Cameraman Never Dies-Chapter 262: A Brief History of Gods Who Don’t Give a Damn

Judge, who was apparently the main character only when the universe remembered he existed, had absolutely no shortage of surprises. Today's surprise was big enough to tear a hole through his worldview and possibly the floorboards.

His amnesiac spirit, Solarae — tiny, shimmering, floaty Solarae — had mostly recovered his memories.

And the jaw-dropping part?

Solarae was actually a god.

A god of truth, no less.

Judge stared at him, slack-jawed. This would've been embarrassing if his soul weren't screaming in the background.

"And this guy called me master…?" he muttered with the energy of someone whose brain was actively packing its bags.

The spirit — no, Veritas — sat on Judge's shoulder with the posture of someone trying to look dignified despite having spent weeks napping inside Judge's hood. His tiny golden tail flicked with the air of an elder deity contemplating the collapse of existence and also regretting his life choices.

Veritas finally turned to him with that serene, all-knowing expression that made Judge want to throw a pillow at him.

"I suppose," Veritas began, "you deserve an explanation."

Which was a generous way of saying, "Sit down before you disintegrate from stupidity."

Judge sat mentally, since he was already resting on his grand throne.

He could have sworn that the chair creaked in a way that suggested even furniture knew something horrifying was about to be said.

Veritas continued, "Long before you were born — long before the empire was born — mortals lived under the Twelve. And the Twelve…" He paused, choosing his words with the delicacy of someone describing ancient trauma using children's picture books. "Let's just say they were not the nurturing type."

Judge blinked. "Like… evil?"

"No. Worse." Veritas sighed. "Indifferent."

That landed heavier than evil ever could. Judge imagined a cosmic customer-service desk staffed entirely by grand-scale existential concepts who didn't acknowledge mortals even when they screamed directly into their faces.

"The gods maintained the world the way a waterfall maintains water," Veritas explained. "They didn't do it out of love. They did it because that was simply how it functioned. Mortals prayed to them, begged them, worshipped them…" He flicked his tail dismissively. "The gods never heard a word. Truthfully, they didn't care enough to hear."

Judge winced. "Didn't that… ruin everyone's lives?"

"It did," Veritas said bluntly. "Mortals starved. Mortals cried. Mortals broke. They reproduced endlessly, but their civilization crumbled from the very start because they placed hope in beings who couldn't even comprehend the concept of helping."

An imaginary chill ran down Judge's spine, as if he was trying to give Veritas some face. The god of truth had a good knack for storytelling, but this felt like a children's story.

The world he knew before wasn't paradise either, but imagining one ruled by cosmic absentee landlords made him want to hug the nearest tree and apologize for complaining about rain.

Veritas lowered his gaze. "Eventually, someone decided that wasn't acceptable."

"Who?"

"The Princeps."

This time, a real chill ran down his spine. Was this the same princeps that Tenebris was talking about? Probably, yes.

Back then, Veritas explained, he was the sovereign of all dragons, the apex monarch whose presence was so intense the world had trouble pretending it wasn't paying attention. He saw mortals suffering under the gods' neglect and made a choice no sane being should ever consider: he challenged the foundations of reality.

"It began with the Law of Enactment," Veritas said, voice dropping. "A forbidden principle capable of making concepts real. Most beings used it to create small things, illusions, tools… nothing dangerous. The Princeps used it to create us."

Judge listened intently, now more curious than a child with a new toy.

"Sealers," Veritas said softly. "Beings built to counter the divine laws themselves."

"So," Judge felt a pit open under him. "You're telling me that this guy, the monarch of dragons or whatever... created god-killers."

"Please," Veritas scoffed. "We were much worse. Gods maintain. We end."

Judge decided not to ask exactly what category of cursed existential entity Veritas thought he belonged in.

But Veritas wasn't done.

"He tried many times before succeeding," the spirit continued. "The failed attempts became small sealers, spirits you call them — the harmless little creatures you normally summon. Incomplete concepts, half-made beings without purpose. They were… prototypes. Scraps. The drafts of a poem the world did not accept."

Judge felt personally judged for ever calling those spirits cute.

"Eventually," Veritas said, "the Princeps succeeded. Eleven of us. Each crafted to oppose a god perfectly."

"Wasn't it twelve?" Judge interrupted, but Veritas motioned him to wait.

"Later." He said, "Now, where was I? Ah, yes, we were created to oppose and erase the gods."

