I stood motionless on the main balcony of my temple, my original arm gripping the obsidian railing as I gazed down at the courtyard below. The familiar sight of intelligent monsters gathered in reverent clusters met my eyes: orcs with their tusks gleaming in the volcanic light, scaled kobolds huddled together in whispered conversation, and lean goblins craning their necks upward in hopes of catching sight of me. Today's crowd numbered only a few dozen, a mercy compared to the chaos of a month ago when the temple's completion had drawn hundreds of worshippers from across the enclave.

The memory of that opening day still made my jaw clench. Wave after wave of worshippers had flooded the courtyard, their voices raised in chants I didn't recognize, their eyes bright with desperate hope. All had come seeking a glimpse of the "returned Ancestors," which happened to be the Voiceless Prophet and myself. Two beings they believed would lead them from centuries of persecution and hardship.

A low rumble echoed across the caldera as one of my Tireless warriors patrolled the temple's perimeter, its headless torso scanning for threats. The mechanical guardian's presence seemed to comfort the gathered monsters, though it only deepened my own unease. Everything about this situation felt wrong, forced upon me by circumstances beyond my control.

The role of divine figure was one I was still desperately trying to understand, let alone embrace. Ever since the Voiceless Prophet had revealed our true nature as reborn Primordials to the enclave's population, nearly every intelligent monster in the settlement had begun treating us with the kind of reverence typically reserved for the gods themselves. Me especially, since the Prophet never ceased his rambling about how I had "ascended" beyond my original form, achieved some sort of divine transcendence that made me worthy of worship.

It was exhausting.

The truth was far more complicated than their simple faith allowed. While the Primordials had indeed created the savage monsters that served as these intelligent creatures' distant ancestors, that biological connection didn't make us their gods. The very concept of divinity was a human invention, crafted by the same kings and queens who had hunted us down and slaughtered us during the Second Crusade. The term held no meaning for me, carried no weight beyond the political power it granted over those who believed in it.

I remained myself despite the newfound strength coursing through my reconstructed form. I was still Vardiel, the leftovers of the Primordial Machinery, Machalaziel, who through simple luck and happenstance managed to acquire the Mantle of Enmity, which had transformed into the Mantle of Armament the moment it had joined with me. I was not some prophesied savior destined to guide an entire species toward salvation. Their reverence felt unearned, their faith misplaced.

With a final glance at the worshippers below, I turned away from the balcony and retreated into the temple's interior. My black dragon scale tendrils whispered across the polished obsidian floors as I moved, their metallic song echoing through the vast corridors.

When I had returned from the outer Hellzone wearing my new clothing and armor, the monsters' reaction had been immediate and overwhelming. They had fallen to their knees in awe, their voices raised in prayers I couldn't understand. Despite my protests that such displays were unnecessary, they had insisted on constructing this monument in my honor. I had argued that my simple workshop was more than adequate for my needs, that they were wasting precious resources on empty gestures.

Yudron had been immovable in his conviction. The elderly orc's weathered face had grown stern as he explained that the Ancestors had suffered enough indignity, that their pain had to be acknowledged and reversed through proper worship and shelter. No amount of logical argument could sway him from his course.

And so the Temple of the Twelve Ancestors had risen from the volcanic stone, a massive structure built entirely from black obsidian and marble quarried from the volcano's depths. It dominated the once empty caldera's skyline, dwarfing every other building found in the settlement. The first floor housed a cathedral-like worship space with vaulted ceilings stretching fifty feet above carpeted floors where the faithful could kneel in prayer. At the chamber's far end stood an altar surrounded by twelve alcoves, each meant to hold a statue representing one of the Ancestors.

Only two alcoves were occupied. The Voiceless Prophet's sculpture captured his boulder-like form with surprising accuracy, complete with the festering wounds and weapon protrusions that marked his damaged shell. My own statue had been carved from white marble. Where they had acquired such material within the Hellzone remained a mystery, though I suspected it had been imported at considerable expense. The craftsmanship was flawless, from my nine dragon-headed tendrils, to my long, flowing hair, to my rich silk robes. Every detail of my reconstructed form had been rendered with devotional precision.

The temple's second floor contained a dozen chambers designed for the Prophet's and my personal use. I had claimed only one, converting it into a new workshop where I could continue my mechanical experiments away from the constant stream of pilgrims and petitioners.

