A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 51: “Worshipping These Mad Gods Has No Future—Better Worship Me.”

When Polika found Nilia, he was sprawled on his dorm bed like a corpse.

Fully clothed—pants, shoes, all on—likely collapsing asleep upon return.

Polika weighed priorities for two seconds.

A model student, Polika aimed for perfection in every test.

He’d consulted a senior, asking how the professor typically set essay questions.

The senior said there was no pattern.

Saint Imolai produced talents, many relentless score-chasers aiming for perfect marks.

Unlike subjects with rigid standards, the history final’s essay was highly random, tied to the grading professor’s subjectivity.

To score, you had to grasp the professor’s preferences.

Know who he admired, who he despised.

“No one does that unless they’re truly idle,” the senior said.

“But they still found the professor’s leanings.”

If it were Nilia, he’d barter here, but the senior shared freely.

“The professor’s a hardcore theologist. He trusts arcana archaeology’s theories, believing gods birthed modern arcana. Even if this land’s abandoned, we thrive under their lingering blessings.”

Polika wasn’t surprised; most arcanists agreed.

Sagteni I, near unification, was punished for extreme brutality and hubris, devastating humanity, gods departing soon after.

Before that, human conflicts were primitive, clashing with cold steel, no arcana.

Arcana historians believed arcana’s birth was divine mercy, letting ruined civilizations be parsed and continued by new humans.

So—

Nilia’s essay clearly hit the professor’s sore spot.

That was a personal taste issue.

Taste didn’t trump academic rigor.

Nilia’s writing was absurd, but the essay couldn’t justify punishment.

At most, a scolding.

Given Nilia’s state during the test, dragging him for a scolding now might kill him mid-lecture, no chance for Lady Blythe’s infirmary.

So Polika didn’t wake him.

When Nilia stirred, groggy, it was evening.

Dorm empty, he thought he’d slept little, still pre-test, Polika mad, not back.

Rubbing his stomach, he tied the amber with string, hung it around his neck, tucked it under clothes.

In his uniform jacket, Nilia headed to the canteen for food.

Along the way, people shot odd looks, whispering, unlike the usual poised elites.

Fresh off earning credits, Nilia calculated, deciding not to splurge, saving to repay Polika.

He bought cheap bread, sat to nibble, mind on that vivid dream.

It started with a red-eyed, black-haired youth.

Nilia thought, trouble—this guy’s too handsome.

Saint Imolai had no shortage of good-looking students; nobles had options.

Even if a lord was a wreck, generations of selection left no ugly offspring.

Polika Landor was a standout, earning free help from seniors.

Nilia was convinced: dreaming of such a stunning minor meant someone was using arcana to ruin him!

To shake his academic resolve!

But he couldn’t look away, even relating to seniors fawning over Polika.

The youth’s counter-kill was clean, unlike Nilia’s practice duels or town brawls.

Bluntly chilling.

Those scarlet eyes held no emotion, yet brimmed with intent.

He wanted his foe to die in pain for their folly—the only outcome he cared for, the only reason he watched.

Nilia’s dream perspective was odd, floating, sometimes seeing through the youth’s eyes.

When a tall woman appeared, he was certain.

Too beautiful, love it.

Nilia stuffed his racing heart back.

No shame in liking beauty—liking a few was fine.

He was sixteen, prime for crushes.

But why was everyone in this dream gorgeous, male and female?

Someone was out to disrupt him, ruin his history prep!

Soon, he reconsidered.

Events escalated fast.

In short, the pretty youth snapped the beautiful woman’s neck, who turned out to be a skirt-wearing man.

He called the youth Sagteni I, and Zui.

Then a likely relative arrived, kneeling fast, saying another wild name: Hikta.

Nilia blanked.

This… wasn’t sabotage.

More like he’d gone mad studying, becoming a dream chronicler, spinning bizarre tales.

The absurdity peaked when Zui kicked Hikta’s head dozens of meters.

Nilia had no thoughts on the later serious, grand history in the dream.

His mind was full of the wild, gorgeous Sagteni I and skirt-loving weirdo Hikta.

And that jaw-dropping kick.

