The machine of the Order of Eternity shifted its focus. With a solid base in North America, Nicholas turned his gaze south. He dispatched a quiet contingent, a mix of his most loyal priests from the Philippines and clear-sighted mortal members of the Order. Their mission was simple: spread the faith of Aeon.
They travelled to remote villages and crowded cities in South America and following his formula from the Philippines, they acted.
A healer would arrive in a town plagued by sickness. With subtle magic and poultices enhanced by faith, they would stem the outbreak.
An engineer, guided by the principles of magical reinforcement, would help a village build a stronger bridge or a cleaner well. They asked for no payment, only that the people remember the name Aeon, the Shaper of the Unseen Threads.
Slowly, steadily, the faith began to flow. It was a trickle at first, then a steady stream. The belief of these new followers travelled through the mystical channels Nicholas had established, feeding his power and expanding the reach of his perception.
He could now feel the faint pulse of his faith in the Andes, in the Amazon, a growing network of light on his internal map.
In Washington, Marcus was climbing. He used his position on the Armed Services Committee with a deft touch. He was a popular figure, known for his charm and his surprising grasp of military logistics. But his real work was subtler.
He learned to weave his magic into his political relationships. It wasn't about overt control. It was about influence. In a tense negotiation over naval funding, he would project a subtle aura of trust and camaraderie, easing suspicions.
During a private dinner with a powerful, stubborn general, he would stir a feeling of deep, personal loyalty, a sense that Marcus was a man you could count on, a man who understood you.
He was planting seeds. He formed alliances, not just on shared policy, but on this magically fostered bond. He made himself indispensable, the one who could get things done, the one people instinctively liked and trusted.
The seeds of loyalty he sowed in the halls of Congress would one day bloom into the unwavering support of the people controlling the funds of the nation.
Meanwhile, in the State Department, Julian Pierce's rise was methodical. His insightful reports from London and his flawless handling of delicate diplomatic matters had not gone unnoticed.
His understanding of the brewing European crisis was considered unparalleled. When the position of Deputy Assistant Secretary to the British Ambassador opened, his appointment was a foregone conclusion.
The role gave him significant influence.
He was now a key conduit between the American and British governments. He used his access to gather even more intelligence, his magical senses attuned to the dark undercurrents flowing through European politics.
He fed information back to Nicholas, painting a clearer picture of the storm gathering around the son of Hades in Germany. At the same time, he used his position to subtly steer Anglo-American policy, laying the groundwork for the alliance they would need.
There was one final piece to secure. Nicholas's gear was nearly complete. The Anemos Staff gave him dominion over the sky for offence. The Book of Probability granted him control over fate itself as his ultimate tool.
But his personal defence, the Kapre cloak that shielded him from divine sight, could be stronger. It needed an infusion of pure defensive authority.
He found what he needed in the high peaks of the Andes, where his new faith was taking root. A gargoyle, an ancient and territorial creature with its essence intertwined with the concept of steadfast guardianship.
The battle was as brief as it was brutal. The creature was a being of stone and stubbornness, its hide stopping his lightning in its tracks and its authority resisting the manipulation of its threads of fate.
But Nicholas was relentless. With elemental manipulation and the dominion over the Air, he finally managed to pin it down with a mountain of ice and, with a precise thrust of the Anemos Staff, shattered its stone heart.
Back in his sanctuary, he performed the infusion ritual. He bound the gargoyle's essence of unyielding defence into the fibres of his shadow-cloak.
As the creature's power merged with the Kapre's concealment, the cloak grew denser, heavier with purpose.
Now, it would not only hide him but also actively stop and prevent attacks. Even the swipe of a Major God's blade would find itself sliding off unseen layers of solidified authority.
He stood in his paradise, complete. The Staff for destruction, the Book for control, the Cloak for defence. In terms of raw power and capability, he was the equal of any minor god and a threat to many major ones.
The only difference was the core of his being. His essence was still mortal, a soul in a body that could age and die. He was a God in every way but the one that mattered most.
One evening, Nicholas stood in his sanctuary, feeling the new currents of faith from the south merge with the established flows. His power was growing, solidifying. Marcus was weaving his web of influence.
Julian was becoming a central pillar of international diplomacy. He himself was armed and armoured as well as any deity. The foundation was almost complete.
It was then that he felt it. A familiar, sharp pressure at the edge of his consciousness. It was not a request. It was a command, crisp and imperious, cutting through the ambient hum of his avatar's office.
It was his mother. Athena was summoning him.
The command was clear, a psychic address burned into his mind: the National Archives, now.
Nicholas's face remained an impassive mask, but his mind raced. This was not part of the plan. Had she sensed something? The expansion of his faith? The subtle political maneuvers of his allies? Or was this simply about the coming war, a briefing for her selected tool?
He looked around his sanctuary, his true kingdom, then back towards the psychic pull of his mother's will. The next move was hers. He had no choice but to answer.
The summoning hung in the air, a single, discordant note in the symphony of his design. The game was entering a new, more dangerous phase.
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