"But why didn't the gods stop him?" Judge asked. He was patient, so he could wait until Veritas told him why there were only eleven Sealers.

"Oh, they noticed eventually," Veritas said dryly. "They simply underestimated him. After all, what was a dragon king but another mortal who would die in a handful of centuries? They forgot dragons do not obey time the same way humans do… and the Princeps was not bound to mortal limits at all."

The way Veritas said that sent weird prickles across Judge's skin.

"So the Princeps led us," Veritas continued quietly. "He didn't order us. He didn't control us. He believed in mortals so deeply that belief reshaped his very presence. We followed because it was the truth."

Judge swallowed. "And you sealed the gods."

"Yes," Veritas said. "All except one. That last one… the Princeps dealt with personally."

Judge felt a strange tug in his chest. Something half-familiar. Something like a smell from childhood he couldn't quite remember.

Veritas went eerily still.

"And that," he said, "is where you enter this story."

Judge pointed at himself. "Me? Why me? I wasn't even born yet!"

"No," Veritas murmured, "but your presence… it resonates with his."

Judge blinked. "Whose?" 𝚏𝕣𝕖𝚎𝚠𝚎𝚋𝚗𝐨𝐯𝕖𝕝.𝕔𝐨𝕞

"The Princeps."

Judge shot to his feet so fast the chair toppled over. "WHAT? How—? I mean—WHAT?"

Veritas sighed with the exhaustion of a deity who regretted every decision leading to this moment.

"When you attempted to summon a small spirit," Veritas explained, "the circle reached into the realm of incomplete creations. Normally, it would pull something tiny and harmless. But the moment I felt your presence, something inside me recognized it. The resonance was unmistakable."

Judge stared at him, frozen.

"You carry the same… pressure," Veritas said slowly. "The same signature of existence. The same spark of enactment buried in your soul. Not identical. But unmistakably related."

Judge whispered, "So I summoned you by accident?"

"You summoned me," Veritas corrected, "by terrifying the summoning circle into thinking you were the Princeps reincarnated."

Judge felt light-headed.

"And I," Veritas continued, rubbing his temples with tiny glowing paws, "forced my way through a summoning designed to call for a fluffy, winged disappointment. I tore open the barrier, burned away my memories, sacrificed portions of my power, and squeezed myself through a magical aperture smaller than my left eyebrow."

Judge imagined a divine entity headbutting a cat-flap-sized hole in reality. It was deeply offensive to the majesty of gods everywhere, but also extremely funny.

"So," Judge whispered, "you… destroyed yourself… to obey a summoning I didn't even mean to use?"

Veritas looked at him with ancient, shimmering eyes.

"I did," he admitted softly. "Because truth cannot refuse the one whose presence echoes my creator. Even in fragments."

Judge felt something warm and uncomfortable twist in his chest.

For a long moment, neither spoke.

Then Veritas added, "Also, you were screaming at the circle like a panicked squirrel, and I didn't trust you not to explode."

Judge inhaled sharply. "HEY!"

Veritas flicked his tail. "Truth hurts."

Judge glared. "You're a terrible spirit."

"I'm not a spirit," Veritas said primly. "I'm a god who doomed himself and fell into your lap because you smell like my creator."

Judge didn't know what to do with that sentence.

And then Veritas sighed again.

"And that," he said, "is the truth you were never supposed to hear."

Judge slumped back onto the overturned chair, the world spinning in directions not endorsed by medical science.

His first thought was: I want a refund from fate.

His second was: Why do I feel sorry for a god who looks like he lost a bar fight with destiny?

His third was simply:"...I need a nap. Does nobody know I am four? This is the stuff that should only happen toward my late twenties."

Veritas floated beside him, golden tail flicking as if trying to swat away unwanted emotions.

"You and me both, master," he muttered, and Judge decided to ignore the fact that the most powerful truth-entity in existence sounded like a tired roommate complaining about rent.

The world had just shifted.

Truth had just returned.

And Judge had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do with any of this. But he had a bigger fish to fry, or rather, a very angry sealer who seemed to hate the princeps, his creator.

"What is the Princep's name?" Judge asked the first question that came to his mind.

But surprises had no end for today; his jaw dropped again as he heard the name.

"Rey... Drakonis."

He slowly turned his head. "You didn't tell me why there were only eleven sealers for twelve gods."