They said Sagteni I saw all as ants, a blade-wielding lunatic against gods.

But Nilia found that kick thrilling, satisfying.

Gorgeous weirdo or not, get lost!

The dream felt endless, half-unfinished, even dreaming of taking the history test.

The questions matched his dream, still “awake,” so he recalled clearly, scribbling answers, flipping to—describe Ashurbanipal-Zui-Sagteni.

Before, Nilia would’ve agonized over the name.

Ashur-what?

Sag-what?

What-ni?

What-pal?

Zui or not?

Ridiculous name length.

But he recalled clearly: Ashurbanipal-Zui-Sagteni, Sagteni I, often called Zui.

Red-eyed, black-haired, stunning teen!

Nilia could fill objective questions with dream facts, but subjective ones stumped him.

Thinking, it’s a dream, write freely, boldly, unbound!

He penned a wild analysis of Sagteni I’s god-defiance.

After… no more dreams, finally sleeping soundly.

The dream felt like a lifetime, but only hours passed.

Ugh, still gotta study.

As Nilia mused, the classmate who bought study time approached.

Hesitant: “Nilia.”

Nilia, wary: “No refunds, no extensions!”

The classmate, eyes twitching, grabbed his shoulder.

Nilia: “Academy bans non-duel fights. In public, don’t go nuts over credits!”

The classmate burst out laughing—holding it in all along!

“You’re a genius, Nilia. You’ll leave a bold mark at Saint Imolai, your name eternal!”

Nilia: “…”

Crazy much?

…

Chu Zu watched Nilia, baffled, dragged to the academy bulletin.

The professor posted test scores, rankings, and Nilia’s shocking essay.

Nilia nearly fainted, slapping himself twice.

Painful, not a dream.

Was this sudden bliss or a flurry of misfortune?

He’d never aced a subject.

Excluding the essay’s zero, he nailed every question!

But he’d never seen dream freedom manifest in reality!!!

Pushing through admiring classmates, Nilia, more dazed than waking, returned to the dorm.

Chu Zu: “Classmates see his rapid progress, awestruck—plot says so, right?”

System: “Yes.”

“Then no issue.”

System: “…Alright.”

Progress, awe—fits King of All Kings’s plot.

Nilia’s memory was shockingly sharp, retaining all fed exam points.

System: “But the novel has you strike a deal with him first, then he improves under your guidance.”

“No deal, I’d never agree with him.”

Chu Zu said, “But contact’s needed, not just in retcons—main text too.”

“When does the tyrant’s legacy rumor spread?”

The system checked the novel.

In millions of words, side plots ran wild, many characters detailed but vanishing after a scene or two.

Suspected filler clogged the mid-to-late story.

The author’s early pacing was decent—else no one’d be hooked.

“End of this semester.”

The system said, “The back hills’ massive arcana surge not only alerted Saint Imolai, it’s about to spark chaos.”

*

Nilia felt near madness.

He asked his roommate: “Any Saint Imolai cases… studying too hard, dreaming of a course content nightly?”

Polika said plenty.

Saint Imolai bred talents, genius and madness on a thin line.

A senior, arcana rivaling professors, went near-mad, cutting sleep and meals.

Finding arcana tied to talent and objective rules, he obsessed over results.

“He went nuts, after five years of repeating, arcana misfired, wrecking half Saint Imolai, ranting about divine summons.”

“Since then, Saint Imolai banned repeats beyond three years, and cut theology courses.”

Nilia: “Sounds familiar… the genius who saved Arcana centuries of detours?”

Polika nodded: “Him, but rumors say he didn’t die, invoking the Death God’s name.”

Hearing Death God, memories hit.

Nilia felt nothing for the Death God—no awe, respect, fear—just that kicked-away head.

Worried: “I won’t be like that genius, sacrificing myself to save history centuries, right?”

Polika: “You sick?”

“I think so, but I’m scared to tell Lady Blythe. She’d break my legs, drag me to apologize to the history professor.”

“You haven’t apologized to the professor?”

“You gonna break my legs too?”

Polika stared silently, setting down his book: “You sick?”

I said I am!

