When the smoke finally dispersed, a vast scorched crater lay carved into the land below.
It spanned dozens of meters across, its edges jagged and uneven, as though a colossal hand had gouged the earth itself. The soil at the rim had partially vitrified, fused into glassy sheets that gleamed faintly under the sun. Whatever force had struck here had multiplied upon impact, far surpassing the destructive output Karl had initially calculated.
Hovering above the devastation, Karl gazed down at the two craters—one fresh, one older—etched side by side into the terrain. The contrast between them was stark. His smile slowly widened.
The process had been exhausting, dangerous, and ruinously expensive. Yet the result was undeniable. It marked the threshold of a higher tier of power.
At his fingertip hovered a filament of energy—thin as a thread, glowing with an orange-gold radiance. Whether it could truly be called Divine Power was still uncertain, but there was no denying the qualitative leap it represented. Compared to ordinary Solar Energy, it possessed a weight and authority that bordered on the sacred.
Carefully, Karl reined the precious strand back into himself. With a controlled exhalation, he angled his body downward and descended toward the manor below.
From the moment he first succeeded in condensing that wisp of orange-gold energy, Karl had understood one thing with absolute clarity: without a stable channel of Faith, this path would remain treacherous.
The Power of Faith was volatile by nature. It depended on believers—on mortal emotions, reverence, fear, awe, and devotion. It could swell dramatically or collapse overnight. Worse still, it was easily tainted by despair, doubt, or fanaticism.
And yet, under the right circumstances, it was undeniably useful.
When his own Divine Power reserves ran low, or when he needed to perform large-scale miracles beyond the efficiency of Solar Energy alone, Faith could serve as a substitute—an amplifier, even.
That very day, Karl summoned Hans and issued a series of decisive orders.
He was to find skilled stonemasons, carpenters, sculptors, and other craftsmen immediately—those capable of working both efficiently and discreetly. No expense was to be spared.
Karl intended to select a site within Terra and begin construction on a temple.
Naturally, the temple would not honor any known god.
It would be for him.
For the future Sun God.
He required a centralized structure where belief could be gathered, refined, and channeled—a place where Faith could be stabilized and, when necessary, converted into visible miracles that would reinforce devotion in a self-sustaining cycle.
Even so, Karl was under no illusions.
He would never attempt to forge a godhead through Faith alone.
To do so would be to bind his fate irrevocably to mortal belief, chaining his existence to the rise and fall of worshippers. Such a path might offer rapid ascension, but it would also seal his future, stripping him of true autonomy.
No—his ambitions were far greater.
He had plans to forge his godhead through a method uniquely suited to his Physique, one that transcended the limitations of Faith-based divinity. But those plans lay far in the future.
For now, his Divine Power accumulation was still in its infancy. That single fragile strand was woefully insufficient to support such a vast—and frankly insane—undertaking.
Until then, patience was required.
In the days that followed, Karl immersed himself in the monotonous, perilous work of refining Divine Power.
By day, he hovered high above the land, absorbing sunlight directly from the sky, letting Solar Energy flood his body until every cell thrummed with power. By night, he experimented relentlessly—testing new compression ratios, purification techniques, and stabilization methods.
Each failure was violent.
Explosions ripped through the air. Backlash scorched his flesh and rattled his mind. More than once, he narrowly avoided catastrophic collapse.
Yet he persevered.
At the same time, he divided his soul, allocating fragments of his consciousness to oversee the construction efforts below. Foundations were cleared, stone was quarried, and the early framework of the temple began to take shape under his distant supervision.
On one such day, as Karl hovered thousands of meters above the ground, guiding a turbulent surge of Solar Energy through a newly devised refinement cycle, a familiar voice rang out—clear and unmistakable—within the range of his super-hearing.
"Hen?"
Karl blinked in surprise.
Only then did he realize how thoroughly he had neglected the Wizard Council—and his former teacher. Compared to the relentless demands of territorial rule, the Wizard Council now felt almost leisurely.
Most of its members were content to bury themselves in magical research, academic debates, and the internal politics of the Brotherhood. Meanwhile, Karl governed an entire territory, managing infrastructure, defense, faith, and power cultivation all at once.
No wonder he had nearly forgotten.
"Why is Master here?" The thought barely formed before Karl's body shot earthward like a falling meteor.
Even from two or three miles up, his enhanced vision snapped the scene into sharp focus.
Hen stood on the open ground before the manor, his familiar figure unmistakable. He was surrounded by a ring of tense knights, crossbows raised and trained on him. Several suits of plate armor gleamed faintly, unmistakably reinforced with demeritium.
Despite the threat, Hen remained calm.
He spoke mildly to Dalton, who stood at the forefront of the formation. "Good knights, there is no need for alarm. I am Karl's mentor—Hen."
"I bear no ill will," he continued evenly. "I believe Karl must have mentioned me in passing."
At the word mentor, Dalton's eyes flickered with surprise and suspicion.
He raised a clenched fist, signaling the knights to halt their advance and lower their aim slightly, though their vigilance did not waver. With one hand resting on his sword hilt, he stepped forward cautiously.
"Sir," Dalton said, "you claim to be Lord Karl's teacher?"
"I have never heard His Lordship speak of a—warlock—as his master."
Hen inclined his head, unperturbed. "Karl chose not to elaborate. He must have had his reasons."
Dalton was about to press further when Hen's expression abruptly changed.
The gentle calm vanished, replaced by razor-sharp focus.
He raised a hand sharply, signaling silence. "Careful," he barked. "Something unknown is approaching at extremely high speed!"
His gaze snapped upward toward the clear blue sky, confusion flickering across his face.
Almost instinctively, a dense shield of flowing water blossomed around him, spiraling into a protective barrier. Crackling lightning danced across his free palm, the air sizzling with restrained power. With swift, practiced motions, he inscribed several glowing glyphs of slowness around the aquatic shield.
"In the air?" Hen muttered. "Riding a griffin—or a dragon?"
His brow furrowed. "No… could it be—the protective Magical Artifact I gave Karl?"
In his perception, that very artifact—crafted by his own hand to locate and safeguard his student—was plummeting straight down from the heavens at an impossible velocity.
Even stranger, there was no accompanying howl of wind.
At Hen's warning, Dalton immediately signaled the crossbowmen to aim skyward, scanning for threats.
Yet apart from Hen, every knight stared upward in confusion.
"There's nothing there."
"I don't see anything!"
Suspicious glances began to shift back toward Hen. Tension thickened.
"Is this warlock trying to distract us?" someone muttered.
By now, Hen sensed the artifact nearly upon them, having dropped another hundred meters in the blink of an eye. Such speed and stealth exceeded even high-ranking vampires.
Once it entered optimal range, Hen hesitated no longer.
Locking onto a seemingly empty point in the sky, he unleashed the lightning he had prepared.
"Boom—CRACK!"
A bolt thicker than a keg tore through the air, splitting the heavens as it struck downward.
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