Deep within the Ital'ruk Temple, in the private prayer room converted from a dungeon, the air felt particularly heavy.
The only active light source was the flame quietly burning in the cast-iron basin in the center of the room.
The tongues of fire steadily licked the air, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Skala knelt on one knee before the brazier, his head bowed low.
He did not pray aloud, but silently gazed at the dancing flames in the basin.
The future king was dressed in common clothes, but at this moment, they felt as heavy as a thousand catties.
From the son of a chieftain of an insignificant tribe to the de facto ruler of ZulDrak, the path he had walked was full of thorns and blizzards.
From the moment the tribe was mercilessly abandoned by the Loa Hakkah and teetered on the brink of starvation and cold, he swore an oath, determined to forge a path—a path where mortals could survive and even thrive in the harsh ZulDrak without relying on divine favor.
However, reality was cold and cruel.
The tribe, having lost the protection of the Loa, weakened at a pace beyond Skala's imagination.
He tried his best, but still could not reverse their inevitable fate. Just as they were making a desperate gamble, the Dragon God Obsidian descended.
His power dispelled the bitter cold, bringing order and vitality.
Skala and his people were henceforth bathed in divine grace.
He accepted all of this and gave his all for it.
He diligently fulfilled his duties as governor, coordinating tribes, resolving disputes, promoting reconstruction, and developing production.
Every decision, every sleepless night, was driven by an almost obsessive thought:
To prove that mortals were worthy of this divine grace!
To prove that mortal wisdom, diligence, and resilience were not worthless and deserved the attention of the gods!
But the decisive battle outside Gundrak City completely shattered all his efforts and persistence.
When the divine might of the Dragon God swept across the battlefield, when the King of the White Mountain tore through the sky—
Skala stood on the battlefield, once again feeling his own insignificance so clearly.
Before such absolute power, strategy, sacrifice, struggle… were ridiculously pale and powerless.
It turned out that everything mortals did was truly meaningless before a true god.
So, what did Skala's all-out efforts over the past few years amount to?
A clown trying to prove his worth to the gods?
This thought coiled in his heart, tightening its grip, suffocating him.
He had tried to seek answers from Siye.
The High Priestess, she had experienced the collapse and rebuilding of faith, and should have understood deeply.
Siye listened to his confusion, then simply looked at him calmly, her eyes as deep as a secluded pool:
"Captain, you're overthinking it."
"It is the believers who need the guidance and protection of the gods, not the gods who need believers to prove anything."
"Our Lord's grace is a manifestation of His will; we only need to receive it and do our best."
Her tone was calm, with the patience of someone advising a lost believer, but it only stirred a deeper fear in Skala's heart.
It turned out that in Siye's eyes, his struggle, his self-proving, seemed so… impious?
The way Siye said those words was exactly like someone trying to persuade a wavering, lost believer.
He thought he was striving to be worthy of divine grace, but in her view, this itself was a deviation from the essence of faith?
Skala prided himself on doing so much for the Dragon God, painstakingly building his mortal kingdom, and in the end, he wasn't even considered "pious"?
With such a disposition, what right did he have to sit on the throne of ZulDrak?
How could a mortal whose faith was so awkward, so utilitarian, so impure, lead this kingdom bathed in divine grace?
A heavy sense of exhaustion overwhelmed him.
Not just physical fatigue, but a deep weariness of the soul.
He felt as if he had lost his foundational support, and the path ahead was a void.
So, when the complex post-war affairs arrived, Skala chose silence and retreat.
He pushed the specific governmental duties to his deputy, Gulen.
Gulen didn't ask much, but simply gave Skala a deep look and then took on the heavy burden.
He fully considered the situation of ZulDrak, which had just been unified and was in urgent need of reconstruction, knowing that the balance of power was crucial.
He quickly convened the influential figures of various tribes and established the "Ital'ruk Council."
As Chairman of the Council, Gulen began to preside over state affairs on behalf of Skala, coordinating all parties and handling the myriad tasks of reconstruction.
It was this newly formed council that made the decision to send Toka to Dekonor as its lord and presided over Rhunok's ascension ceremony.
At this moment, in this silent dungeon prayer room where only the crackling of the fire remained, Skala still knelt on one knee.
Lost in thought, Skala did not notice that the dancing flame suddenly paused for a moment without warning.
Immediately afterward, an irresistible wave of drowsiness swept over him.
Perhaps he had truly been too tired these past few days—
Skala's consciousness vaguely thought, his heavy eyelids could no longer hold up.
He didn't even have time to adjust his kneeling posture, remaining on one knee, head bowed, as he fell into a deep sleep.
—Divider—
Deep within the divine realm of Serakhen, Obsidian's dragon head moved slightly.
He looked at the frequently flashing prayer node in his divinity and sighed silently.
This Skala had been praying too frequently lately.
If he were an ordinary believer, this would be nothing; the divinity would handle it itself.
But unfortunately, this guy held that divine emblem in his hand.
It was originally given to his "mortal agent" as a mark, to facilitate his exercise of power and spread of faith.
As a result, it had now become a high-priority pager.
Skala's prayers of confusion and self-doubt, the divinity didn't know how to handle, and kept sending alerts to Obsidian.
It was truly noisy.
If it weren't for the symbolic meaning of that divine emblem—which would likely become ZulDrak's "imperial seal" in the future—he would really want to temporarily block it. "Forget it, since it's marked as 'relatively urgent' and is annoying, I'll give him an answer, so he doesn't keep dwelling on it."
Obsidian's claw tips glowed slightly, pulling Skala's consciousness into the Glimmering Dream. —Divider— The dream had no beginning, nor clear boundaries.
Skala felt himself floating in the air, yet his consciousness was incredibly clear.
He "saw":
The joy in his heart after successfully hunting the Mammoth in that fateful hunt.
At that time, he could only believe that he had to survive, even without the gods!
That resilience, struggling in desperation, was clearly transmitted through the dream.
Then the scene shifted to the bloody battlefield outside Gundrak City.
He "saw" himself fiercely fighting his father, oblivious to everything else.
But the perspective suddenly rose, focusing on an ordinary Ice Troll guard.
The warrior's breastplate was torn, blood stained the snow beneath his feet, but he still gripped his spear tightly, blocking a Hakkah "chosen one" from approaching Skala.
He bought Skala crucial moments to defeat his father.
Then came the scene of Hakkah's sneak attack and the King of the White Mountain's rescue.
It was the sacrifice of mortals that created the opportunity for the gods to descend.
Without that warrior's obstruction, that "chosen one" would have disrupted Skala's duel with his father.
Even if a god intervened, it would no longer be possible to resolve Skala's emotional knot regarding his father—
The perspective shifted again.
It was a farmland.
Skala had never been to the Pioneer Territory, but he saw Toka squatting at the edge of the field, so he realized this was the Pioneer Territory named "Dekonor."
Toka was talking to a distressed Ice Troll pioneer.
The pioneer pointed to the sparse seedlings in the field, complaining about the lack of water.
Toka did not pray for divine power, but frowned, picked up a handful of soil, carefully rubbed it, and then discussed something with the old farmer, gesturing.
Then, he called over several Dracthyr warriors and directed them to dig trenches at the edge of the field, changing the direction of the water flow.
A few days later, the seedlings in that field were noticeably more robust than those in other places.
Even without relying on the gods, despite their meager strength, mortals still possessed the potential to change the world.
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