In the dark hours of Coldgate's fourteenth day, he spent the reserve.
The resolution upgraded.
He hadn't asked for ceremony. The ascension process didn't negotiate. It executed. The consequence arrived while the city below ran its pre-dawn rhythm: bakers pulling first loaves, garrison changing watch, the canal traffic thin enough to hear individual oar-strokes from the warehousing district.
Three days of divine-space time. Eleven minutes of mortal time. He experienced both simultaneously. He'd been doing that since Rank 6. It had stopped feeling strange at Rank 7. It had never stopped feeling like a thing he should notice.
The process resolved.
Rank 9. Upper God. Apex.
Domain chest: available.
Three options, drawn from the available pool, weighted by rank, irreversible on selection. He'd made this choice seven times before. The weight hadn't diminished.
