Days passed, each more peaceful than the last, and Cain used them well, not just to recover his strength, but to learn.
Though Cain Vox's memories had given him a basic understanding of the God Gem World, they were the thoughts of a simple village boy, composed of secondhand stories, folk myths, and assumptions whispered from parent to child over generations.
Fragmented and shallow.
But Angus Vox?
He was a different matter entirely.
Cain hadn't noticed it before for he was blinded by his pain, his hatred, and the initial chaos of reincarnation.
But the man was far more learned than any lowland hunter had the right to be.
Angus didn't boast of it. He didn't carry himself like a scholar. Yet when Cain, under the pretense of renewed curiosity after his "miraculous recovery," began to ask questions about the gods, the gems, and the nature of magic…
The man lit up like a starved fire catching dry tinder.
And Cain listened... truly listened.
They sat under the eaves of the now barely repaired cottage.
Smoke curled from the chimney, the afternoon sun filtered through the canopy above as Angus sat cross-legged, his hands absently working a sprig of herb into a poultice, while his voice wove tales and truth together.
"You see, lad," Angus said, "Mana is what the gods permit us to wield. It's all around us, like mist or air, but it don't move unless we have their blessing."
Cain frowned. "Then how do Gem Masters use it so freely?"
"Because the God Gems filter the mana," Angus replied, eyes sharp despite his casual tone. "They take the raw, chaotic energy and refine it into something usable. And once a person's soul binds to a God Gem—through affinity or ritual—it begins to shape the mana to match the god's authority."
Cain nodded slowly.
'So it wasn't that humans couldn't use mana… it was that the gods had imposed an artificial lock around it. A filter. And the God Gems were the keys… and the shackles.'
"What about magic?" he asked, playing the part of the wide-eyed boy. "Or Gem Skills?"
Angus chuckled, the sound tinged with nostalgia. "Magic, or what most call magic, is really just structured application. It's the result of what the God Gem allows you to do. Each one carries a fragment of a god's will, lad.
And through that, certain skills manifest.
Specific patterns. Fixed outcomes."
He stopped, adjusting the mix of herbs. "They're not like the free-cast spells from the stories. They're locked functions. You either have the affinity or you don't. It's why not everyone can be a Gem Master. Some folk don't have the soul to bear even the weakest Gem."
Cain leaned forward, interest genuine now. "And crystals? Like the one from the clock tower?"
"Aye, now those are different." Angus pointed a knotted finger. "Mana Crystals, Ether Crystals, Aether Crystals… call 'em what you will. They're power sources. Fuel. They store ambient mana and release it when needed."
"But they don't shape it?" Cain asked.
"No. Not on their own. The shape comes from a god's blessing. That's what God Gems do. That's what Relics do. Even equipment: magic weapons, enchanted armor... they all carry residue from God Gems once infused."
Cain's brow furrowed.
"Residue?" he asked slowly.
Angus nodded, packing the paste into a small ceramic jar. "Even the weakest Gem, if used to create something, leaves a trace. Like perfume on a scarf. Most folk can't detect it, but sensitive people? Those attuned to mana? They feel it."
Cain's thoughts returned immediately to the Ether Crystal shard he had found in the ruins of the clock tower. He had assumed it was simply powered by mana—perhaps a well-formed source crystal designed to last years.
But now…?
'I absorbed more than just ambient mana,' Cain realized. 'I absorbed a trace of a God Gem.'
That tiny spell—Illuminate—had not been born from his own magic. It had been a leftover imprint, a dormant Gem Skill still clinging to the remains of a divine resonance. A skill not from a true god gem he possessed—but one left behind by whoever originally used it to make the Ether Crystal work.
And still, the skill had activated for him.
'That should be impossible,' Cain thought, carefully keeping his face blank.
Gem Skills weren't supposed to be usable without a formal bond. Not without a ritual. Not without divine approval or affinity testing.
And yet, his body—his soul—had taken it.
And used it.
Like it belonged to him all along.
"Father," Cain said slowly. "You know a lot about the gods. Did you ever… want to serve them?"
The question came carefully, but Angus didn't hesitate. His hands paused, his eyes turning distant, misted with memory.
"I did, once," he said quietly. "When I was your age, younger even, I wanted to serve Asclepius—the Healing Father. I learned everything I could. Herbs, salves, body anatomy. I passed all the theory rites."
"But?" Cain prompted.
Angus gave a sad smile. "But I lacked the spark. The soul they wanted. I had no affinity. Couldn't hold a God Gem, even one the size of a pebble. They said my spirit was… 'unripe.'"
Cain stared at him in silence.
Angus chuckled, but it was a hollow thing. "I cried like a child. Not just for the failure, but because I thought… maybe the gods had rejected me."
"You didn't stop believing."
"No," Angus said, eyes turning resolute. "I didn't. Just because the gods don't give you power doesn't mean they aren't listening. I learned on my own. I helped who I could. And when you were born, I thanked them every day."
Cain's lips thinned.
He didn't speak the words bubbling in his mind. That the gods were false benefactors. That the power they allowed mortals to touch was a cage lined with golden bars. That those who failed their standards were simply discarded like broken tools.
And worst of all—they called it mercy.
But Cain said none of that.
Instead, he smiled.
"Thank you, Father. I… learned a lot."
Angus gave him a warm clap on the back. "You've got a sharp head, lad. Smarter than I ever was."
Cain rose to his feet and walked to the edge of the porch.
He could feel it now—something buried inside him, something shifting, hungry not for mana… but for resonance.
A trace of divinity, no matter how small, was fuel.
He had tasted it.
And the fragment of Annihilus within him—the Primordial Progenitor—had stirred in response.
It didn't want worship.
It didn't demand loyalty.
It consumed.
And now, so would he.