As I made my way toward that sanctuary, I studied the rich tapestries covering the black stone walls. Each depicted scenes from intelligent monster history and folklore: peaceful villages, communities under siege by human armies, the harsh early days when the enclave's founders had struggled to carve out a home in this hostile environment. The Voiceless Prophet featured prominently in many of the newer pieces, shown as a wise guide leading his followers to safety.

I paused before one tapestry showing the temple's construction, and couldn't suppress a tired sigh. Though I had initially rejected the entire project, once it became clear the monsters wouldn't be dissuaded, I had thrown myself into helping with the work. The worshippers had tried to refuse my assistance at first, claiming it was inappropriate for an Ancestor to perform manual labor. I had been stubborn enough to force the issue.

With Assembly's power, what should have been a years-long construction project had been completed in just two months. I had also created over three hundred Tireless during that time (both warriors and workers) providing more than enough hands to speed the temple's completion. The irony wasn't lost on me that I had helped build my own prison, crafted the very monument that would ensure I could never escape the role thrust upon me.

I pulled the workshop door open, immediately leaping backward as a metallic blur shot past my feet at tremendous speed. The spherical construct careened through the doorway with enough momentum to bowl over a full-grown orc, its polished surface gleaming as it rolled across the obsidian floor.

Rolly! I called after my wayward creation, though my tone carried more amusement than irritation.

The ball-shaped construct had been my constant companion since our days at the War Academy, and apparently even my divine ascension hadn't dampened its mischievous spirit. If anything, having the entire temple as its playground had only encouraged more elaborate pranks. Whether this latest escapade stemmed from pure playfulness or nostalgic longing for those early days when it had genuinely tried to flee my presence, I couldn't say. The little machine had developed quite the personality over the months we'd spent together.

I watched as Rolly's trajectory carried it directly toward a young kobold servant who had been carefully balancing an armload of freshly woven blankets. The scaled creature's eyes widened in alarm as several pounds of rolling metal hurtled toward his legs. At the last possible moment, Rolly executed a perfect curve around the servant's feet, its internal gyroscopes whirring softly as it corrected course. The kobold stumbled backward anyway, nearly dropping his burden as a series of happy chirps echoed from the construct's speaker system.

My apologies, I called to the shaken servant, who merely bowed deeply and hurried away. The poor creature probably assumed this was some sort of divine test rather than simple mechanical misbehavior.

Shaking my head at the familiar antics, I stepped into my workshop and sealed the door behind me. The vast space stretched before me like a monument to incomplete ambition. Dozens of work tables and benches lined the chamber's perimeter, each supporting an array of half-finished creations in various stages of assembly. Metal components gleamed under the volcanic light streaming through crystalline windows, as well as the soft blue glow of magical lamps hanging from the black walls. The purpose of these machines I had half built were mysterious even to my enhanced understanding.

Most of the projects involved weaponry of some description, though their exact functions remained frustratingly opaque. Curved blades with internal mechanisms that defied explanation. Ranged arms incorporating chemical propellants that I couldn't begin to comprehend. Armor pieces that seemed to shift and flow despite being crafted from solid metal. Even with my complete Primordial nature restored, these designs challenged my ability to understand them.

The irony wasn't lost on me. Had I somehow acquired the Mantle of Machinery instead of the Mantle of Armament, perhaps these enigmatic devices would reveal their secrets. Vardin's creations had always been peculiar and impossibly advanced, incorporating principles that pushed the boundaries of science to its limit. My Assembly ability, powerful as it had become, still felt like a pale reflection of what the God of Science and Knowledge could achieve.

I supposed I would have to accept this limitation unless I somehow managed to slay the killer of Vardin and claim his Mantle. The thought carried an uncomfortable weight, one that had grown heavier with each passing day as new memories surfaced in my consciousness.

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They weren't my memories, nor even the once-fragments I had inherited from Vardin during my rebirth. These belonged to Kaldos, the former God of War, along with those of his predecessor Mulmin. Like sand through an hourglass, their lives and experiences continued filtering into my awareness with increasing clarity. Each day brought fresh revelations about the men who had once wielded the Mantle I now possessed.

I should have anticipated this development. When Vardin had killed my original Primordial form, I had absorbed his memories while he absorbed my power. The same principle applied when I claimed the Mantle of Enmity from Kaldos. The transition brought with it the accumulated experiences of every previous bearer, creating an unbroken chain of consciousness stretching back to the Second Crusade.

The revelations about Kaldos had proven particularly unsettling. To my considerable surprise, the God of War hadn't been attempting to kill me during our violent encounter. His aggressive assault had been a test, a way to gauge my full potential while pushing me to my absolute limits. The arrogant fool had actually been holding back, confident that his superior experience would prevent any real danger to himself.

