The voice of Jax thundered deep within the cathedral, unshakable and divine, echoing across every corner of the land:

"Listen to my words. Lead my armies to the poorest cities. Let the nobles be executed, let the armies fall, let every oppressor die. But do not touch the innocent. They will be brought into my dominion, where they shall be reborn as my children. Faith itself will tell you who to destroy and who to save."

The eyes of the generals and priestesses burned with divine fire. Every word from the God of Dreams was etched into their hearts as an unbreakable commandment.

And so the exodus began.

For five years, the new believers spread like a dark tide over the borders. The cities of the Soaring Dragon Kingdom were the first to fall: palaces burned, nobles were slaughtered in the middle of their banquets, and their heads hung from the walls as a warning. The armies that resisted were crushed without mercy; entire battalions fell within hours, their bodies reduced to ashes by the very faith that peasants wielded against them.

But the innocents… they were led north in sacred processions. Endless caravans of women, men, and children marched under the protection of warriors glowing with Jax's power. Where once there had been ruin and fear, now there was refuge and hope.

And it wasn't just humans. Jax did not discriminate. His divine decree extended to intelligent beasts, to half-bloods, to races forgotten and despised for centuries. All were welcomed. All could become children of the God of Dreams.

The news spread like wildfire. At first, the neighboring kingdoms dismissed it. "They are peasants," the nobles scoffed. "Sick, beggars, the refuse of society. Let them go."

But the years passed. And the consequences became undeniable.

The fields emptied. The workers vanished. Food production collapsed. Cities starved. In just half a decade, hundreds of millions had abandoned their lands, flowing north like an unstoppable river.

The walls of the Soaring Dragon Kingdom grew desolate. On the borders of the Beast Kingdom, entire villages were left abandoned. Even the Colossal Titans watched as their people dwindled, vanishing into the north.

All heading toward a single destination: the promised land of the God of Dreams.

From her place at his side, Seraphina organized the unstoppable flow. The Council of 120 deployed holy armies to escort the endless columns of refugees, protecting them from bandits, monsters, and enemy soldiers.

New warriors, fed by faith, multiplied without end. Every time a family crossed the border and knelt before a golden temple, new power ignited in their hearts. And that energy flowed directly into Jax, who from atop his cathedral watched his dominion spread like a dark stain across the continent.

The voices of missionaries filled the roads:

"Do not fear! The God of Dreams welcomes all! Children, elders, beasts, humans, demons! Here, everyone has a place!"

The entire world was beginning to revolve around a single truth.

The north was no longer just a region… it was the new center of the world.

And Jax, seated on his golden throne, knew the game had only just begun.

But that day, everything changed.

The patience of the kingdoms had run out. For years they had watched in silence as their people fled, their armies weakened, their lands emptied. Now, their fury had reached its breaking point.

The gods themselves issued a decree: exterminate the children of the God of Dreams.

It wasn't a warning. It wasn't an open challenge. It was a massacre.

From his golden throne, Jax felt a chill strike through his very core. He no longer had the system to warn him, but the bond with his faithful was absolute. Like burning needles piercing his consciousness, he sensed the exact moment his believers began to die. One by one, then hundreds, then thousands.

Caravans were ambushed at every border. Mithril blades slit the throats of defenseless women, magical beasts tore apart the bodies of children, entire columns were reduced to ashes within hours. In a single day, hundreds of thousands perished.

Reports poured in from every direction, each one soaked in desperation.

The 120 women of the Council stormed into the cathedral, their faces pale, their hands trembling, begging for an urgent decree.

"Lord, the assassins are too strong!" cried one, tears streaking her cheeks.

"Our warriors are falling! Even the generals can barely resist!" added another.

Despite their faith, the power levels of most believers lingered between 50 and 60. The strongest generals had reached level 75, but it wasn't enough.

Because the armies sent against them were no ordinary soldiers.

They weren't peasant recruits, nor border patrols. They were the elite of the elite. The sacred assassins of the temples, the shock units of the kingdoms, the personal champions of kings and emperors.

And it wasn't just the neighboring realms.

The dark elves of the forbidden forest sent their silent killers, masters of poison and shadow.

Winged dragons descended from the mountains, roaring flames that devoured villages whole.

The beast clans unleashed their champions, half-man half-monster, savage and unstoppable.

Even demon lords dispatched their troops, hungry to punish the mortal who dared to call himself a god.

The entire continent had united under one cause: crush the God of Dreams before it was too late.

They had learned from their past mistakes. This time, they held nothing back. They didn't underestimate. They didn't send scouts or expendable soldiers. They unleashed the best of the best.

And, as if that weren't enough, the kingdoms begged the sea races for aid.

An ancient pact was reawakened. The name of Poseidon was cried out by kings, his voice echoing through coastal temples, for he had already lost nearly half of his worshippers to the God of Dreams.

The god of the oceans was summoned, ordered to send his finest troops, even to strike personally and kill the human who dared to defy him.

But when Poseidon rose from the depths and gazed upon the land crowned with golden temples, he understood whose will reigned there.

He said nothing. He did not raise his trident. He simply turned, descending back into the abyss.

Not because he feared battle… but because he did not yet wish for a war to the death. Not against that human. Poseidon had other plans for Jax.

Meanwhile, the armies of the continent marched north.

And the land of the God of Dreams was engulfed in flames.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.