The statue stood tall at the edge of Dallis, facing the morning sun.
It shimmered in the light—not gold, not stone, but something between. The villagers didn't know its name, nor what it once was, but they knew what it had become: a symbol of something holy, something forgotten, now remembered. And it had chosen their home.
And Vanila.
The day after the god's statue descended, the village changed.
The crops in the terraced fields began to bloom too early, and with unnatural beauty. Fruits glowed faintly, vibrant and warm to the touch. Wheat danced in the wind, thicker, heavier, and richer in color. What once fed dozens now fed hundreds.
The ground itself turned dark and lush, saturated with mana, buzzing under every step like a heartbeat. The local mines, once dull and mostly barren, began to sprout veins of rare minerals overnight—mana crystal, flame quartz, echo silver, and stranger materials scholars had no names for.
The river flowed brighter, clearer, and when sick villagers drank from it, their ailments faded. Some swore they had visions—brief glimpses of Vanila, eyes burning with galaxies, standing beneath a dark sky filled with spinning orbs of god-light.
And from beyond the hills, people came.
At first, just wandering traders, following the rumors of a divine statue that had fallen from the sky. Then came mages, seeking the mana-thick soil and enchanted air. Then guild representatives, sword and spell in hand, looking to establish a new branch near what many had begun to call the "blessed lands."
Soon, champions from distant continents—warriors, tamers, sages, and seekers—came to register at the newly-built Dallis Adventurer's Guild, forged from skyglass and reinforced with echo-steel, anchored beside the statue like a protective watchtower.
The once-small, quiet village became a thriving hub, its name whispered in royal courts and battlefields alike.
"Dallis, the God Bearer."
That title stuck. It appeared on trade documents. On guild sigils. On letters passed through airships and teleportation circles. It was no longer a village; it was a sacred site.
And at the heart of it all—Vanila.
He didn't speak much about what happened that night. When asked, he only said, "I remembered something that mattered." But the villagers, once uncertain of the strange boy with the black eyes and shifting hair, now welcomed him with warmth. They did not forget the fear, but they remembered his kindness. His loyalty. How he saved them not with destruction, but with recognition.
Serra teased him, of course. "The Blackhole Boy who made us rich. Maybe I should've bowed sooner."Kael drew new warding glyphs around the guildhouse, smiling. "Careful, Vanila. You're starting to look like a saint."
Vanila only smiled.
Inside him, the broken crest pulsed—still cracked, still unstable, but no longer silent.
And sometimes, at night, the other God Cores would shimmer faintly around him in dreams. Watching. Waiting.
Elsewhere, in the gilded temples of the God of Will, the high priests stared into trembling pools of divination, whispering prayers with dry mouths and anxious hearts. They saw a village now thrumming with divine presence—and a boy at its center who bore a crest no mortal god had given.
They saw the rise of a second will.
And they knew: the old order had shifted.
The stars were watching again.
At night, under the deep amethyst sky, Vanila screamed.
His body writhed on the floor of the old shrine that once served as the village's prayer house, now converted into a sanctum for him alone. Serra and Kael stood outside, helpless—unable to enter, unable to even look upon what unfolded within.
Inside, the Cores of the Gods, once orbiting gently around Vanila like cosmic guardians, had begun to descend. Slowly, inevitably, they moved toward him—not to hover, but to fuse.
Each one hovered above his back, burning bright, humming with its god's essence. They spun faster, aligning. Vanila's black crest pulsed violently in his chest, and then—the pain began.
The first to sink in was the Core of Flame—searing into his left shoulder blade like a brand made of living suns. Fire rushed through his blood, boiling it, trying to break him. He bit down a scream, his fingers clawing the stone floor, smoke rising from his spine.
Then came the Core of Stone, anchoring to his right hip like molten rock hardening in a sudden pulse. He felt weight—immeasurable, unrelenting—press into his bones. A pressure that threatened to crack him in half.
One by one, they descended.
Life. Will. Storm. Void. Gravity. Memory. Light. Shadow. Beasts. Stars.
Each burned, fused, and nested into his being. A mandala of divine scars spread across his back, each Core forming a sacred mark, sacred circuitry, carved in light and agony. The patterns shifted and glowed with every breath, every heartbeat.
He couldn't move. Couldn't scream anymore. Only endure.
"You must carry us," the Cores whispered."We have no temples. You are our vessel now.""Only the strongest soul may house divinity."
And Vanila, crushed beneath the pain of twelve gods' forgotten legacies, endured.
Outside, Serra's eyes burned with worry. "It's killing him," she said. "Why won't it stop?"
Kael shook his head, his tails twitching nervously. "It's not killing him," he murmured. "It's making him unkillable."
They had to.
Because mercenaries were coming.
The rumor had spread: "The boy who fused with a god." In the dark places of the kingdoms, bounty slips circulated with Vanila's face etched in glowing ink. No name. Just:
Target: The Godbearer.Reward: 800,000 gold marks. Dead or alive.Bonus: Intact divine Crest.
Greed answered faster than prophecy.
From the far north came the Icebrand Wives, twin killers who turned blood to frost. From the western floating cities flew Thurnam the Collector, a man who wore mage cores as necklaces. From the Black South rode Ulgrosh the Hollow, riding a beast stitched from stolen spirits.
They came, armed with soulcutting blades, relics of gods long gone, and magic designed not to kill—but to erase.
But they didn't know.
They didn't know the Cores had awakened fully.
The first assassins came at night—creeping into Vanila's chambers with shadows on their tongues and venom in their blades. They didn't make it past the threshold.
The Core of Gravity snapped their bodies into the ground, turning their limbs to paste.The Core of Shadow inverted their forms, drowning them in their own silhouettes.The Core of Stars burned them into dust.
Vanila didn't move. The Cores moved for him.
The shrine pulsed, a silent storm of godlight, keeping him locked in pain—but safe.
By morning, a ring of blackened earth surrounded the shrine. Charred blades. Melted armor. Scorched bones.
Kael counted fifteen hunters that night. All gone.
And over Vanila's back, the fused Core-Pattern now pulsed with a heartbeat of its own, forming a cosmic seal—twelve branches of divinity etched into flesh, living light coiled in the shape of a broken halo.
Vanila stirred.
He opened his eyes. They were no longer just stars.
They were constellations.