Had he fought with his true capabilities, even while artificially limiting himself to my level, he would have utterly destroyed me within moments. It was only his fatal underestimation of my desperation to survive that had created the opening I needed to strike him down. The knowledge filled me with an uncomfortable mixture of guilt and frustration.

I had genuinely believed I was fighting for my life, that Kaldos intended to crush me like an insect before moving on to slaughter every monster in the academy. In reality, he had been preparing to vouch for my strength before the other gods, to argue that my potential warranted protection rather than elimination. The situation was almost laughably tragic; I had killed someone who might have become a powerful ally.

Then there was Mulmin, whose gentle nature created an even starker contrast with my expectations. The first God of War had been Kaldos's complete opposite in temperament. Despite his fearsome reputation as a warrior, Mulmin had genuinely despised violence and bloodshed. His close relationship with Vardin had developed precisely because both men preferred diplomatic solutions to armed conflict whenever possible.

Poor, tortured Mulmin had spent the vast majority of his divine existence trying to contain the Mantle of Enmity rather than master it. He hadn't sought to unlock its full destructive potential, but to cage its more catastrophic influences before they could unmake the world. For thousands of years he had meditated in isolation, slowly developing the understanding and discipline necessary to wield such terrible power responsibly.

That dedication to restraint had ultimately proven his downfall. His fighting abilities had atrophied during those long centuries of contemplation, leaving him vulnerable when Kaldos finally challenged him for control of the Mantle. The irony was bitter: Mulmin's noble efforts to protect the world had made him easy prey for someone with fewer scruples about divine power.

These inherited memories created a strange sense of kinship with men I had never truly known. Their struggles with the burden of godhood, their attempts to find meaning in immortal existence, their gradual isolation from the mortal world they had once called home. Each experience resonated with my own growing understanding of what it meant to possess a Primordial Mantle.

I moved deeper into the workshop, my dragon scale-covered tendrils coiling around various tools and components as I attempted to focus on the present. The past belonged to dead gods and ancient kings. My future lay in understanding these mysterious devices, in pushing the boundaries of what Assembly could achieve, in becoming something more than the sum of inherited memories and borrowed power.

The rhythmic tapping against my workshop door cut through my contemplation like a blade, jarring me from the maze of inherited memories and mechanical puzzles. The sound carried a distinctive metallic quality that could only come from one source in the entire enclave.

Enter, I called, setting down the curved blade I had been examining.

The massive doorway swung open with surprising grace, revealing the impressive form of the Voiceless Prophet as he navigated the threshold. His six crab-like legs moved in perfect coordination, each auric steel appendage clicking against the obsidian floor with mechanical precision. The sight still filled me with a strange mixture of pride and melancholy; pride in the craftsmanship that had restored his mobility, melancholy for the circumstances that had made such restoration necessary.

The prosthetics had been born from necessity during our temple construction project. Between work sessions, I had noticed the Prophet's increasing frustration with his immobility. For over a century, he had been trapped in that volcanic crater, unable to move beyond the confines of his stone perch. His boulder-like shell bore the scars of that imprisonment: deep gouges where his original limbs had been severed, festering red wounds that never healed.

When I had first approached him with the offer to craft replacement limbs, his reaction had surprised me. Rather than immediate acceptance or rejection, he had requested time to consider the proposal. For an entire week, he had remained silent in contemplation, his mind wrestling with concepts I could only guess at. Perhaps he feared that artificial limbs would somehow diminish his connection to his original Primordial nature. Perhaps he worried that accepting my help would create some sort of debt or obligation between us.

Eventually, practicality had won over philosophical concerns. The Prophet's acceptance had opened the door to one of my most complex engineering challenges to date. Creating limbs for another being required far more precision than simply replacing my own damaged anatomy. I had to account for his massive size, his unique physiology, and the specific nature of his wounds.

The six legs I had crafted were each as thick as a young tree trunk, forged from auric steel and designed to support his considerable weight across any terrain. Their crab-like joints provided maximum flexibility while maintaining structural integrity, allowing the Prophet to navigate stairs, rocky surfaces, and the uneven volcanic landscape of our home. Each leg terminated in a broad, padded foot that distributed his weight evenly and prevented damage to the temple's polished floors.

The attachment process had been fraught with uncertainty. My own Integration attribute allowed me to bond seamlessly with mechanical components, treating them as natural extensions of my body. Whether the Prophet possessed the same capability remained unknown until the moment of connection. I had held my breath as the first prosthetic touched the ragged wound at the base of his shell, waiting to see if rejection would occur.

