Starting Out As The God of Beasts

One by one, the heads of the noble houses ascended the marble steps of Saint Jarden’s Cathedral.

Inside the quiet sanctuary of the Apostle’s outer chamber, parchment scrolls were laid down onto the mahogany desk.

Ninety names in total—six from the great Duchies, twelve from the Counties, twenty-four from the Viscounties, and forty-eight from the humble Baronies.

Each patriarch and matriarch held their breath as they submitted their bloodline’s chosen child, their hearts burning with desperate prayer that the first sovereign of Varania would carry their name.

It was common knowledge under the newly drafted constitution that whichever candidate was chosen would be legally forced to sever all familial and political ties with his house upon taking the throne.

The royal house would stand entirely independent.

Yet, the sheer prestige of having one’s bloodline sire the supreme ruler of the kingdom was an honor every noble house craved with near-fanatical desire.

As the sun began its descent toward the horizon, painting the desert sky in shades of deep crimson and purple, a heavy bronze bell rang out from the highest spire of the Cathedral.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Through the shadowy networks of Mandraxx, sealed letters were delivered simultaneously across every noble estate in the capital.

The instruction was absolute: assemble the ninety candidates before the steps of the Cathedral immediately.

The noble houses moved with frantic, disciplined haste.

Before the eyes of the gathered crowds, the ninety candidates stepped out.

Following Roy’s strict divine instructions, every candidate was clad in identical, unadorned white linen robes—symbolizing purity and the complete shedding of their former rank.

Over their heads, heavy black cloth masks concealed their facial features, rendering a humble Baron’s son entirely indistinguishable from the proud heir of a Duchy.

Under the vigilant guard of the Inquisition, the candidates began their ceremonial parade through the broad, stone-paved avenues of the Holy City.

The streets were packed to absolute bursting. Hundreds and thousands of beastmen having traveled from the farthest reaches of the six Duchies—lined the roads, cheering and holding up lanterns as the silent, white-robed figures marched past.

The parade was a living declaration to the populace: Look upon them, for among these ninety masked shadows walks the future King of Varania.

In the Holy City, order was absolute.

While the Police Department held sway over civil matters across the rest of the kingdom, within the capital walls, the Inquisition Department reigned supreme.

Armed inquisitors in dark armor stood at every intersection, their sharp eyes scanning the crowds.

No one dared push, shout blasphemies, or break rank, fully aware that a single infraction would result in immediate arrest and summary prosecution.

High above the roaring crowds, standing atop the grand balcony of his private tower, Roy looked down upon the massive spectacle with a calm, subtle smile.

Back on Earth, Roy had been nothing more than an ordinary, weak, and selfish young man—struggling through mundane existence, bound by societal rules he had no power to change.

But here, within this realm, he was an absolute entity.

He was an Apostle, a cosmic architect steering the destinies of millions, building an empire from the sand, and walking the undisputed path toward becoming a True God.

Watching thousands of powerful mortals dance to the tune of his mandates gave him a profound, intoxicating sense of satisfaction.

His golden-crimson flecked eyes swept over the procession below.

Among the ninety masked candidates, the six representatives from the Duchies were naturally the favorite picks among the populace:

Manuel of Ryodor, Narano of Pjador, Jaret of Fenrir, Jamal of Etho, Heto of Mydar, and Jurie of May.

They walked with an innate, subconscious elegance born of privilege.

Yet, Roy’s internal calculations were far more cynical.

If I pick a candidate from one of the six Duchies, Roy reasoned in silence, that Duchy will inevitably gain an overwhelming, unbalanced advantage over the others.

Political favoritism would rot the council from within.

Roy had already decided: when the seventh day arrived, he would select a candidate from a humble Barony.

Someone with no massive faction backing them, a king who would owe his absolute, unwavering existence solely to the God of Beasts and the Apostle.

For now, however, he needed to observe.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The deep, booming tone of the second bell echoed across the city, signaling the arrival of dusk.

The grand, iron-reinforced doors of the Cathedral swung open with a heavy groan.

One after another, the ninety candidates filed up the stone steps and crossed the threshold into the high sanctuary.

BOOM!

The massive doors slammed shut behind them, the sound ringing out like a final judgment.

Instantly, squad commanders from the Inquisition moved forward, placing heavy, rune-engraved divine seals across the keyholes.

The crowds outside slowly began to disperse into the quiet evening.

For the next seven days, no one would enter, and no one would leave.

High above, a faint, mystical distortion rippled around Roy’s frame.

His body compressed, shifting seamlessly into a tiny, golden-winged sun-fly.

Hovering silently through the night air, he buzzed up toward the high stained-glass windows of the Cathedral, slipping through a narrow gap in the stone frame to perch high upon a dark wooden rafter inside the ceiling.

Below him, the ninety candidates gathered in the central aisle of the silent sanctuary.

One by one, they reached up and pulled off their black masks, taking their first long breaths of the incense-scented air.

For the first time, they looked upon their fellow competitors.

Immediately, the psychological hierarchy of the room began to fracture.

Manuel Ryodor, the eldest son of Grand Chancellor Manuses, brushed his fine robes down and adjusted his posture.

His sharp eyes scanned the crowd with a heavy, visible condescension.

Walking forward with measured, arrogant steps, Manuel offered polite, practiced bows exclusively to the candidates of the other five Duchies—Heto, Narano, Jaret, Jamal, and Jurie.

He did not offer a single glance to the county candidates, and he completely turned his back on the sons of the Viscounties and Baronies, treating them as if they were mere background dust in his hall.

High up on the rafter, the tiny sun-fly’s golden crimson eyes flickered.

Roy shook his head in deep, silent disappointment.

’Prideful, blind, and obsessed with status,’ Roy thought, dismissing the young noble instantly.

’That child could never be king.’