The Guardian gods-Chapter 508

Whispers began to circulate in the Abyss. The once-ignored warlord now commanded a disciplined army, hardened by constant battle and glutted on soul energy. His stronghold—once a crumbling fortress half-buried in ash and bone—had been reforged into a towering obsidian citadel, its spires lined with gargoyles that watched with tireless vigilance.

Malzor himself stood on the cusp of greatness. Having reached the upper limits of the fifth stage, he felt the stirrings of something greater—yet also something missing. He had power, territory, and growing influence... but the path forward had grown unclear.

Malzor knew the truth in his bones: without some stroke of luck—some extraordinary encounter or divine twist—he would go no further. Fifth stage would be his ceiling in this invasion. He had clawed his way here through blood, grit, and clever maneuvering, but now the path ahead was shrouded in shadow, and brute strength alone would not carry him any higher.

That was why he had hoped to turn to Phanthom.

From the very beginning, Malzor had harbored suspicions. Phanthom didn’t move like a demon. Didn’t feel like one. There was something about him—something that whispered of otherworldly origins. A being outside the twisted hierarchies of the Abyss. But Malzor didn’t care. He had long since stopped seeking truth for its own sake. Whatever Phanthom truly was, the guidance he offered had been invaluable. The blessings, the insights, the whispered paths to power—all of it had elevated Malzor from a mere deformed gargoyle without wings to a formidable force whose name carried weight even beyond his domain.

It was Phanthom’s hand, unseen yet ever-present, that had shaped much of Malzor’s rise.

But now, when Malzor needed him most—when the threshold between fifth and sixth stage loomed like a chasm with no bridge—Phanthom had vanished.

Gone without warning. Without a trace.

And Malzor knew: if Phanthom didn’t want to be found, he would not be found. No force in the Abyss, no spell or summoning rite, could drag him into the light. His silence was deliberate, his absence purposeful. Perhaps it was a test. Perhaps it was abandonment.

Either way, Malzor stood alone now.

As for Phanthom—elusive, ever-smiling Phanthom—he wasn’t concerned with Malzor’s desperation. No, his attention had shifted elsewhere. He was far too entertained, caught in what he called a delightful game of hide and seek with his new host.

The game began the moment the chosen ratman, marked by Ikenga, had his inner sight unlocked—when his eyes were opened to the supernatural layers of the world. At first, it had felt like a gift. Then came the terror.

Rattan remembered it clearly. Just another day in the servant quarters of Rattan, performing his duties, trying once again to commune with the mana around him. As always, it resisted him—slippery, distant. The most he’d ever accomplished was summoning a faint breeze, barely enough to stir the dust.

But that day, something changed.

Chief was sleeping on the old straw mattress in the corner, twisted in his dreams, his face drawn tight with pain. Nightmares had become a familiar part of their days—visions that left him trembling, screaming, or silent for hours. Rattan had grown used to it, though never comfortable with it.

Then it happened. Chief suddenly bolted upright with unnatural speed, his body moving like a marionette yanked by invisible strings. Without a word, he swept across the room, bypassing scattered bits of salvaged tech, and dove into the underground shelter they had built together in secret. Not a glance, not a sound—just instinct and fear, as if something had awakened in him.

Rattan, stunned, barely had time to react before he heard the sound. The sliding door creaked open behind him.

Still dazed, he turned, expecting perhaps a goblin butler with some menial command. What greeted him instead made his blood freeze.

A dozen ogre soldiers filled the doorway, their armored forms blotting out the light behind them. Towering and grim, they stood shoulder to shoulder, weapons drawn.

And behind them, half-hidden in the shadows, stood the goblin butler. The one who had always smiled a little too widely, spoken a little too sweetly. Now his finger extended toward Rattan like a dagger.

"There he is, my lords," the butler said, his voice smooth and satisfied. "The one you’re looking for."

Rattan stood frozen as an ogre knight—easily twice his height—stepped forward and seized him without a word. The creature’s massive hand wrapped around his waist like an iron clamp, lifting him off the ground with terrifying ease. Rattan didn’t even struggle. He couldn’t. His limbs refused to move, paralyzed by fear.

