In the eyes of the people, he was almost a god; under his rule, the folk thrived, and a dying old lion roared back to life.

The nobles had their thorns, yet they knit like iron rings, becoming an unbreakable machine of state.

In such a climate, what’s the chance a king gets impeached or devoured? Like a horizon swallowed by mist, the odds collapse to zero.

Assassination? No—like a shadow that can’t cut stone. Ostos exalts thought, not the sword.

A sword snaps and wounds its wielder; thought moves like wind over water and never breaks.

Fell one Ostos, and a second rises, then a third, then wave after wave—thousands without end.

You can’t kill it all; you can’t burn it out. His name has become a sigil, branded on the continent, carved into the soul of Eunomia.

So seizing by force is a dead road, like charging a cliff with bare hands.

Even now, I can’t help it—I admire my father. Pride warms like a hearth; that will never fade.

So, by what road do I climb the throne? The question gnawed like frost for far too long.

At first, I thought if I did everything right—caring for state and people—you’d trust me, like rain trusting the river.

Those days were bitter as unripe fruit, yet I genuinely worked for the unseen commoner, to ease harm like sun parting fog.

But slowly I saw it: you’d never pass the crown to me. Even my leaked visions stirred your unease like crows scattering at thunder.

So I knew, when Elyu returns grown, the throne belongs to him, like spring claimed by swallows.

Even so, I held a shred of hope, like a lamp in wind—that you’d remember I’m your firstborn, a capable prince, and pass it to me.

It’s you. It’s Elyu. You two turned the board into this storm with your own hands.

Originally, the throne would fall to me like ripe fruit. I had a thousand gentle ways, even roads to walk together.

Too bad—you, Elyu, and Medith alike. I cherished you like treasures, tried to share the grandeur of a god’s will.

You betrayed me, and you dared to challenge a god’s thunder.

Now, it’s time for you to choose defeat and taste its bitter fruit, like biting into ash.

Force won’t do. Then—only Heaven’s Punishment remains.

Paris rose. White pupils flickered like cold moons; Elyu and Ostos met his gaze and felt awe flood up from the soul like a tide.

Those eyes… Heavenly Edge… a tsunami… my god—are you…? Ostos’s pupils blew wide, his mouth gaped, as if seeing the worst nightmare crawl from the sea.

Paris smoothed his clothes, voice calm as a blade in snow. You learned too late. I said only a true god can carry out this grand design.

Do you remember our talk not long ago—“the tale of gods,” like constellations across a dark field?

You said we stand in the perfect fourth phase, sword and canon fused, a golden age like wheat in full sun.

Let me share my thought. We must complete the fifth phase, plant Eunomia’s banner across the continent like forests, then with absolute force press all to kneel.

In that instant when wills unify like stars under one sky, true peace will arrive, calm as dawn.

You’re too old-fashioned. Know this: if a god is powerless, men will slay the god and take his place. Farewell, my dearest father and brother.

Paris spoke like thunder without explanation. He raised his right hand to the sky, face set like iron cliffs.

On the tower, a black reaper with winglike shadows hauled a Black Spear and hammered the heavens; the jet-black tip pulsed faint red, then blazed molten crimson.

One more thing. You’re my father, and Elyu is my dearest brother. If there’s another life, I’ll descend the fourth layer of the endless hells, suffer forever, and trade it for your happiness.

Paris turned without hesitation, a gust taking his cloak, and vanished with several men like swallows leaving a roof.

Elyu and Ostos couldn’t move, pinned like ten thousand nails to stone; one glance at Paris, and their limbs fell silent as winter reeds.

Godslaying Black Spear—Meteor!!

Hippo’s eyes flared a dreadful red; the lava-red spearpoint fired a pillar of magma-light that vanished beyond the river of stars.

About six minutes later, a massive meteor pressed down, air burning like oil as it fell.

So that’s it? He dresses it as a natural disaster; suspicion melts like frost, and all evidence will burn to smoke for him to rewrite.

My brilliant, ruthless brother. Elyu’s tears fell like cold rain; his heart sank to ash.

Hippo whirled the long spear, leapt from the tower like a hawk, and sprinted into the dark like wind through pines.

Ostos grew calm, a lake before storm. The meteor raced fast as lightning; in under two minutes, it would strike this not-so-large palace.

Feeling crept back into his neck, but the body stayed locked like a sealed door.

He turned toward the familiar upper hall. By the door, the familiar old butler leaned peacefully, a smile soft as autumn light. Paris had a shred of mercy; the ninety-year elder suffered little pain.

Father, I’m sorry. If I’d acted sooner, if I’d listened sooner to Medith’s doubts, this winter might’ve spared us. Elyu sobbed, breath seizing like a broken flute.

Above, that death-stone seared the air, coming close like a sun dragged down.

Ostos’s smile turned gentle as spring. His hands, by a miracle, found feeling; he held Elyu’s bowed head, soothing him like when the boy was small.

Child, it’s not your fault. We never know the end from the start; don’t use the ending to trample the road, like blaming rain for rivers.

I’ve lived well enough—married a beautiful princess like a moonlit flower; my second daughter’s power shakes mountains; my third son loves adventure, brave and romantic like a sail in storm; my fourth daughter is lovely and kind, a pure sparrow.

And my eldest? Bold enough to kill his father… ha, ha… thunder laughing over a field.

What else is there to chase for a life like mine?

Elyu lifted his head. Flame fell like a curtain, singeing his hair, yet his face held no fear—only long, sorrowing regret.

May Eunomia guide you back from the dark road, Paris. In that burning sun, Ostos saw his whole life like a film of light. The heat devoured him fast; in his last shred of will, he thought only of Penero and the future of Eunomia.

Rrrumble—boom!

At last, the meteor struck, melting and smashing the palace that stood as Eunomia’s root, turning marble to a river of fire.

Brilliant sparks and shattered stone blossomed in the night, sketching an elegy of life across the endless sky.