The Guardian gods

Chapter 874

From the watchtowers on Björn’s side of the wall, a commanding officer blinked in disbelief as he raised his spyglass. He expected to see a rogue beast horde. Instead, his lens filled with the bloodshot eyes and zealot expressions of his own civilian population.

"What in the heavens..." the officer muttered, "Hold your fire! Those are citizens! Those are laborers from the southern sectors!"

The commoners didn’t stop. Driven by the primal heartbeat of Björn’s dream, they surged out of the tree line like an unstoppable tide of meat and iron. They carried no siege engines, no elegant magical arrays, and no tactical formations. They held only their farming tools, hunting bows, and heavy blacksmith hammers, their bodies radiating a suffocating, feverish heat as the dormant blood rain boiled in their veins.

"Open the gates! In the name of the War Father, open the gates!" a frantic blacksmith roared from the front of the mob, his veins bulging against his neck. "The Silver Kingdom hides our glory! Their blood is our ascension!"

"Stand down! Return to your homes by order of the Council!" the wall’s captain bellowed through a magically amplified horn, his voice trembling. He looked back toward the mages on the battlements, but even the battle-oriented magi were frozen in hesitation. Yuki’s laws strictly forbade the slaughter of their own people.

Seeing the hesitation of the guards, the zealot mob didn’t wait for the gates to open. Infused with a sudden, unnatural burst of physical strength, ordinary men began scaling the stone walls with bare hands, digging their fingernails into the mortar. Others threw their entire body weight against the heavy iron-reinforced wooden gates, throwing themselves into a frenzy.

Across the dividing line, the soldiers of the Silver Kingdom from their tower station watched the swelling mob, their lips moving in silence, the distance swallowing their words. Yet, the lack of sound did little to dull the tension. Across the ranks, orders were barked and executed.

Units snapped to attention, and couriers stood ready, pens poised and horses restless, prepared to dispatch word back to the capital the exact moment the line broke or something went wrong.

This was the precise scenario Björn wanted to avoid. If the Silver Kingdom’s command structure remained cold, calculated, and organized, they would simply deploy tactical reinforcements, erect heavy defensive barriers, and crush his chaotic crusade before it could truly begin.

He needed to shatter their discipline. So, from his blood-soaked throne, Björn played his final card.

The catalyst did not come from the disciplined ranks of the Silver Kingdom, it erupted from within the mad swarm of Björn’s own people.

Near the front of the rushing mob, a heavily built laborer, his mind entirely devoured by the divine frenzy stared at the gate guard trying to hold him back. To the laborer’s bloodshot eyes, the guard was no longer a compatriot, he was merely an obstacle standing between a mortal and his god’s promise. With a guttural roar, the laborer swung a heavy, iron wood-splitting axe, burying it deep into the collarbone of the unsuspecting northern soldier.

The first drop of blood hit the stone floor.

Instantly, a sickening, crackling crimson vapor hissed upward from the fresh wound. Under Björn’s law, a slaughter committed in his name immediately manifests the "Red Mist."

Just like that, the ritual was initiated. Before the surrounding guards could even process the shock of their comrade’s sudden murder, the laborer turned on a nearby peasant, hacking blindly. More blood sprayed, and the mist expanded exponentially. It pushed outward hungrily, like a living wall of hot, iron-scented steam, enveloping those arounds in seconds as the bloodshed fueled its growth.

For Björn’s people, the Red Mist acted as a lethal steroid. The moment it filled their lungs, the dormant blood-rain blessing in their veins caught fire. Their muscles tore and rebuilt themselves with terrifying density, their pain receptors burned away completely, and their eyes bled into a solid, glowing crimson. Total frenzy took over. They stopped shouting words; they only roared, turning on anyone and anything around them, hacking at the gates, the walls, and even each other in a desperate, explosive release of violence.

The moment that first drop of blood was drawn, safety ceased to exist within the border wall. Up in the watchtowers, the mages looked down and realized there was no redeeming the situation.