To my immense relief, the Integration had been flawless. The moment the auric steel made contact with his damaged flesh, the boundaries between organic and mechanical had dissolved. The artificial limbs became as much a part of him as his original shell, responding to his mental commands with perfect fidelity.

The five tendril appendages had presented an even greater challenge. Each needed to be flexible enough for delicate manipulation while maintaining the strength to handle heavy objects. I had crafted them from the same auric steel as the legs, but with a more serpentine design that mimicked my own weaponized tendrils. At each tendril's end, I had mounted a fully articulated five-fingered hand capable of the precise movements necessary for complex tasks.

These appendages had been attached to various wounds scattered across the Prophet's shell surface, creating a distributed system that prevented any single point of failure. The sight of him now, moving with fluid grace through my workshop while multiple hands gestured expressively, represented one of my greatest achievements since acquiring divine power.

"Good morning, Vardiel, Builder of Forms," the Prophet's mental voice resonated through my consciousness, carrying its usual mixture of affection and formal respect.

Thank you, and good morning to you as well, I replied, noting how his new mobility had transformed his entire demeanor. Where once he had seemed trapped and diminished, now he moved with confidence and purpose. Is there any news worth sharing?

His mechanical legs shifted slightly as he positioned himself near one of my work tables, several tendril-hands reaching out to examine the scattered components with obvious curiosity. "My children patrol the boundaries with vigilant eyes. They report no armies gathering, no banners flying in distant valleys. The human kingdoms remain focused on their internal squabbles rather than external threats."

I nodded, though the relief I felt was tempered by harsh realism. Such peaceful interludes never lasted long when gods were involved. The pantheon of the Holy Twelve had sent a small army and two level 100 warriors to kill us. It was only a matter of time before they tried something else.

Have you heard anything from Arctur or Casper? The question had been weighing on my mind for days. Both men had volunteered for reconnaissance missions that should have concluded by now.

The Prophet's shell shifted as something resembling a chuckle emanated from his mental voice. "The scaled child and the time-worn berserker remain beyond the reach of my whispers. Their paths have taken them far from this sanctuary, though I sense no distress in the currents that bind us."

Arctur had departed for Calsor nearly three weeks ago, seeking information about the political situation in the ruined city. His connections among the outcast communities there made him our best source for intelligence about kingdom activities in the region. Casper's mission had taken him back to the War Academy, where his instructor status provided access to military planning and strategic discussions among the faculty.

What about Barkatus? I asked, though I suspected I already knew the answer.

This time the Prophet's amusement was unmistakable, rippling through our mental connection like warm water. "Ah, the restless one. My children keep distant watch over the human mercenary, though they dare not approach too closely. His hunger for battle burns too bright for safety."

The image brought a wry smile to my lips. Barkatus had grown increasingly agitated during our peaceful period, his warrior instincts chafing against the lack of meaningful combat. Finally, he had announced his intention to venture into the deepest regions of the Central Hellzone, seeking the most dangerous monsters available for training purposes.

His stated goal of reaching level 100 was admirable, even if he acknowledged that he would never match my own rapidly advancing capabilities. The last reports had placed him in the glass plains, a particularly hazardous region where crystalline formations created a maze populated by some of the Hellzone's most aggressive predators. The fact that he was "slaughtering everything in sight" suggested his expedition was proceeding according to plan.

I wish him success in his endeavors, I said, meaning every word. Barkatus had proven himself a loyal ally despite his mercenary background, and his growing strength would be invaluable in the conflicts to come.

The Prophet's mental voice grew more serious as he addressed my unspoken concerns. "You speak wisdom when you counsel against complacency, Ancient Builder. The calm we enjoy now is but the gathering of breath before the storm. The crowned ones will not suffer our continued existence indefinitely."

I moved to another work table, my own tendrils automatically organizing scattered components as I considered our situation. It's only a matter of time before they decide we've become too dangerous to ignore. Whether they send more champions or come themselves, we need to be ready.

"Indeed," the Prophet agreed, his multiple hands now actively examining a partially assembled weapon whose purpose remained mysterious even to me. "But until that moment arrives, we build. We grow stronger. We prepare for whatever trials await."

The simple truth of his words settled over us both like a comfortable shroud. For now, peace reigned in our volcanic sanctuary. But storms were gathering beyond the horizon, and when they finally broke, we would need every advantage we could create.

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