It's the First Time the Secret Book Looks This Surprised
It was the first time the Secret Book had shown such a shocked expression.
"Great One, this foolish human knew nothing and has committed a grave rudeness."
The Secret Book, which always equipped arrogance like an essential item, was groveling like this. Well, its opponent was a god. And at a glance, it seemed to be of an extraordinarily high rank. But now wasn't the time to quibble over such things. If he wasn't acknowledged as an apostle, the rest of his journey might as well be doomed.
The greatest power an apostle of the God of Secrets enjoyed was offering tribute to access the world's hidden truths. It was said that everything was recorded in the great Akashic Records, and the First Scribe was the one who read them aloud in exchange for a price. If that guy didn't work, everything went to hell.
[Stay out of this, you!]
At the First Scribe's shout, the Secret Book shrank back with a pathetic pop, likely from the sheer force of its power. Reduced to the size of a fly in an instant, it buzzed around shouting something, but it sounded like the hum of mosquito wings—impossible to make out.
[Did you just call me your servant? Kuhuhuhu.]
The First Scribe seemed amused. It probably was. Imagine some bug-like creature popping up one day demanding you become its slave—anyone would find it ridiculous. But on the other hand, it might spark curiosity, tempting it to play along with this lowly being's game.
Thanks to the forbidden knowledge from the golden scripture, Peleus knew the gods' temperaments well enough. When they discovered human folly, they didn't kindly correct it. Instead, they enjoyed lowering themselves to the mortals' level, pretending to play along. It was like a malicious theater. And when the act ended, they savored the humans' despair and stunned expressions.
Peleus judged that the First Scribe was indulging in that typical higher being's whimsy, so he decided to play along for now.
"That's right! Are you scared? Scared of falling to the level of servitude to a lowly human you despise!"
He said that, but deep down, he knew better than anyone that a great god like this would never truly become a human's servant over a mere bet. Think about it. Suppose you met a talking ant one day, humored its game, and ended up making a wager. If the ant turned out clever enough, you might get tricked in the moment. But would a human really become an ant's slave?
The victorious ant, drunk on its own hubris, might declare:
—You revealed your true name and swore on your very existence. That's a big deal. Yes, very important. So from now on, you're my slave.
A human would just chuckle, squash the ant with a finger, and say:
—Sorry, I just changed my name a second ago.
True names, oaths on existence—they were all just games rules invented by the gods. The gods themselves had given such wisdom to ant-like humans in the first place. They might play by the rules for a while, but they could shatter them anytime, claim it was all a lie, and revel in the human's dumbfounded face. Utterly irrational higher beings. That was gods for you.
[Kuhuhuhu! What a bold little pest. Now I see why Harpocrates appointed you as his apostle.]
Suddenly, the First Scribe laughed heartily in a magnanimous tone, praising him. The fly-sized Secret Book buzzed even more frantically around them, desperate to say something but drowned out by its own whining hum. No need to worry, Peleus thought. He knew full well this was all a ploy to lure him into the abyss—feigning admiration for his audacity while inwardly sneering with cold detachment.
[Perhaps you might actually pull it off. Very well, if you do, I'll gladly become your servant.]
The First Scribe's mouth spewed lies effortlessly. Agreeing here would mean dancing in the palm of this cunning god's hand. But Peleus had the forbidden knowledge permitted by the God of Secrets.
"A deal's a deal? You'll accept the bet."
[Of course. Gods do not lie.]
Whoa, today's wisdom bomb was a real zinger. He nearly burst out laughing aloud. Gods do not lie... As far as he knew, the gods were the ones who treated lies like their best friends.
He didn't trust such flippable promises. Why? Not because of some useless trivia from magic tomes, but because he knew the real way to deal a god.
"First Scribe!" Peleus bellowed.
"Keep your promise. I need solid collateral."
As if expecting this, it replied:
[Shall I use a vow of magic? Or swear on my very existence. Even a fool like you must know how binding an oath on one's existence is.]
He knew it all too well. Since primordial times, countless mages had fallen for that scam. What kind of personalities did these gods have, anyway?
"No need!"
[Hm?]
Evidently unprepared for the rejection of an existence oath, the First Scribe's eyelids lifted. Countless eyeballs peered out from beneath its moist, sagging, fleshy lids. The heavy-looking lids shifting was a sign of surprise.
"I don't need some worthless promise like that. I want the real thing!"
[Do you not know the weight of a god's word?]
"Probably weighs about as much as a feather! If that's all you've got, shut up!"
[A feather? You speak as if you know something.]
Yeah, he knew a thing or two. Peleus stepped closer to the god. The massive First Scribe's expression soured slightly—perhaps sensing ill omens.
"When dealing with gods, you use the gods' methods! Isn't that obvious?"
To bind a god to a promise, you had to use the methods gods used among themselves. Promises between humans and gods were feather-light, easily shattered unilaterally. But between gods? They were equals.
