Auther's twentieth birthday dawned under a sky the color of old gold—the aberrant sun hanging lower than usual, as if the world itself leaned in to watch.
The palace had been preparing for weeks, but the tension peaked that morning. Servants moved like ghosts, polishing already spotless marble, arranging flowers that would wilt before noon. No one spoke above a whisper. Everyone knew what today meant.
At twenty, every soul in the realm awakened fully to their class and grade—the innate shape of their mana, the ceiling of their potential, the length of their years. For commoners it was a private rite. For nobles, a public spectacle. For royalty… it was destiny made manifest.
And for Auther, only child of the last surviving Heroic Mythical human, it was humanity's last gamble.
He had heard the whispers all his life: the nine great heroes fallen to the Demon King's champion, humanity's patron shattered, the race reduced to three crumbling kingdoms huddled under his mother's banner. Elves with Yggdrasil's infinite roots, dwarves forged in Salamander's flame, dragons coiled around the Golden One, beastmen howling to Fenrir, fairies dancing in Father Time's shadow—even the demons, once equals, now exalted under the Heavenly Demon who had become their king.
Humanity had no god left. Only hope. And that hope wore his face.
Auther stood before the mirror in his chambers, hands unsteady as he fastened a formal coat of black velvet edged in gold. Every reflection looked wrong—too young, too ordinary. At five-foot-nine he had always been average among men, but today he felt smaller than ever.
A soft knock sounded. Viola entered without waiting for permission, as she always did.
She looked different today. Gone was the practical training attire; in its place a fitted white blazer with gold trim, the hilt at her hip more ornamental than lethal. Her azure hair was bound neatly, scars hidden beneath high collars. She was beautiful in a way that made his chest ache—severe, untouchable, and yet here she was, closing the door behind her with quiet care.
At five-eleven, she towered over him by two inches—a difference that had always been there but felt sharper in formal dress. Her height gave her presence an effortless command; standing this close, he had to tilt his head slightly to meet her eyes.
"You're late," she said, voice steady. But her gaze flickered over him, lingering a fraction too long.
He managed a crooked smile. "Fashion crisis. Everything looks ridiculous."
Viola stepped closer, studying him with the same critical eye she used on footwork. "Sit."
He obeyed without thinking, dropping onto the stool before the vanity. She moved behind him, fingers threading through his hair, combing it back into place with gentle efficiency. Each brush of her knuckles against his scalp sent heat racing down his spine. From this angle, with her standing and him seated, the height difference was reversed—she loomed protectively, her body a warm shadow over his.
His heart stuttered. After the night in her chamber—the pleasure, the expulsion, the silence—he had braced for cold distance. Instead she was here, close enough that he caught her scent: steel and something faintly floral.
"You always look perfect," she murmured, almost to herself. Then, realizing what she'd said, she cleared her throat. "The venue's ready. Let's go."
He caught her wrist before she could step away. "Viola—"
"Don't." Her voice was soft but firm. "Not today."
The carriage ride to the Grand Church of Hopelys was silent agony. The vehicle was spacious, gilded, luxurious—yet the air between them crackled. They sat opposite each other, pretending to watch the passing streets while stealing glances. Every bump in the road shifted her closer; every time their knees brushed, neither moved away. Her longer legs made the space feel smaller, her presence larger.
At the church steps, his mother's black carriage waited—veiled figure inside, perpetual mourning made flesh. Queen Elizabeth emerged like a shadow, saying nothing, simply nodding once to her son before gliding ahead.
The nave was packed: nobles in their finery, foreign envoys in discreet corners, Lana near the front with Neon Gold, pink hair standing out like a flame in a sea of formality. Viola walked beside Auther, her stride matching his but her height drawing eyes—tall, unapologetic, a warrior among courtiers.
At the altar stood Archbishop Johannes—an ancient dragon in human form, scales glinting faintly beneath priestly robes—and Neon Gold, arms folded, expression unreadable.
The ritual began.
Lana approached first, offering a crystal vial of clear liquid. She met Auther's eyes briefly—winked, a tiny spark of encouragement—then poured it over his head. Coolness spread through him, mana pathways opening like rivers finding the sea.
Next, a tri-colored leaf forced between his lips. Bitter. Then incense, chants, the low thrum of collective hope pressing against his skin.
Consciousness sank.
He floated in darkness, then light—two orbs of raw soul-energy orbiting each other. One vast and familiar: this life, Viola's face flashing within it, training sessions, moonlight kisses, Lana's shy laugh, his mother's distant silhouette. It pulsed with growth, expanding with every memory.
The other orb—smaller, dimmer—held his Earth life. Fading. Irrelevant.
Runes ignited above the larger sphere, burning gold:
Supreme DivineMaster of All MagicDestruction God Viratu
The smaller orb flared once in protest, then collapsed into nothing. The larger exploded outward—not destruction, but creation—universe blooming from its heart.
A throne materialized beneath him, carved with dragons and seraphim. Winged figures knelt, trumpets sounding. Light poured from his skin; his eyes burned purple.
Then pain—searing, mortal pain—as the vision shattered.
Auther gasped back to reality, collapsing to his knees on the altar steps. The throne vanished. The angels dissolved. His eyes flickered purple, then settled back to emerald.
Silence gripped the church.
Then chaos.
Neon Gold's face had gone white. Archbishop Johannes—the ancient dragon—knelt slowly, scales rattling. Even Queen Elizabeth rose from her seat, veil trembling.
Lana stared, mouth open. Viola's hand found Auther's shoulder, steadying him as he swayed—her taller frame a solid anchor when his legs threatened to give.
"Supreme… Divine," the archbishop whispered, voice like grinding stone. "A god-seed. Humanity's patron reborn."
Murmurs rippled outward, growing to a roar. Hope. Terror. Calculation.
Auther's head throbbed. Power hummed beneath his skin—vast, untamed, but distant. Like an ocean he could sense but not yet command. He felt stronger, yes—mana flowing freer—but not invincible. Not yet.
Viola leaned close, breath warm against his ear. "Breathe," she commanded quietly, her height letting her speak directly into it without bending. "I've got you."
He met her eyes—steady, fierce, unchanged despite everything. Relief flooded him, sharper than any divine vision.
Whatever he had become, he was still hers to protect.
For now.
Outside, the aberrant sun climbed higher, indifferent to the newborn god trembling in mortal flesh, and the long, dangerous road that had just opened before him.