Nilia slumped, sighing endlessly.

It was bedtime, Polika prepping for next day’s lessons, Nilia usually sleeping like clockwork.

But he dreaded closing his eyes.

He felt he’d half-written Sagteni Kingdom Chronicles in dreams.

Wild history.

His dream Sagteni I vastly differed from texts.

History said Sagteni I, marred by inbreeding, was ugly, volatile, with arched brows and fierce eyes.

Sagtenians loved and hated him.

If he curbed his temper, aiming ferocity outward, he’d be the finest Sagteni king.

But he didn’t, indulging until doom.

In Nilia’s dream, Sagteni I—Zui—wasn’t ugly, stunning in the palace.

Maybe sappy, but Zui’s temper and style erased looks-based praise.

Post-coronation, Zui barely governed, leaving all to Naqiya.

Naqiya wasn’t, as history claimed, a king-dependent figure.

A high court official, local governors reported to her yearly or half-yearly.

She handled what she could, escalating only unmanageable issues to court councils.

Zui appeared then.

Unlike Naqiya, he didn’t analyze or ponder, only caring if the responsible could solve it.

Can’t?

Why live?

Royal authority was supreme, military over politics in Sagteni.

Zui’s military prowess was dominant.

This solved arcana archaeology’s puzzle.

Why, when Sagteni I nearly made humanity pay for his whims, were no rebellions recorded?

What of god-worshippers?

The long-oppressed?

Zui built armies.

Massive standing and conscripted forces, war the fastest class leap for Sagtenians.

Their conquest culture, worshipping a war-and-sacrifice god, fueled it.

Zui’s heavy taxes targeted new territories.

He demanded grain, livestock, gold, soldiers, labor.

Victorious conscripts shed burdens.

Many were grateful.

No judging right or wrong—Zui was an abyss, pulling people into his ambition.

Sagteni’s pre-temple-smashing invincibility had reasons.

Nilia even felt it wasn’t divine protection.

He’d memorized Polika’s marked book backward, gaining insight.

Sagteni’s politics and military were centralized, the king supreme.

Naqiya, with political talent, strict laws, and Zui’s trust, kept order.

Zui’s armies expanded through force and brutality.

Once subjects, swept by fervor in a primal, savage setting, submission was near-inevitable.

If Nilia only dreamt this, it wasn’t wild history.

But he dreamt of Zui slaughtering Hikta, countless times.

Not dreamt countless times—slaughtered countless times.

From Zui’s head-kick, Hikta, as if enlightened, stopped changing forms, showing that beautiful face to court death.

Furious Zui showed no mercy, even hacking his bones with a bronze axe.

The palace echoed with metal smashing stone, yet Hikta laughed.

“You’re getting used to this, Zui.”

Hikta said, “But you can’t kill me. No one kills gods, even you have limits.”

Too perverse.

King chasing glory by day, resting at night, only to be pestered by an unkillable weirdo calling his name.

Nilia thought Zui’s mental state, wildly unstable, was half Hikta’s fault.

No wonder Zui’s irreverence—even Polika would spew worse than “you sick.”

Nilia’s sleep was a gamble.

Would he dream of Zui's career or his mental torment?

“Tomorrow at five, the headmaster’s statement. Mind your time,” Polika said.

Nilia, anguished, slunk to bed.

*

This retcon hit a key node.

Chu Zu snapped back, Hikta’s face filling his view.

Without thinking, he swung a slap, but Hikta grabbed his wrist.

Zui’s skin was fair; Hikta’s bloodless pale.

After last time’s neck-snapping bloodbath, Hikta seemed to dislike bloody Zui, his body blood-free since.

Hikta came to vent about colleagues.

“Katur and Yaturu fought again, upriver Nituslaibi. Nearby nations got flattened, river water flooded in, and they won’t stop.”

“Katur lost, but you won, so he’s less mad. Says he’ll join Sagteni’s sacrifice.”

Hikta wasn’t truly bothered, just posturing.

Chu Zu knew Katur, guessing the other but asking rigorously: “Who’s Yaturu?”

System: “God of wisdom and wealth, often worshipped as harvest god, patron of the nation you just crushed.”