[Grrr... Strange words.]
"No use playing dumb! You didn't think I'd come as an apostle without any leverage, did you?"
At his shout, the First Scribe showed genuine agitation for the first time. Tentacles writhed unpleasantly from its snail-like bulk.
[That's knowledge forbidden to humans... Do you actually know the full procedure?]
"I do."
[...Harpocrates didn't send you back as some half-baked regressor, then.]
The First Scribe's voice held real surprise now, though it didn't hide its displeasure.
[Insolent. Utterly insolent.]
Probably annoyed it couldn't fool him easily.
[But deals between gods are for gods alone. Even if you know of it, what can a worm without qualification do?]
Its tone shifted—from excited provocation to irritated calm.
"True in principle. But you know what matters? Divinity."
Unlike human-god pacts, god-god promises held because of their divinity. Breakers lost as much divinity as they staked—unrivaled enforcement for gods.
"Gods sell family and devour children for more divinity. Staking it should suffice as collateral!"
[Uwe—urrr...]
Disbelief colored the First Scribe's voice. It hadn't expected to be cornered by the worm it despised.
"Godly deals don't hinge on being a god. It's about whether you can stake divinity. Even a mortal can join if they offer some."
Peleus pulled out Heracles' Jewel.
"On top of this, I'll stake Zeus's divinity too. Lose the bet, and I don't just lose apostleship—I hand over this jewel and Zeus's divinity. That qualifies me for a god's deal, right?"
Now the First Scribe couldn't hide its absurdity. The situation would rattle even a lofty god.
[A completely mad worm... Do you grasp what you're doing?]
"Perfectly. In simple terms, betting with borrowed money."
[Hah...]
It sighed as he nailed the situation. His divinity was originally Zeus's—using another's stake meant Zeus's wrath later.
[Do only what you can handle, fool. Not bold, just empty-headed.]
"If I lose and forfeit the divinity, I'll handle Zeus's rage."
[That's exactly what you can't handle.]
"Not a bad deal for you, though? Lure a foolish human into giving up a supreme god's divinity shard."
[Getting tangled in that would spell trouble for me too. Fleeing might evade Zeus, but it'd limit my influence here. That damn pest would come raging.]
"But worth the risk, no?"
It couldn't conceal its unease.
[You know godly nature too well... Reckless, unbelievably bold. I almost get why Harpocrates chose you.]
This time, the praise rang hollow, spat out in resignation—genuine.
"So? First Scribe, take the bet? No reason to refuse. Near-impossible odds mean I'll fail, you get the divinity shard, done."
Sensing the blatant bait, it bristled.
[You...!]
"Didn't you try the same? Stoking my anger, preying on pride."
[Annoying, perceptive pest. You noticed, huh.]
"Doesn't matter. Enough chit-chat. In or out? Loser loses big. Cowards need not apply."
With the bet unflipable at whim, the great god faltered. As it pondered, Peleus sneered.
"Scared? Of becoming a human's servant? Chicken out, admit I'm Harpocrates's apostle."
He spoke mockingly but was certain it'd bite. Great beings had egos to match.
"If you're scared, just accept tribute, answer my questions, and scram. Fulfill Harpocrates's command. I'll handle earthside."
[Insolent wretch! Your arrogance is intolerable!]
The First Scribe, who hadn't even gotten mad at a worm before, bellowed in earnest. Its filthy, slimy maw spat sincere fury.
[Fine! Your downfall and loss of apostleship is my desire. Feel the horror of staking borrowed divinity. I accept!]
The bet was sealed.
[Not afraid of the price? Staking god-granted divinity without permission.]
"Gotta take risks. Chance to make a great one my limb."
[Incomprehensible... Humans are impossible. Charging in so recklessly.]
It had planned light amusement, but got dragged into absurdity. No backing out now.
[One year. Succeed within, and you win.]
With that, the First Scribe vanished. The oppressive darkness lifted like a lie. Unacknowledging him as apostle, it refused tribute rites. Cannibal giant Thematos could offer later, post-victory.
"You lunatic!"
With the god gone, the restored Secret Book hovered, yelling furiously. So agitated, its pages flipped open, revealing teeth and tongue-like tentacles.
"Hey, you're spitting."
"That's the issue now?! Betting with that one?!"
"What? I gain a fine servant."
It reacted with disbelief.
"You really think it's possible? What'd you see as a temple scribe?"
"I'll explain on the way. One year—tight schedule. Must fulfill the First Scribe's condition."
"Which is?"
"Acquire the Burning Nameless One's divinity. Essential to win."
That shard was guarded dearly by Python. No easy feat. But he'd met the Burning Nameless One pre-regression. If that bond mattered, he could sway Python.
If all went well, in a year, no more fleeing man-eaters. Honestly, with Atalante and the cannibal giant, aiding Prince Agamemnon felt lacking. Time to seize this power-up chance.
"Watch from now on. Everything changes."