War brings not only death, but also change.
Through war after war, generation after generation, the mages of the Ignivas family gradually mastered ever more formidable techniques of casting. Their study of the arts deepened, until at last they touched upon the very essence of magic.
But against the tundra giants, with another god at their back, they still found it hard to win.
At first they'd thought to rely on the Snake God's power, but the Snake God's long silence turned their gaze toward power itself — they even began to ponder the power of gods, to ponder how one might surpass a god.
"A god's power has its limits too, surely?"
So they thought.
If the mages' power came from the Snake God, then where did the Snake God's power come from?
And so, generation after generation, the mages threw themselves body and soul into their research. The deeper they dug, the more questions they had — yet their hunger for power kept them tirelessly searching on.
Until the Twenty-ninth Ignivas chieftain found the answer in the deeds the old Sage King had left behind.
"The time the Snake God was communed with most was during the life of the Nineteenth Sage King — and the way the Sage King communed with the Snake God most...... was by eating together?"
The moment he realized this, the Twenty-ninth chieftain felt he suddenly understood everything.
Because the Nineteenth Sage King had held such a fixation on "not being misunderstood," the records of that generation were preserved most clearly of all — and in those conversations between the Sage King and the Snake God, the thing the Snake God brought up most often was whether one had eaten well.
Whether one had eaten well looked like an ordinary greeting.
But in the Twenty-ninth chieftain's eyes, this was the key to it all.
"Yes, that's it — those who can eat more tend to be stronger; those who can eat more have more vigor too...... the sign of a man growing old and weak is a falling appetite. Which means appetite is the foundation of everything!"
Of course, the Twenty-ninth chieftain did not leap so rashly to a conclusion; he had merely found a direction — a direction that seemed to explain everything.
But after three more chieftains had come and gone, his direction was thoroughly proven out.
Over the groping of three full chieftains, across nearly a century, the Ignivas people came to understand through practice that the Twenty-ninth chieftain's summation was perfectly correct — for while some who could eat were not necessarily great fighters, those who could fight could always, without exception, eat a great deal.
Anyone who could eat tended to grow a tall, strong frame, and a tall, strong frame brought no small fighting power, and made a man quicker of wit and sharper of mind besides.
And so the Ignivas people grasped the key to power.
"All this while we fixed our eyes on power itself, and forgot that the one who wields the power is what matters most...... which means that, by ceaselessly strengthening ourselves, we can break past our limits — even stand on a level with a god!"
These were the dying words of the Thirty-second chieftain, and like the last words of many chieftains before him, they were set down in the history of the Ignivas family.
And after that, the Ignivas family began their practice anew.
Strengthen yourself without cease, and there was hope of breaking past every limit, of standing level with a god — and the method of strengthening oneself, the forebears had already worked out: it was to eat. Eat without cease, digest without cease, and the nutrients eaten would all turn into power of one's own.
Eat without cease, and one could gain power enough to rival a god.
So, at least, the Ignivas family believed.
Three more generations of chieftains passed, and the Ignivas family's mastery of this technique grew ever more refined; how much more one could eat had even gradually become the measure of strength — if all you could put away was one man's portion of food, then all you could hurl was a fist-sized fireball.
But if you could, without batting an eye, put away ten men's portions, even a hundred, then you could fling out a sheet of fire-waves with a casual gesture, and with a single clap of your palms burn a whole forest to ash.
"But...... does this really count as standing level with a god?"
On this point the Ignivas family still could not be sure.
Even now that they possessed power that could be called devastating, the Ignivas family still couldn't be sure whether it truly rose to the level of a god — for to truly be called the equal of a god, one had at the very least to do battle with a god.
But where to find a god to battle?
Go to the northern tundra and seek out the god the giants revered? It sounded feasible, but the thing was far too dangerous — to say nothing of the masters among the giants, the god hidden behind the giants alone was not necessarily one they could beat.
Even among gods there are higher and lower, and the god the tundra giants revered was plainly the stronger sort.
Having only just gained their power, they had best choose a relatively weaker god first.
And as it happened, a relatively weaker god dwelt, just now, near Ignis City.
That was the Snake God they had once revered.
Their devotion to the Snake God might have lived on in ages past, but as the mages' study of power deepened, they had long since lost that old reverence.
The men of today fixed themselves on power itself, on the surging might that came from devouring without cease.
"Eating ordinary beasts alone has made us this strong.
"What, then, if we devoured a god?"
This was the very thing the three Ignivas chieftains before had pursued.
And it was, likewise, the task that the present Ignivas chieftain — the Thirty-sixth, the one styled the Nascent Dawn, David Day — had to see through.
The ancient Snake God had awakened in his generation; so it fell to him to lead the mages in hunting a god.
And then, to devour it.
"This chance at godhood, I will not keep for myself alone."
Gazing off at the distant sacred mountain, the burly man, fully two men tall, raised a great bowl brimming with honey-syrup before the assembled mages.
Syrup made from honey was the most energy-dense food known; the Nineteenth Sage King's matchless wisdom, so they said, came of his frequent consumption of honey.
And now this sweet honey had become the mages' finest food for replenishing their strength before battle, a thing only high-tier mages were fit to enjoy — an ordinary mage hadn't even the right to take a sniff of it.
And just now, before every last mage sat a stone bowl brimming full with honey.
Which meant every one of them was a high-tier mage commanding fearsome power, able with a single clap of the palms to burn all before them to cinders — one had only to look at their tall, strapping frames to know it, frames so broadened by their vast eating that not even their hide cloaks could hide the bulk.
But what drew the eye most of all were their still broader bellies. Those high-swollen paunches were the very proof of their standing as the strong.