“Katur’s war god, how’d he lose a fight?”

“Uh…”

The system, buying mythology books, analyzed if Hikta’s madness was unique or divine heredity.

It skipped Asia—Chinese myths too normal, Japanese too uniquely weird, not fitting King of All Kings.

From Iliad to Poetic Edda, Viking Sagas included.

Greek, Roman, Norse, Egyptian, Mesopotamian, Indian, Celtic, Mayan, Aztec… plenty of unhinged gods.

No cure for Hikta’s quirks, but it answered now!

System: “Troy’s war was like that. Athena and Ares, wisdom-war god versus violence-war god—Ares lost!”

“Still embarrassing.”

Chu Zu said, “And he wants my victories to save face? Am I worshipping him, or should he bow to me?”

System: “…”

Frequent retcons honed Chu Zu’s Zui, acting effortlessly.

Such brash words came naturally.

“But why’s Hikta suddenly spouting this? He’s usually pointless harassment.”

Chu Zu mused, “I never handled sacrifices—Naqiya did. When’s the latest?”

The system couldn’t check but found it in background settings.

“Tonight, host. In the main timeline, tomorrow the tyrant’s legacy breaks, so we retconned tonight.”

“Hikta’s deliberate.”

Chu Zu said calmly, “I’d think, ‘What trash is Katur, losing and daring to join my sacrifice?’ A few more words, I’m pissed, kill him, then swing by to see what Katur is.”

System: “Then you’d… clash with Katur, rage, and smash the temple!”

It fit the plot; only Hikta’s motives were unclear.

Chu Zu, composed: “Let’s see.”

He yanked his hand back, driving a dagger into Hikta’s brow, blade sinking fully, knocking Hikta back.

“Get lost.”

Chu Zu spared no glance, leaving the palace.

*

Katur Church had a palace site, but major sacrifices were at the outer temple.

Sacrifice day, the city gathered outside, circling by status.

Innermost were high priests, then priests, oracles, acolytes, guards, donors, outermost believers.

The sun set, bonfires lit the altar, clergy robes fluttering, flags with Katur’s bow and chariot—Sagteni’s emblem—soaring.

Chosen sacrificers walked to the altar, eyes ablaze with zeal.

After great victories, Sagteni I held palace feasts, Katur Church blood sacrifices.

Clergy and believers circled, the high priest slashing the sacrificer’s heart, offering blood.

With battle cries, it symbolized absolute divine loyalty.

Post-sacrifice, believers drank Katur’s blessed blood for endless strength.

Each nation had blood sacrifices, varied but divine, blessing life-rooted worship.

High priests ensured grand, devout ceremonies.

As the sacrificers reached the bonfire altar, believers bowed, praying, chanting Katur’s glory and valor.

Per custom, sacrificers spoke before their glorious ascent.

Beyond prayers like believers, one shouted before fire and heat.

“May supreme Katur bless our great King Sagteni I! Till his iron hooves tread every land, Sagteni’s glory endures!”

The high priest took a ceremonial dagger from a priest, its blade razor-sharp.

He aimed at the sacrificer’s flushed heart.

“Now—”

The high priest cleared his throat, proclaiming solemnly.

“Who needs blessing?”

A young, furious voice cut the stifling air.

From afar, a spear pierced the crowd, ruthlessly stabbing the high priest’s dagger-holding palm.

Metal clanged to the ground, silencing all.

“Who dares disrupt the sacred rite!”

The high priest, face pale and livid, glared toward the spear’s source.

The dense crowd parted, bowing, even armed guards laying weapons flat, removing helmets, necks taut.

Emerging was…

“Princess Naqiya?!”

The high priest stormed toward her.

“What are you doing? Who permitted you to defile the holy rite? Even with the king’s trust, you can’t—”

“Get lost.”

That cold, enraged voice.

Moonlight framed, bonfires burning darkness away, the figure behind Naqiya glared with eyes redder than flames.

All rebukes shattered, leaving fear and trembling.

The figure shared Naqiya’s rare red eyes, black hair darker than night.

No royal insignia, but fury and menace declared him.

