GRP Chapter 1

"Gods, save us."

In the dark prison, people trembling with fear whispered their prayers. Please, if you can hear my voice, save us. Spirit of Talla, Watcher of the Forest, Strong Root of the Sacred Tree, Moon-Wave of the Deep Sea.

As many gods as there were captives—that many groans rose up, begging for divine favor. But those desperate prayers were crushed beneath a greater sound.

"Anir, Ryvalle!"

The air vibrated. Whoom. Every time the horn sounded, thousands of voices outside the prison shouted "Anir, Ryvalle!" "Anir, Ryvalle!" The roar came without pause, loud enough to deafen.

"Anir, Ryvalle!"

"O most radiant divinity among the Five Giant Gods, receive these offerings and look with mercy upon us, your humble servants!"

Thousands of zealots filled the vast space. They knelt, hands clasped, gazing fervently at one thing only. A massive altar of gold, towering high.

The enormous golden altar gleamed even more magnificently beneath the sun, as if proclaiming the giant's divinity. The zealots wept freely. They seemed not to see the skulls rolling on the altar steps, or the dried reddish-brown stains.

Thoom. The earth rumbled from somewhere distant. A skull, trembling weakly from the vibration, tumbled down. It rolled along dozens of steps and the golden path below, stopping only when it struck the prison door.

"Aaah!"

The offerings screamed, bodies shaking violently. Though there was nowhere left to retreat, they scrambled toward corners and edges. New scratches joined the nail marks that covered every inch of floor and wall.

Light is hope, darkness is despair—so people often said. The current situation was no different. The prison, cast in deep shadow, was a pit of despair. The prison door, with its latticed openings where light could enter, was hope itself. The only path to freedom.

But hope was not freely given. It required courage. The madness rising like flames outside was more than enough to burn away every scrap of the offerings' courage. All they could do was tremble, gasping for breath.

Thoom!

The vibration that had sent the skull rolling struck again.

Thoom, thoom.

The earth-shaking sound drew closer. It was what the zealots outside were crying out to so fervently.

"Anir, Ryvalle!"

The Giant God of Ryvalle, in the western reaches of the vast continent. The zealots elevated the giant's status with the word "Anir"—a title reserved only for chieftains, leaders, kings, absolute rulers.

A god already making quite a name across the troubled continent. The rumors were mostly about atrocities: hundreds of heroes brutally slain while attempting to subjugate the giant, or some benevolent deity devoured alive. The madness of his followers also contributed to his fame. Burning with a mission to make the Giant God the sole deity and religion of the Ryvalle region, they had set fire to surrounding villages and cities, forcing conversions. Not only that—they'd been kidnapping young children and newly-adult women as offerings for the Giant God, making them public enemies of multiple factions.

There had been recent news that the Thul'Mhoriae Alliance would send a subjugation force of heroes and mercenaries, but what use was remembering that now? The offerings held their breath and shed tears.

"Most great, most mighty, most sublime god! Receive these offerings and grant us your blessing! Anir, Ryvalle!"

"Anir, Ryvalle!"

"Anir, Ryvalle!"

"Bless us!"

Sound devoured sound and grew larger. The fervent heat of worship swept through everything like a fierce, savage storm.

Thoom!

As the earth shook, an enormous shadow fell across the door. Even that single point of light vanished. The prison interior darkened as if night had fallen. The crying, screaming offerings' breath stopped. Outside was the same. The voices of the zealots shouting "Anir, Ryvalle!" disappeared all at once. It was as if every sound in the world had ceased.

Then came the roar.

Grooooah. Heaven rumbled and earth trembled. The sound of earthquake and thunder.

The voice of a god resembled the sounds of nature that no mere human could comprehend. The offerings could only bow their heads before that vast nature.

"The god has answered!"

"Wet the altar with the offerings' blood!"

"The offerings!"

"Death!"

"Blessing!"

"Glory!"

The zealots cried out, thrashing madly. Horns shrieked, tearing the air. Hearts began to beat in time with the rapid boom-boom-boom of drums. At the sound of someone approaching, the offerings scattered in terror, curling up and wailing again.

