The path Ravi walked was invisible, intangible, and utterly impossible. It was a bridge of pure will, a temporary revision to the law of gravity, spun from the silent loom of his power. To the bustling city below, it was a day like any other. Merchants haggled, children played, and nobles schemed, all oblivious to the quiet deity strolling through the sky a thousand feet above their heads.
He moved with an unhurried grace, his bare feet treading on solidified air as if it were the most natural thing in the world. From this vantage point, Eldoria was a magnificent, sprawling tapestry. He saw the stark contrast between its two halves more clearly than ever. The upper city was a symphony of gold and white marble, of manicured gardens and soaring spires that seemed to arrogantly pierce the heavens. The Mire, even with its recent improvements, was a scar of brown and grey, a testament to generations of neglect.
His walk was not merely a journey from point A to point B. It was an audit.
As he passed over the Merchant's Guildhall, a place of gaudy opulence built on shrewd deals and exploited labor, his gaze swept over it. He felt the threads of greed, the echoes of a thousand unfair bargains, the silent desperation of ruined competitors. The grand golden dome of the hall flickered for a fraction of a second, its luster dimming as if tarnished by a moment of cosmic shame before returning to normal. No one inside noticed, save for a single, deeply corrupt guildmaster who suddenly felt a chill so profound he thought his heart had stopped.
He passed over the City Guard's central barracks. He felt the pockets of lingering corruption, the lazy indifference, but also the new, budding fear and respect that Captain Valerius had instilled. The scales here were slowly, clumsily, moving toward balance. His intervention was not yet required.
He passed over the Grand Cathedral of the Golden Host, the largest temple in the kingdom. It was a breathtaking structure, designed to inspire awe and reverence. But as Ravi's gaze fell upon it, he felt none. He felt only a profound hollowness. The prayers that rose from it were transactional, barters for favor and fortune. The faith within its walls was a brittle, gilded thing, a shield of piety rather than a beacon of kindness. He felt the High Priest's secret avarice, the quiet hypocrisy of the clergy. The cathedral's magnificent stained-glass windows, depicting scenes of smiling, benevolent gods, suddenly seemed like a mockery.
The world he observed was not evil. It was simply… blind. Each person, each institution, was trapped in its own narrow perspective, convinced of its own righteousness, unable to see the great, interconnected web of causality and consequence. They could not see how the Merchant's Guild's greed created the Mire's poverty, how the cathedral's indifference allowed suffering to fester, how the nobility's legalistic cruelty was a far greater sin than a poor man's theft of bread.
They needed to be shown.
As he approached the Royal Palace, the air grew thick with defensive magic. It was a multi-layered ward, a fortress of arcane energy woven by the Grand Magus himself, designed to repel demons, stop armies, and incinerate any unauthorized magical being who dared to approach. It was the most powerful defensive structure on the continent.
Ravi walked straight into it.
He did not break it. He did not overpower it. He simply… ignored it. The complex, interlocking runes and spells that made up the ward slid off his presence like water off glass. His existence was on a level that did not recognize their authority. To the ward, he was not there. He was a conceptual blind spot, a ghost in the machine.
He stepped from his invisible bridge onto the highest balcony of the King's Spire, the personal, private chambers of King Theron XI. The guards posted on the balcony, elite Royal Sentinels chosen for their unwavering loyalty and skill, did not see him. They did not hear him. He was a phantom of perception, visible only when he chose to be.
He phased through the thick, marble wall of the balcony as if it were mist, entering the King's throne room.
It was a room designed to intimidate. The ceilings were vaulted, the walls were hung with ancient battle standards, and the throne itself was a monstrous thing of carved obsidian and gold, raised on a high dais.
King Theron XI sat on his throne, not in his royal regalia, but in a simple silken robe, staring at a map of his kingdom spread on a table before him. He was alone, save for two Royal Sentinels standing like statues at the base of the dais. He looked weary, the weight of his crown and the recent unsettling events heavy on his brow.
Ravi stood in the center of the room for a full minute, a silent, invisible observer. He weighed the soul of the King. He felt the man's fear, his pride, his genuine, if weak, desire for the prosperity of his kingdom. He was not a tyrant like the Baron. He was simply a man unequal to the task before him, a king ruling a kingdom of the blind, himself included.
He decided it was time for the audience to begin.
He allowed himself to become visible.
There was no flash of light, no sudden appearance. He simply… was. One moment, the space in front of the throne was empty. The next, a boy in slum rags stood there, his presence a quiet, gravitational anomaly that instantly pulled all attention to him.
The two Royal Sentinels reacted with breathtaking speed. Their training was reflexive, absolute. They saw an intruder, a threat, standing before their king. They drew their swords—blades of enchanted, shimmering steel—in a single, fluid motion and lunged.
They never reached him.
Halfway through their charge, they froze, their bodies locked in place by a will that superseded their own. Their eyes were wide with a terror that went beyond the fear of death. It was the fear of a mouse that has just realized the floor it is standing on is actually the paw of a lion.
"W-what… are you?" one of them managed to choke out, the familiar refrain of the uninitiated.
King Theron shot to his feet, his face a mask of shock and alarm. His hand flew to a rune carved into the arm of his throne—an alarm that would summon every guard in the palace.
"I would not," Ravi's voice echoed in the room, calm and quiet, yet carrying an authority that made the King's hand freeze an inch from the rune. "Your guards cannot help you."
The King stared, his mind struggling to reconcile the sight of this ragged boy with the impossible power he was demonstrating. He looked at his two finest guards, paralyzed mid-lunge, their faces contorted in terror.
"You are the Slum God," the King breathed, the pieces falling into place.
"I have been called that," Ravi acknowledged.
"How did you get past my wards? Past my sentinels?"
"The walls of your prison are strong," Ravi said, his gaze sweeping the room. "But they are of no consequence to one who was never imprisoned."
The King, a man used to being in absolute command, found himself utterly powerless. He was not facing an assassin or a rival monarch. He was facing a fundamental truth he had spent his life ignoring. He slowly lowered himself back onto his throne, not as a king, but as a man preparing to hear his sentence.
"What do you want?" the King asked, his voice a hoarse whisper. "My wealth? My life? My kingdom?"
"I want none of those things," Ravi said, taking a step closer. The two frozen guards remained locked in place, statues of failed aggression. "I have come to discuss a flaw in your kingdom's design."
He looked the King directly in the eye, and Theron felt as if his very soul was being laid bare, weighed, and measured.
"I have come to talk to you about the law."