Sagteni’s king, great Sagteni I.

Ashurbanipal-Zui-Sagteni.

“Forgive me, Majesty! Katur above! I meant no disrespect!!!”

The high priest knew Sagteni I cared little for gods, unlike past kings, never inquiring, temple matters handled by Naqiya.

This king had no faith, but surely wouldn’t.

Zui sneered mockingly, stepping on the spear—still piercing the priest’s palm.

Agony and the king’s demeanor nearly made him scream.

Zui’s eyes shadowed, only his gaze burning, finding it laughable, saying coldly.

“My throne is mine, my battlefield, my victory, my world, honor and all are mine alone.”

“Who—do I need blessing from?”

The high priest grasped the king’s stance—kinslayer Sagteni I, arrogant beyond measure.

Lately, he chased conquest, victories not breeding gratitude but defiance of supremacy.

He was the only one!

“All bask in divine grace… great Majesty, this invites…”

The priest, terrified, couldn’t speak clearly.

“Hmph.”

Zui stared, eyes like ants, “Who do you fear more, me or Katur’s ‘grace’?”

His voice carried through the silence.

“Fool, what faith? You just fear Katur, fear calamity, but not me, is that it?”

The priest, near madness, couldn’t answer, wishing for a swift end.

“I don’t want faith, I affirm fear. If needed, I’m the world’s devil. Fools, I permit you to choose who to fear.”

Zui glanced at the fluttering flags, his rebellion’s first follower Naqiya.

No one dared touch Katur’s bow and spear, but Naqiya did.

Following the king, amid silence, she cast Katur’s flag into the flames.

Zui’s first smile tonight, wild and unbound.

A gale rose, his black hair dancing, scarlet eyes sweeping the prostrate.

He said: “But I’ll kill every thief stealing my merits—be they anyone!”

The wind roared, toppling flagpoles, Naqiya nearly stumbling.

In the black night, a blinding sun appeared, outshining bonfires.

Against the light, a radiant figure descended on Sagteni.

None could meet its gaze, only Zui, standing firm.

Hovering, sky-blue eyes, golden hair flowing.

Matching cold, majestic gazes met.

“I see why Hikta favors you, young king.”

Golden-haired Katur spoke from above.

“Mortal, you should be honored. Katur deigns to accept a new vassal.”

“Your feeble life, mere dust, yet today, I grant mercy, offering the victories you seek, sharing my temple’s glory.”

…

“What’s this trash saying?”

Chu Zu, puzzled: “Another weirdo? The more I curse, the bolder he gets?”

The system uploaded the host’s added settings.

Seeing the Aztec-like extreme sacrifice, the host refused, scribbling lines in the setting book.

[Ashurbanipal-Zui-Sagteni swore at his first and last sacrifice.]

[He’d destroy all world faiths.]

[He’d claim all world fear.]

[He’d be the true supreme tyrant, his name eclipsing gods.]

Uploading, the system parsed Katur’s flashy words.

It checked.

“In myth and religion, vassals are god-bound subordinates or servants—this trash wants you as his lackey.”

The chick said, “He’s good at promises, talking about shared temple glory… but he’s got no temple, just shabby shrines. Don’t fall for it!”

As if the scene wasn’t lively enough, Hikta appeared in the crowd.

Tall, he stood out among trembling prostrates.

Hikta looked furious—for the first time on his face.

Chu Zu thought he was scheming, but this exceeded his plans.

Else he wouldn’t appear, radiating unprecedented deathly intent.

Looking ready to brawl Katur.

Chu Zu couldn’t let them fight.

If Sagteni got hit like upriver nations, it’d be over.

Plotting, he saw Hikta’s black mist swallowing Katur’s light.

Nearby people fainted under divine wrath.

Hikta roared: “Shut up, Katur. I didn’t permit you to propose to Zui.”

Chu Zu: “…”

Chu Zu: “…Hikta’s madness exceeds my imagination, you think?”

System: “…”

Chu Zu grabbed a longsword from a kneeling guard, weighing it.

“Time they all get lost. Grab who needs grabbing, smash what temples need smashing. Worshipping these mad gods has no future—better worship me.”