacy. Territory. Immortality.