Where is my god? Why does the merciful god who watches over this world, the great being I have worshiped with a lifetime of faith, not save me?

God is omnipotent. God does not abandon those who follow. As despair grew, faith in the gods broke apart piece by piece.

"Is there truly no god to save us!"

An elderly woman exhaled a dry lament. Whether she hoped for divine mercy or denied the gods, the situation did not change. There was no salvation, no divine punishment. Only someone's laughter, rising faintly in the prison, was real. How unreal that sound of laughter felt—something so commonplace in daily life.

The old woman lifted her head from where it had been pressed to the ground. She didn't need to search for who had laughed. While everyone else huddled in corners and at the edges, one person walked toward the door with steady steps. That leisurely, relaxed gait didn't belong in a space filled only with tears and despair.

The old woman realized he was the source of that brief laugh. A man she'd noticed before. Even in this large prison holding nearly a hundred offerings, he stood out. His tall stature and handsome appearance were secondary factors. During their entire captivity—while others wept and wailed, fainted, cried out to gods—the man had simply sat with his back against the wall, calm as an ornament. He'd looked so comfortable, as if sitting somewhere other than a prison, that her eyes had been drawn to him repeatedly.

The man walked toward the door without a single glance at the offerings huddled together like a single mass. He stepped into the only area where light fell. The wind gently tousled his black hair. The pouring sunlight made his eyes narrow to slits. He didn't look like an offering trapped in a prison, but like someone greeting spring in a meadow of wildflowers. Not a trace of misery or fear showed on his face.

The man turned his head and looked at the old woman. His manner suggested he'd known all along she'd been watching him. The corners of his mouth curved gently upward. His face confirmed that the laughter she'd heard earlier was no hallucination.

"Why?"

"...Pardon?"

"I was wondering why you kept staring."

The man used informal speech, the familiar tone of someone unconcerned with the other's age. That casual speech felt neither awkward nor unfamiliar, suggesting he was someone of high status.

The old woman opened her mouth, then pressed her lips tightly shut again. Boom-boom-boom—the drums pounded and the zealots sang madly. Surrounded by this bleak future with no escape, what did his status or this trivial conversation matter?

"Ah."

The man let out a casual exclamation.

"Because I laughed?"

After a brief silence, the old woman nodded awkwardly.

"But for you—the famous priestess of Lannae—to say there are no gods..."

The old woman's face hardened. Even in a life-or-death situation, she'd spoken blasphemy while wearing Lannae's priestly robes.

"Your enlightenment came rather late, didn't it? All that womb-faith, all those decades of grueling, flesh-mortifying practice—utterly wasted. Wouldn't you say?"

The man grinned, baring his teeth. The old woman's face flushed red with humiliation. After watching her for a moment, the man lost interest and turned his head away with an indifferent expression.

Clank. The prison door shook right on cue. The zealot coming to drag out an offering had finally reached the prison. Key and lock clashed, making an unpleasant noise. The offerings screamed again, voices tearing. Screeeech—the sound of nails on stone as the prison door swung wide. The zealots, faces flushed with excitement, panted roughly.

"Well, well. How dreadfully considerate."

The man offered his thanks readily and walked past them out of the prison. His manner was perfectly natural. The zealot, who'd inadvertently become someone who'd kindly opened a door for the man, stood with his rope noose, looking bewildered.

For an offering to leave the prison of their own accord—it was impossible. Everyone else wept and drooled, sometimes even leaking urine, dragged like beasts to the altar. But this man was different. Without the slightest hint of trying to flee, he simply walked calmly along the golden path leading to the altar.

The old woman stared blankly at the scene. Under the blazing sun, the man's black hair rippled gently in the wind. Boom-boom-boom—the drums beat loudly and the horn pierced the sky, making this wretched situation feel like a hero's triumph.

The old woman dredged up a passing memory. Something about the most famous black-haired hero on the continent.

'Could it be...'

Had the subjugation force from the Thul'Mhoriae Alliance already arrived? The ember of hope that had gone out completely, leaving only smoke, began to kindle again. The old woman watched the man growing more distant.