The ogres said nothing as they began to drag him away, their heavy steps echoing through the quiet den. But before they could cross the boundary of the dwelling, one of the knights suddenly stopped. With a thunderous stomp, he drove his armored foot into the ground. The floor cracked open, revealing a hidden compartment beneath—the underground bunker Rattan and Chief had carefully constructed over the past few weeks.

Rattan’s heart leapt into his throat.

His breath caught. His limbs tensed. A tremor ran down his spine.

The ogre holding him noticed. He glanced down at Rattan, eyes narrowing as he studied the boy’s sudden panic. The knight who had stomped examined the exposed bunker carefully. Empty.

Rattan’s shoulders sagged with visible relief.

But that moment of weakness gave him away.

"Call a mage. Now," the ogre holding him growled, his voice low and edged with suspicion. His eyes never left Rattan’s face. The boy’s reaction had spoken louder than any words ever could.

Rattan stiffened again, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts. He didn’t know how to mask fear. He didn’t know how to lie under pressure. And under the crushing gaze of the ogres, his body betrayed him again and again.

As for Chief—he was long gone.

Rattan, young and idealistic, couldn’t see the full shape of the danger. But Chief had always known. The empire never stopped hunting. It never forgot. It only waited.

He had known they would come eventually. That it was only a matter of time before someone knocked on the wrong door or stomped the wrong patch of ground. So while he and Rattan built the bunker together, Chief had been quietly digging deeper—his own escape route, concealed beneath layers of earth and misdirection.

He hadn’t told Rattan. Not because he didn’t trust him, but because he wanted to preserve what little innocence the boy still had.

In Rattan, Chief saw something rare: hope. A flicker of something untainted by war, betrayal, or bloodshed. That spark was worth protecting. Worth lying for. Worth disappearing for.

So when the day came—as he knew it would—Chief made sure he wasn’t the one who doomed their last, fragile piece of hope.

He vanished into the dark, leaving behind only a memory and a chance.

The summoning of the mage was swift. Within minutes, a fourth-stage sorcerer arrived, his dark robes whispering as he descended into the den. He barely glanced at the ogres before addressing the one who had summoned him.

"I was told this ratman may be hiding something—or someone," the knight said, his grip tightening on Rattan. "I thought a mage would be best suited to uncover the truth."

The mage raised a brow and turned his gaze to the trembling Rattan. His lips twitched in faint amusement before he nodded and lifted his hands. Arcane sigils spiraled around his fingers as a spell was woven. A moment later, a mental image of the den bloomed in the mage’s mind, laid bare in perfect clarity. Every crack, every object, every disturbed grain of dirt—nothing was hidden.

And yet, nothing was found.

Undeterred, the mage murmured a second incantation. This spell sought more than objects—it traced presence itself. Breath. Essence. Residue of the living.

In his mind’s eye, glowing threads unraveled from every soul present, even from himself. But one thread stood out. It stretched—not upward or sideways—but downward, threading its way into the hidden tunnel, slithering far into the distance like a serpent’s trail.

The mage narrowed his eyes and grasped the strand, which coiled around his finger like living silk.

Turning back to Rattan, he whispered another spell, this one more invasive. Rattan’s eyes glazed over, his body going still under the enchantment’s weight.

"Was there someone else here with you?" the mage asked softly.

"Yes," Rattan replied, his voice flat.

"Do you know where they went?"

"No."

"Was it another ratman? How many were there?"

"Only one."

The mage flicked his hand, and a shimmering image formed above his palm—a faded photograph of a weathered, injured ratman. Chief.

"Was this the one?"

Rattan’s lips parted. The answer was about to slip out—until something intervened.

Phantom, silent and watching from the shadows of the unseen world, whispered into the boy’s mind. A small twist of thought. A nudge.

"No," Rattan said instead.

The mage hesitated. The denial was unexpected. He stared at Rattan for a moment longer, then asked, "Did they have any unusual devices or gadgets?"

"No."

With a snap of his fingers, the spell broke, and Rattan stumbled back to full awareness, breath ragged and eyes wide.