The Huntsman Of Death:A Gamer's POV As Side Character

The church stood bathed in the warm, golden glow of the afternoon sun.

Inside, young children sat cross-legged on the smooth wooden floor, their curious eyes fixed on an old man standing at the front. His robes were simple and frayed, his hair a wild silver crown, and his beard tumbled like a waterfall over his chest. His appearance was ordinary, even a little disheveled, but his gaze held something else entirely—a quiet, divine light that was both comforting and unfathomable.

The old man spoke to the children with a soft, patient voice, his hands moving gently as he explained the sacred rituals of the church. The children listened, some with wide-eyed wonder, others with half-hidden giggles, but all were drawn to the warmth in his voice.

Suddenly, one boy raised his hand, his face lit with curiosity. "Father, out of all the Gods and Goddesses, who is the strongest?"

The question sparked a ripple of excitement among the children. They began chattering, their voices overlapping in a cheerful commotion.

"Yes, Father, who is it?"

"It's definitely Goddess Rebecca!"

"No, it must be Goddess Martina!"

"What if it's Lilith?" one boy chimed in, causing the others to gasp and glare at him.

"How could you say that? Lilith is a demoness!" one of them scoffed.

"Yes, that's blasphemy!" another agreed.

As the children's chatter turned into playful bickering, the old man laughed, a deep, hearty sound that seemed to fill the room with peace. He stroked his beard and raised a hand to quiet them.

"Children, children," he said, his voice calm and amused. "No need to argue."

The children quieted, their bright eyes turning back to him.

"Now, listen carefully," he said, his tone gentle but firm. "There is no strongest among the Gods and Goddesses. Each of them is powerful in their own way, each with their own strengths and weaknesses. We, mere mortals, are too small and simple to understand their greatness. How could we ever compare them?"

The children looked at him, their heads tilting with thought. One boy, still not fully satisfied, asked, "But Father, don't the Gods ever fight? If they did, wouldn't there be a winner?"

The old man chuckled again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Why would they fight, child? The matters of this world are trivial to them. They see far beyond what we can, and their purpose is greater than any petty quarrel. They have no need to prove themselves to one another."

The children nodded, their curiosity momentarily satisfied. The old man continued teaching for a little while longer, then clapped his hands. "That's all for today," he said with a smile.

The children cheered, springing to their feet with laughter and joy as they raced out of the church. Their carefree voices echoed off the stone walls, leaving behind a stillness that was both peaceful and heavy.

The old man watched them go, his face soft with affection. "What a pleasant sight," he murmured to himself. "Their innocence truly soothes the heart."

But as he turned and walked deeper into the church, his smile faded, replaced by a quiet heaviness. The dim light of the inner sanctum seemed to mirror the somber thoughts crossing his mind.

"Mortals," he whispered to himself, shaking his head. "Who are we to think we can understand the divine? When even the Gods face their own challenges, their own perils in the face of calamities, what does that make us?"

He sighed deeply, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Yet, as he knelt before the altar, his expression softened again, and a quiet prayer escaped his lips. For though the world felt heavy, his faith remained unshaken.

The old man stood in the dim light of the inner sanctum, surrounded by symbols of eight orthodox religions of Gods, each meticulously carved into the stone walls. Between them, smaller, less ornate symbols appeared, representing the ancient beliefs of demons, elves, and dwarves. And yet, among these, one was different, hauntingly bare and devoid of any script or carving.

It was a god obscured by mist, one whose existence was but a dimming ember of memory. The God of Death, Sovereign of the End, the True Ruler of Devils.

These names appeared in ancient texts, and yet were but a rumor, lost in the fabled pages of the past. It was said, without this god, even devils had been unriddled and unbound.

The old man lit the candles beneath the symbols, his movements steady and reverent. Each candle was crafted from a unique herb, offerings to appease the divine. As he reached the last candle, his hand hesitated. This candle, made from the rare Evanora bloom, was said to offer peace to the souls of the deceased.

The candle stood solitary, its space marked by an emptiness-a forgotten god. He lit the match and tried to ignite it, as he had done thousands of times before. The flame flickered for a moment before dying out, leaving the wick cold and unlit. Read latest chapters at My Virtual Library Empire

" As expected," the old man said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. His voice carried a note of resignation, as though he had long made peace with this ritual's failure.

He put the matchstick back in its box, then brought his hand to his chest. With deliberate movements, he traced a symbol over his heart and whispered a prayer.

For a moment, a divine glow shone from his body, spreading sparkling light across the room. It was as if the very air vibrated with peace and hope, only to fade as quickly as it had appeared.

"May the ray of hope and peace never fade from the lives of humans," he murmured, bowing deeply in reverence.

He headed out, his footsteps muted against the quiet. But then he stopped at the doorway. Something stung his consciousness on the periphery.

"Huh," he whispered back over his shoulder, his face confused. "I felt this residual feeling. Maybe paranoia."

He chuckled softly and shrugged his shoulders, backing out of the room.

Behind him, the forgotten god's unlit candle suddenly flickered. A black flame leapt up casting a wisp of dark smoke that curled upwards.

It lingered only for one instant, and then flickering brightly it was defused.

The room returned to its quiet stillness, but something had shifted—something unseen, something waiting.