Godhood was no joking matter. In the vast universe, only a scarce few beings had ever grasped that level of power. One in a billion was not a saying meant to inspire awe, but a cold statistic that crushed hope just as often as it created it.
Whenever a new god rose, the flow of the cosmos subtly shifted. Ambition, fear, and instinct pushed people toward that presence, like debris caught in a forming gravity well. Some came seeking shelter, others seeking profit, and a dangerous few seeking ascension of their own.
The new branch of the Institute existed for that very purpose. It was a proving ground, a place where those willing to stake everything could be filtered and shaped. Only the useful would be allowed to walk alongside a god still carving its name into reality.
"We will be meeting a mercenary group tomorrow from the city. Their leader is a sanctified weaver bordering his next voyage."
