Starting Out As The God of Beasts

A profound, cemetery-like silence blanketed the Holy City throughout the week of trial.

Outside the Cathedral, the populace went about their daily lives with bated breath, whispering in hushed tones about what transpires behind the sealed, rune-inscribed doors.

Inside, under the heavy wooden rafters where the shadows gathered, Roy’s ethereal gaze never left the ninety candidates.

The schedule inside the sanctuary was simple yet demanding: four mandatory prayer sessions each day.

Diligently, every single candidate knelt, bowing before the altar of the God of Beasts, their voices echoing through the grand hall in rhythmic supplication.

They all prayed with fervor, aware that divine eyes might be assessing their piety.

Yet, Roy cared very little for their rehearsed prayers.

What he observed with relentless scrutiny was their raw, unscripted attitude toward one another when the incense faded.

Roy had deliberately restricted the royal candidates to noble bloodlines.

In the delicate structure of empire-building, nobility possessed an inherent understanding of authority, protocol, and statecraft—foundational elements required to preserve the structural integrity of a kingdom.

Commoners, while vital as the economic and labor engine of the realm, lacked the historical grooming needed to command high-born vassals without provoking instantaneous civil rebellion.

By establishing that the crown could only sit upon a noble head, Roy secured the loyalty of the aristocracy while maintaining social order.

However, a noble birth did not automatically yield a competent ruler.

A king needed to be sharp, resilient, and inherently humble enough to serve as the divine instrument of the God of Beasts.

Over the course of the six days, Roy systematically eliminated candidates from his mental ledger.

He ruled out the six candidates from the primary Duchies first.

Elevating an heir from House Ryodor, House Pjador, or any of the other five grand houses would immediately shatter the fragile balance of power, sparking silent bitter feuds among the Dukes.

Next, his gaze shifted to the twelve candidates from the Counties.

Though many possessed impressive martial cultivation and refined political rhetoric, they carried an unmistakable aura of entitlement—they were promising, yet far too rigid.

When he evaluated the twenty-four candidates from the Viscounties, he found most barely met his baseline expectations, lacking either the mental fortitude or the strategic vision required to lead a burgeoning empire.

Finally, Roy lowered his gaze to the forty-eight candidates from the humble Baronies.

And there, amidst the lowest tier of the realm’s nobility, one figure stood out above all the rest: Allan de Frederek.

Allan was a young beastman bearing dense, striking crimson fur—a noble descendant of the small Frederek Barony, a minor house established under the jurisdiction of the Duchy of Fenrir.

They ruled over a modest, rugged strip of borderland allocated to them on the outer fringes of the realm.

The very first aspect that drew Roy’s attention was Allan’s physical bloodline.

Crimson Wolf-men were Roy’s first devout followers in this world; it was only fitting that his chosen line carry a subtle nod of favor to those who first pledged their lives to his cause.

However, it was Allan’s character that truly set him apart.

Allan possessed a timid, almost unassuming demeanor, yet beneath it lay a rugged, unbreakable core.

He was physically weak compared to the formidable Cultivators surrounding him—sons of Viscounts and Counts who boasted high-tier martial realms and actively used their oppressive spiritual pressure to intimidate the lower-born candidates.

Yet, Allan never backed down.

When the grander nobles sneered, mocked his minor origin, or deliberately crowded him out during meals, Allan did not display fear, nor did he erupt in foolish, prideful anger.

He simply stood his ground with quiet, unyielding dignity, ignoring their taunts and retreating to his solitary corner to meditate.

Roy did not rely solely on passive observation.

Through subtle, shadowy tests—manifesting subtle illusions, manipulating environmental stresses inside the sanctuary, and whispering artificial dilemmas into their dreams—Roy tested the candidates’ sanity, emotional control, and core intelligence.

Where others panicked, sought to sabotage their peers, or gave in to arrogant delusions of grandeur, Allan analyzed the situations calmly, displaying a pragmatic, exceptionally sharp mind that far surpassed Roy’s initial expectations.

The seventh day arrived.

Thousands upon thousands of citizens packed the vast plaza outside Saint Jarden’s Cathedral.

The air vibrated with electric, uncontainable anticipation.

CREAK... BOOM!

The massive, rune-sealed doors of the Cathedral sprang open.

One after another, the ninety candidates emerged from the grand dome-shaped structure, stepping out into the bright morning sun.

This time, their faces were bare, their white robes catching the gentle wind.

A deafening cheer erupted from the crowd. Clapping, shouting, and tossing flower petals into the air, the citizens applauded the young men who had endured the week of divine isolation.

From elevated balconies surrounding the plaza, the Dukes and Duchesses watched the spectacle with sharp, guarded eyes.

Even General Trojan stood by the window of the central Military Headquarters, observing the grand square through a spyglass.

Everyone understood the weight of this morning: whoever emerged as King would demand their absolute obedience, regardless of their personal cultivation realm or ancient lineage.

As the wild cheers slowly died down, a sudden, heavy pressure descended from the sky.

The clouds parted, and Roy descended smoothly in his towering, magnificent Crimson Wolf-man form.

His dark red fur caught the sunlight like polished rubies, and his gold-flecked eyes radiated an aura of quiet, divine majesty.

The plaza erupted into a second, far greater wave of thunderous applause.

The people cheered for the Apostle of the God of Beasts—the visionary who had vanquished their enemies, shattered the desert wilderness, and built the prosperous realm of Varania from the dust.

Roy landed gracefully upon the elevated marble dais before the Cathedral, raising a single clawed hand.

The vast crowd fell into instant, pin-drop silence.

"Citizens of Varania," Roy’s deep, resonant voice boomed across the entire square, echoed by localized sound runes. "The week of divine trial has concluded. The God of Beasts has looked down upon the sanctuary... and a decision has been made."

An audible gasp rippled through the front rows. Excitement flared in the eyes of the nobles, their hearts hammering against their ribs.

When the quiet settled once more, Roy turned his gaze toward the ninety candidates standing in crisp rows before him, then looked back out at the vast ocean of citizens.

"Amongst the ninety candidates present," Roy declared with unquestioned authority, "only one shall be crowned as the sovereign King of Varania.

And from among those who stood beside him in the sanctuary, the new King shall select his core cabinet ministers."

Roy held up six fingers, outlining the immediate governance structure:

"Within the central Cabinet Ministry, six supreme ministerial positions are hereby established: First, the Prime Minister; second, the Defense Minister; third, the Finance Minister; fourth, the Minister for State Affairs; fifth, the Minister of the Holy City; and sixth, the Minister for Foreign Affairs."

Roy glanced toward the crowd of commoners, his golden eyes narrowing slightly. "For the present time, all cabinet appointments shall belong strictly to noblemen to maintain administrative continuity.

However, let it be known throughout the realm: in the years to come, any commoner who achieves monumental feats of valor, intelligence, or service to the state shall earn the right to claim these high positions!"

A roaring wave of approval burst from the common folk, their eyes lighting up with fresh hope for the future.

Roy raised his hand once more, bringing absolute silence back to the grand square.

The tension reached its absolute peak.

Dukes leaned over their railings, and the candidates held their breath, many straightening their backs in desperate hope.

Roy’s golden-crimson flecked eyes swept over the front row of Duchy heirs, completely bypassing Manuel of Ryodor, before locking directly onto a young, crimson-furred figure standing quietly near the back.

"Now," Roy’s voice echoed like a solemn, divine bell across the sky of the capital, "I shall announce the first crowned King of Varania."

Roy pointed a single, clawed finger directly at the young man.

"The candidate chosen by the God of Beasts is... Allan de Frederek!"