They had to end this slaughter before making their report to the capital, hoping the Queen would understand their drastic measures. In any ordinary circumstances, this would have been a sound tactical decision but not under the rules of the ritual.

A mage unleashed a fireball into the frenzied crowd. The fiery explosion caught four citizens completely off guard, instantly ending their lives. But there was no time to celebrate. Immediately, the very mage who cast the spell felt a sudden, terrifying surge of foreign strength coursing violently through their own body.

The ambient mana rushed violently into the mage’s body, causing his magical reserves to swell. The sudden feedback caught him by surprise, but as he instinctively released another spell, the same exhilarating surge crashed through him again.

A greedy, fervent look crept onto his face, right before the eyes of his horrified colleagues. They watched, paralyzed, as he conjured five fireballs at once and began to rain them down upon the frenzied crowd, a manic, twisted smile stretching across his face.

The Silver Kingdom soldiers watching the chaos unfold quickly dispatched their reports to the capital before engaging those now scaling the walls into their territory.

The archers fired first, shooting down the climbing fanatics, only to meet with the same sensation as the mage, finding their own physical strength surging with every kill. Before anyone could stop them, the archers abandoned their bows, drew their daggers, and leapt down from the towers to scale the very walls they were meant to defend, eager to engage in close-quarters slaughter.

It was utter madness. Every kill provided an intoxicating feedback of strength, accompanied by a phantom scent and taste of blood that left everyone craving more. Whether you were a devout believer of Björn or a soldier sworn to the Silver Kingdom, his gift was an infection that spared no one.

As the slaughter intensified, the Red Mist grew thicker, fed by the mounting casualties. It was only a matter of time before a massive hole was blown right through the border wall, and the frenzied citizens poured through, completely overwhelming the defenders on the Silver Kingdom’s side.

The slaughter raged on for what felt like an eternity before the chaotic energy slowly began to die down. Björn had already achieved his goal, he had set a precedent that peace and waiting was no longer an option and so he no longer encouraged the violent feedback loops.

Slowly, the Red Mist began to retreat. Instead of dissipating into the air, it seeped directly into the bodies of everyone left standing, miraculously knitting together flesh and healing all life-threatening wounds. By the time the air finally cleared, no one in the vicinity looked as though they had just survived a horrific battle, except for the fact that they were entirely drenched in blood.

The survivors of the ritual felt the change instantly, the quick surge of strength was gone, no longer increasing with every breath. With the absence of the mist, clarity slowly began to return to their minds.

The soldiers and mages of the Björn Kingdom looked around, their eyes widening in absolute horror as they realized what they had just done.

Yet, twisted amidst the horror was a profound sense of satisfaction, especially as they actively felt the permanent, heavy thrum of increased strength pulsing beneath their skin. They were terrified of the Queen’s inevitable punishment, but as they stared through the shattered remains of the border wall and thought of the vast Silver Kingdom lying defenseless beyond it, fear gave way to a dark, intoxicating excitement.

Of the thousands of citizens who had initially charged the wall, only about two hundred remained standing. As their clarity returned, they too felt the massive surge in their strength.

Their faith in Björn hardened into something pure. Björn had not lied to them. They had bled, they had slaughtered, and they had been truly repaid for their actions. Under the gazes of the surviving kingdom soldiers, the remaining citizens dropped to one knee, weapons still gripped in their blood-soaked hands, and began to chant in unison.

"The gift of Björn is the gift of Blood."

With that final vow, they all stood up. The unified horde began to march deeper into the heart of the Silver Kingdom.

"Stop."

The word left his throat, a sharp command that caused everyone nearby to freeze. The surrounding soldiers slowly turned their heads toward the captain who had spoken, only to find him completely paralyzed with fear.

It was an eerie, suffocating sight under the night sky, hundreds of glowing red eyes staring back in his direction. The captain swallowed hard, the cold sweat freezing on his skin, but no further words could leave his mouth.