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The Mad Saint King emerged from the darkness. He had a shaggy beard, bulging eyes, and a massive frame nearing two meters in height. Even if one tried, there was not the slightest resemblance to Keter, whose features were handsome no matter how one looked at him.
Yet the Mad Saint King spread his arms wide.
“Come here. Let me give you a hug.”
There was no hostility in his words, but the malice was so strongly etched into his expression that he might as well have been called a demon king.
Keter did not approach him, and it wasn’t just because of that sinister expression.
“There’s not a single thing about us that looks alike, so why are you insisting you’re my father?”
Most would simply assume that the Mad Saint King was insane and making things up, but Keter himself was no stranger to madness. Because of that, he understood the mindset of madmen.
Kron, the Mad Saint King, was not insane. He genuinely believed Keter was his son. That was why Keter wanted to know the basis for that belief.
Kron stroked his coarse beard.
“True, you don’t resemble me…” he muttered. “But it is certain that the blood of our Yaksha tribe flows through you, and I am the last surviving Yaksha. Therefore, you are my son.”
“Yaksha tribe? What is that?”
“A guardian tribe that has fought the malevolent gods since ancient times and kept their seals intact. Look.”
Kron turned slightly and revealed five orbs floating in the darkness. Inside each fist-sized sphere were grotesque monsters carved in disturbing detail.
“Do you see their forms?”
“Yes, I see them. They’re rather small for Malignant Gods...
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