"Asia, do you think it will work?" César asked with narrowed eyes, observing the beautiful purple-haired dark elf standing before him.
"This… this is…" Asia hesitated. "I never thought something like this was possible," she said, her voice filled with astonishment as she read the scroll in her hands.
Using all the knowledge from his past life, César had written down the realms and brief descriptions of the levels of Mana, Aura, and Ether. It was not complete, but it clearly described the fundamental concepts of each realm. In the novel, only a few had entered those realms. Others had merely touched them. Some had even been created exclusively by the protagonists for their women.
César summarized everything he could remember from the novel to form that structure—especially regarding Aura, a path rarely taken. Very few characters had walked that road. Only two had gone far, and one of them had been the wife of a protagonist.
César was betting on paths even the protagonists had never walked. They had followed the road laid out by the gods and were the only ones who reached its end, becoming true gods.
César knew he could not do the same. First, he was not chosen. Second, he was a weak race—a goblin.
So he decided to gather the realms from his memory and merge them, creating a new path for himself and his people.
"If this is real, it would change everything…" Asia murmured. "Not even among the ancient scrolls of my clan was there anything like this. The path always ended with the formation of the mana core. After that came transforming gaseous mana into liquid state, and from there, you were considered among the strongest ranks. Beyond that, everything depended on how many spells you could learn and how powerful they were."
She was still in shock.
César nodded in understanding. In this era, across the mana-system continents, spells were the most important thing—treasures guarded by clans and families. Possessing one could allow you to build your own power. Even if the path of mana expanded further, that did not diminish the importance of spells.
"I see," César replied humbly. After all, all he had done was copy and reorganize what he had read in the novel. "You may take the scroll and study it. If you find any errors or have doubts, come to me and tell me. I'm open to criticism."
Yet seeing the dark elf's reaction made him feel more secure. For now, the path he had "created" seemed viable.
Asia left with a stunned expression, clutching the scroll to her chest as if afraid it might disappear.
After she left, César remained alone, contemplating another problem that would arise sooner or later.
The main reason for all this—aside from growing stronger—was insurance. Even if he truly managed to create and reach those realms, he would still be far from confronting the gods. But at least he would no longer be an insect. He would become a more irritating insect—one capable of biting and causing damage.
All because his existence was unnatural.
A traveler does not belong to any legitimate thread of this world's destiny. No matter how well he hid, how low he lived, or how many masks he wore—if the gods noticed him, if the titans presented him, if an Outer God brushed against his presence… he would undoubtedly be erased.
'Or worse…' César thought grimly. 'A being that does not belong to this universe would be a valuable specimen. They would study me, hoping to find the coordinates of my world.'
César sighed and rubbed his forehead at the thought of his dark future, but quickly regained composure.
He had a plan.
Spreading that path—a practically new system, free from the shackles and flaws imposed by the gods—was only the beginning, though it would increase the risk.
But the gains were greater.
And that was only part of the plan.
The next phase would be the diffusion of faith—a protective smokescreen.
César sat silently inside the wooden house, an ancient tablet spread before him. He had begun drafting the foundation of what would become his religion. It was not a sacred text. Not yet. It was simply a compilation of broken myths, fragments of past eras, tales no one bothered to verify because their protagonists were dead.
Truly dead.
"The Deviants…" he murmured.
Even years after their deaths, their mere mention inspired terror and reverence in the hearts of all races.
Most races did not understand the true distance between those entities. To them, all Deviants were ancient monsters, primitive gods, distorted legends. But César knew the forbidden rule—a truth buried even among the gods themselves.
Deviants ranked one to five could not rise again.
They could not use faith.
They could not hear prayers.
They were dead history.
But those ranked six and above…
César closed his eyes, remembering.
They could revive.
They could feel faith even after death.
They could respond.
They could visit dreams.
They could influence.
They could possess.
If he wished, César could choose one of those latent Deviants and pray to it, spreading its name across the mortal world in exchange for protection and power.
But praying to them was not salvation.
It would be something worse.
He would merely be trading divine surveillance for a far more dangerous chain.
"I do not need a latent Deviant who might resurrect at any moment," César whispered with a faint, cold smile. "I need a corpse that will never open its eyes."
There lay the impossible problem.
A receiver of faith incapable of reacting.
A Deviant who could be worshiped… without existing.
His fingers slid across the tablet until they stopped on a forgotten name—crossed out in later versions of history, reduced to a marginal note in the oldest chronicles.
The Deviant that took the form of a Golden Eagle wreathed in fire.
A low-ranked Deviant.
Dead.
No resurrection.
No legacy.
But it had played an important role.
Perfect.
César smiled.
In real history, the Golden Eagle Deviant had been nothing special. It was possessed by another Deviant and used as a tool to launch an attack against the Phoenix, inflicting a mortal wound. Later, it was crushed in the chaos of a war it never understood.
A puppet.
A convenient sacrifice.
But the real story did not matter.
Faith does not need truth.
It needs coherence.
And César was very good at constructing lies that fit too well.
That very night, the forgery began.
The Octopus Deviant disappeared from the records.
The possession never occurred.
It was easy. The witnesses had never existed.
A new truth was born, simple and brutal, from César's hands:
The Golden Eagle of the Fire Deviant was rank nine.
The most powerful of its era.
It defeated the Phoenix Deviant in single combat.
Then it fought the Dragon Deviant.
And all fell.
There was no victor.
Only enough destruction to make the world tremble.
César did not invent everything. That would have been a mistake.
He mixed truth with exaggeration—as surviving religions always do.
He described the Golden Eagle Deviant's abilities:
Its feathers truly repelled mana.
Its fire consumed mana as fuel.
As long as mana existed, that fire could not be extinguished.
The rest was carefully embellished.
It was true that it devoured dragons. It loved to. But not even a rank-four Deviant would face the Dragon Kings.
It did not matter.
Reality could be adjusted.
He wrote that it hunted dragons of all kinds as prey.
That even in death, dragons trembled upon remembering its name.
Thus was born the title:
The Dragon-Devouring Terror.
But the most dangerous move was yet to come.
César placed his palm on the wooden floor, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
"And now… the gift."
He attributed to the Golden Eagle something no god would ever tolerate being openly claimed:
The origin of a system.
A new system.
The paths of Aura, Mana, and Ether.
A system not manipulated by the gods.
According to the doctrine now taking shape, the Golden Eagle had granted that system to César—its chosen—so he could spread it among all races. So they could cultivate their own power. So they would not bow to anyone.
To the gods, it was nothing.
A dead Deviant.
Useless faith.
A local myth without real influence.
A César…
The perfect camouflage.
Faith flowed… but there was no response.
No one watched.
No one listened.
No one descended.
He hid in plain sight.
A temporary flaw: praying to a dead god who would never open its eyes.
César opened his own.
There was no ecstasy.
No fanaticism.
Only calm.
"In a world where prayers can bring answers and blessings," César murmured softly, "I will pray not to gain power. I will pray so that no one looks at me."
Outside, the world continued its course.
And without knowing it…
A new religion had just been born.