CHAPTER 237: THE LAZY DEITIES

The evening camp was quiet, save for the crackle of pine logs and the distant clink of armor being polished. Caius sat on a fallen log across from Archon Lysander, idly paring an apple with a small dagger. He kept his dark hood drawn low, his violet eyes reflecting the golden firelight.

"Tell me, Lysander," Caius began, his voice smooth and conversational. "How does religion work among your people? During the battle at the canyon, that commander called upon a god as if pulling a sword from a scabbard."

Lysander threw back his head and let out a booming laugh that echoed into the tree line. "That was no prayer, Caius, that was a transaction! The gods of this realm are bloated, selfish creatures. They sit in their mountain sanctuaries, demanding gold, blood, and endless offerings just to glance in our direction."

"It sounds terribly familiar," Caius remarked with a faint, amused twitch of his lips. "Where I grew up, our gods were just as lazy. They spent centuries lounging on gilded thrones, completely ignoring the mundane prayers of mortals. A farmer could pray for rain until his throat bled, and he would get nothing but dry dust unless he offered a herd of cattle first."

Lysander took a heavy swig from his horn of wine, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. "Ha! Exactly! I stopped praying to those parasites years ago. They care nothing for the blood spilled on the dirt."

"Then why do your people still build them shrines?" Caius pressed, leaning forward slightly. "If the gods are lazy and do nothing unless forced by dire need, why do the masses waste their breath?"

"Because the masses are terrified of the dark, my young friend," Lysander said, his tone shifting into something pragmatic and cold. "People need religion. They need the illusion of order. If you tell a man that his crop grew because he labored twenty hours a day, he feels tired. But if you tell him a god blessed his soil because he was righteous, he feels holy. Hope is a far better leash than iron."

"A leash? So faith is merely a delusion mortals use to comfort themselves?"

"It is a tool," Lysander corrected, pointing a thick finger at Caius. "When a village survives a harsh winter, they fall to their knees and thank the heavens. But who actually gathered the wood? Who preserved the meat? They did it themselves! They solve their own problems through sheer human effort, yet they attribute the miracle to a deity who did not raise a single finger. The gods reap the credit while doing none of the work."

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"A convenient arrangement for the gods," Caius said softly, paring another thin slice of apple. "And a pathetic one for the mortals. If men realize they possess the power to save themselves, the gods become obsolete."

Lysander’s dark eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "Precisely. At least we agree on the fundamental truth of this world: the gods are lazy."

Caius nodded, then took a small bite of apple, casually steering the conversation. Coming from a distant land, his tone was purely curious.

"And where do these deities actually reside in this realm? Back home, beliefs vary wildly about where the divine dwell."

"There are two great holy peaks on this continent," Lysander explained, leaning back against a wooden supply crate. "Mount Olympha in the west and Mount Caelus in the east. Two warring pantheons. Two grand factions of gods vying for total dominion over the mortal kingdoms."

Caius tilted his head. "So this war of yours... you were tasked by one peak to destroy the other? Are you aligned with one of these factions?"

"A pact," Lysander corrected with a sharp grin. "I forged an alliance with the Western Peak. Their gods grant my armies passage and backing, so long as I march east and tear down the shrines and mortals sworn to Caelus."

"Aren't you afraid they will break their oath?" Caius asked softly, his eyes fixing on the warlord. "Gods are notorious for treating mortal kings as disposable tools once the war is won."

Lysander let out a proud, thunderous laugh, beating his heavy chest. "They cannot simply discard me, Caius! I am no mere mortal king begging for scraps. I am blessed, a demigod! Born with divine blood coursing through my veins, chosen to bridge the gap between heaven and earth!"

Caius paused, his dagger lingering over the apple. A demigod, just like the ancient mythologies of old. "So your divine patron is a high-tiered deity from the Western Mountain?"

"Yes!" Lysander declared with soaring pride, his eyes burning with absolute arrogance. "I am one of his trueborn sons! He bestowed upon me his blood and his authority to subdue this empire and crush its false gods beneath my boot!"

Caius finished slicing his apple, popping the final piece into his mouth with an amused, unbothered smirk hidden beneath the shadow of his hood. Aloud, he simply offered a respectful, understanding nod to the warlord.

Knowledge is a weapon, Caius remembered, the stern, unyielding voice of his father, Cullum, echoing across his mind. The moment you hand a secret away, you give others an advantage they will kill to possess. They will seek to control you, turn you into a tool, or find ways to exploit your weaknesses. You must never reveal your secrets to anyone, not to the men who serve you, not to a trusted friend, and especially not to a boasting stranger over a campfire.

Looking across the fire at Lysander, who had so eagerly laid bare his bloodline, his pact, and his divine allegiance, Caius felt a cold, quiet irony settle over him. The warlord thought he was demonstrating strength, entirely blind to the fact that he was handing his enemy every weapon needed to destroy him.