Nicholas found a certain satisfaction in the authority of his new rank.
Salutes from junior officers, the deference of men, it was a tangible form of power, different from the authority flowing through the Book of Probability, but potent in its own worldly way. Yet, the enjoyment was perpetually stained by a profound sense of detachment.
To him, these soldiers, these generals who clapped him on the back and praised his "heroism", were like figures made of glass. He could see every thought, every ambition, every fragile loyalty. With a whisper of compulsion or a subtle nudge from the Book, he could shatter their wills and reshape them.
Not to mention all their ambitions and goals could ever amount to was a mere puppet on the Gods' stage.
The respect he commanded was real, but the people respecting him were no more than ants he could manipulate or squish whenever he willed it.
His communication with his father, Governor Aldridge, was now a regular, strategic ritual.
Using a modified scrying spell boosted by the Book, they could speak across the continent as if in the same room.
Jonathan's face, that once held a scholar's wisdom, had been refined into a sharp, political cunning.
"The war hero narrative is a powerful opening move, Nicholas," his father's image would say, shimmering in the air of his room. "But it is not enough. To wield true influence, to be in the room when the fate of nations is decided, you must be here. In Washington."
The logic was inescapable. The Philippines had been his forge, a place to gather power in secret. But America was the stage where that power would be executed. Using his heroic reputation and his father's connections, he had secured a transfer to a strategic role in the War Department as an Executive Officer of the Military Intelligence Division.
Now, walking the polished corridors of power in 1922, he found the game even more transparent.
He shook hands with generals, attended briefings with politicians, and offered opinions that were always just insightful enough to be valued, all while the Kapre cloak wrapped around his soul, a subtle, constant shield against any divine sight.
The book allowed him to do the job of counter-intelligence with remarkable efficiency, rooting out the spies of foreign nations, which earned him various commendations, though he halted his rise along the ranks as he noticed the others.
They were never announced as demigods, of course, but to his enhanced senses and the subtle power of the Book of Probability, their nature was as clear as a signature.
He saw a son of Ares, his aura a barely contained storm of aggression to his soul sense, serving as a ruthless military attaché with a reputation for advocating pre-emptive strikes.
A daughter of Aphrodite, her presence bending the will of every man in the room, was the surprisingly effective wife of a powerful senator, steering policy through whispers and social manipulation.
Most tellingly, he identified a son of Hermes, a man whose mind moved with impossible speed, serving as a deputy director in a nascent intelligence agency, his fingers in every piece of information that flowed through the capital.
He observed them with clinical, detached curiosity. They were the Gods' strategy made manifest: demigods installed in the machinery of mortal power, perfectly positioned to influence events. They were assets.
And like any asset, he could sense the subtle threads of divine influence that connected them to their parents, the faint shimmer of guidance and expectation.
They were playing their parts in a game whose rules they only half-understood, believing their ambitions were their own.
Nicholas felt no kinship, only a cold assessment. They were his competition in the coming divine harvest, pawns who thought themselves players.
He couldn't risk rising in rank any further with the Gods already having decided on their children as the future leaders, so he turned to another operation, building the foundation for his future rise.
This new, secure position, hidden from both mortal and divine scrutiny through the cloak, allowed him to be far more ambitious. If he could build a cult of thousands in the remote Philippines, why not in the heart of the West?
Among the East Coast elite, he cultivated his most discreet and influential following: the Order of Eternity. To recruit the wealthy industrialists, bored heiresses, powerful bankers and politicians, he presented himself not as a god, but as a master of ancient, forgotten arts.
In soundproofed parlours and private libraries, he revealed carefully curated magics—charms to ensure a business rival's deal would falter, divinations to guide stock investments, and rituals for robust health.
He taught them to revere the force behind this power: Aeon, the God of Magic, Fate, and War, a divine principle he framed as the ultimate source of success and order.
These disciples, seeing tangible results from their devotion, became his unwitting evangelists among the upper class.
They used their influence to open doors, quietly ensuring defence contracts flowed to companies he favoured, that political donations supported candidates aligned with his long-term vision, and that any damaging rumours about Nicholas and anyone in the Order were swiftly silenced.
Their faith was a transaction, but it was no less potent, weaving a web of mortal power that served his divine ambition.
Simultaneously, he maintained his divine kingdom from afar. Each night, through the Book of Probability, his consciousness would touch the minds of his high priests in the Philippines.
He saw through their eyes, heard their reports, and delivered new edicts. The worship of Aeon continued to flourish, the rituals grew more complex, and the faith generated by tens of thousands continued to pour into the Book, strengthening the cloak and fueling his own burgeoning power.
Nicholas Aldridge was now a man operating on three simultaneous levels: the respected Lieutenant Colonel in the U.S. Army, the hidden master of the Order of Eternity in America, and the absent god of the Philippine archipelago.
He had embedded himself in the mortal power structure, he was building a hidden foundation of faith right under the gods' noses, and his divine power base was secure and growing.
The world was hurtling toward war, and Nick had positioned himself perfectly, his influence spreading like a silent, invisible stain across the map, unseen by the very pawns he moved and the gods who thought they controlled the board.
Seeing everything slot into place, Nick decided that it was finally time to have a meeting with his mother.
If he wanted to rise to true political heights without being struck down by the Gods, he would need divine backing, someone to protect him from the other Gods wanting to grab hold of the presidency.
Luckily, he had everything he needed, the book of probability, with its authority boosted by the faith he had accrued and its incursion into the fate domain hidden by the cloak of concealment allowed him to plot out a course to finally have a face-to-face meeting with his mother.
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