Chapter 38: Ch38 The Father’s Hall
The moment Luther stepped into the temple’s inner prayer hall, his jaw nearly dropped. Not that he was impressed, of course—not him. He would rather die twice than give the place the satisfaction. But still...
The hall didn’t look like the cramped, stuffy temple he had imagined. No, it was alive.
Massive marble pillars rose high, their crowns lost in the shimmering ceiling, and down their lengths dangled vines dotted with white blossoms, their faint perfume sweet but not cloying. Small streams wove across the polished green floor, glittering as though someone had crushed stars into the water. Mist clung low around the ankles of the kneeling faithful, cool and damp, giving the impression that the entire crowd had stepped into a divine garden.
And at the center of it all stood the statue.
The great god Asmethan was carved in jade that shimmered faintly with gold veins, his form towering, his face solemn yet oddly benevolent. His hands held a tilted jug, water spilling eternally into a broad circular lake that glowed faint blue under the light. The sound of flowing water echoed through the chamber like a lullaby—calm, measured, inescapable.
The worshippers spread out across the hall, kneeling in orderly rows. Heads bent low, backs straight, breaths hushed.
Luther knelt too, albeit less gracefully. The cold stone dug into his knees, and he shifted uncomfortably, scratching the back of his neck.
’Oh, wonderful. A giant water-pouring statue. Truly the height of culture. I bet if it stopped leaking, they’d all panic that the world was ending.’
He smirked faintly to himself, but his attention soon wandered. Between the cracks of the floor, a tiny line of ants marched dutifully, carrying crumbs twice their size. Luther grinned, lowering a finger to block their path.
’There. That’s real devotion. Work, food, back home, repeat. Not this endless "praise Father, bless Father" nonsense. Honestly, I’m jealous of ants.’
A muffled cough of laughter nearly escaped him as one of the ants tried to climb over his nail and fell back down.
Meanwhile, at the front of the hall, the elders raised their hands. Their long robes shimmered faintly, stitched with threads of silver and gold.
"Today," Elder Vain thundered, his voice echoing off the walls, "is a joyous day! A sacred day! The day we remember when the great Father Asmethan descended from the heavens and blessed our world!"
The crowd responded with low hums of reverence.
Elder Haro stepped forward, his beard flowing down to his chest, his eyes burning with zeal. "It was He who shaped the chaos into harmony! He who built our foundation! And as the Father once descended, so too shall His Son soon walk among us!"
The crowd gasped, hands tightening in prayer.
"The prophecy speaks true!" Haro continued. "The chosen child shall rise, bearing power unmatched, to herald the Son’s arrival!"
Luther yawned. Long and exaggerated.
’Yes, yes. The Son descends, the people cheer, the birds sing, the sky turns purple, and everyone goes home happy. Same speech, different temple. At least the ants don’t lie about saving the world.’
He poked the floor again, guiding an ant left, then right. His smirk widened.
The crowd erupted in soft prayers and chants, their heads bowing deeper. Luther rolled his eyes.
And then—the air changed.
The sound of a staff striking stone echoed, sharp and commanding. A hush swept the hall. Even the water’s trickle seemed to dim.
The Father had arrived.
Clad in flowing robes of white and gold, his tall staff glowed faintly in his grip. His presence was heavy, commanding, as though the very air bent around him. He walked slowly, each step deliberate, until he stood before the towering statue. His shadow stretched long across the floor, merging with the base of Asmethan’s lake.
In unison, the crowd bent forward until their foreheads pressed against the cool stone.
Luther blinked.
’Wait... bowing now? Why? What happened to just sitting?’
He peeked up, only to meet the Father’s piercing gaze sweeping across the hall.
’Oh. That’s why.’
He dropped fast, not fully bowing but propping himself awkwardly on his right hand, his head dipping just enough to blend in.
From the dais, Elder Nimo leaned subtly toward Elder Haro. His eyes, sharp as an eagle’s, fixed on a single boy in the crowd. His finger twitched in Luther’s direction as he whispered.
"Raw magic. Unrefined, but strong. That boy..."
The other elder glanced sideways. "Are you certain?"
Nimo’s lips curled faintly. "Certain."
Luther’s brows knit. His skin prickled, unease crawling up his spine.
’Hold on. Are they... are they talking about me? Why are they pointing? I didn’t even bow wrong this time! I was just playing with ants, for heaven’s sake!’
He shifted nervously, lowering his head further.
On the far side of the hall, Aithur stifled a groan, leaning against his sword like it was a cane. His lips curled in visible disdain.
"Hmph. All this for a stone face pouring water," he muttered. "What a waste of time."
Liliana did not respond. Silent, still, her gaze swept calmly over the crowd. Her eyes landed on a head of hair—light, matching the jade walls—and her breath caught.
There.
Her eyes sharpened. Luther.
She rose slightly from her kneeling posture, her hand brushing her sword. Aithur noticed her movement, frowned, and followed her gaze.
"...That kid," he muttered under his breath. His jaw tightened. "So he really did come."
The prayer ended, and the crowd lifted their heads as one.
Luther raised his too—and froze.
Liliana’s piercing stare met his. Aithur’s suspicious glare pinned him. Both began moving steadily through the rows, cutting toward him.
His blood ran cold.
’No. Not them. Please, anyone but them!’
His throat went dry as he tried to think. His eyes darted to the exit, then back to the advancing pair. His heart thudded against his ribs.
’Please, anything. Anything at all to keep them away!’
And then—
BOOOOM!
The world exploded.
A deafening blast ripped through the left wing of the temple. The stained-glass window shattered in a blaze of fire and shards, raining razors of colored glass onto the crowd. The shockwave hurled worshippers off their knees, screams tearing through the chamber.
Smoke and flames bloomed, choking the sacred air. The vines caught fire, curling into black ash. The divine garden became chaos.
Luther’s ears rang. His body shook as he covered his head, heart pounding.
The temple of Asmethan was under attack.