“Since you’re that confident, do you have a way to deal with the Netherworld?” Manstein weighed the thought, then tested the name like tapping thin ice.

As expected, he felt no ripple, no cold gaze from the Netherworld brushing his skin.

A taut bowstring in his chest eased; at least Birand hadn’t lied to him yet.

“Deal with the Netherworld?” Birand murmured, his voice low like fog curling over a river at dawn.

Truth was, he didn’t know how to face those three monsters at the world’s edge; his breath tasted of iron and doubt.

Back at his peak, he’d been a hair stronger than now, a star burning brighter before the storm.

He’d held the Holy Sword then; now… to reforge it, steps lay ahead like stones across a black stream.

Last assault on the heavens, he had to fight through several celestial zones, each like a thunderhead sucking heat from his bones, before he reached the Celestial God’s hall.

Then a power nearly his equal surged in, a cliff-face to break his tide, forcing him to spend more strength.

Defeating the Celestial God’s avatar drained him again, a dry well after a long drought.

When the Celestial God herself appeared, he traded blows and felt the truth like winter in his marrow—he couldn’t match her head-on.

He chose mutual destruction, a wildfire that eats forest and fox alike.

He was saved by that other one at the last breath, yet the ledger stood: he had died twice like falling stars swallowed by night.

The Celestial God took little true hurt; her mountain didn’t crumble, only slept under snow.

He spent two lives and bought her slumber; bitter coin tossed into a bottomless lake.

Five centuries passed like sand through clenched fingers; she stirs now, wounds knitting like frost under sunrise.

What, should he spend two more lives grinding against her? The thought stung like smoke in the eyes.

Impossible, a stone thrown at the moon.

Birand’s eyes narrowed, killing intent rising like winter wind through pines.

So yes, he meant to keep stirring the heavens, yet he honestly didn’t know how to end the Celestial God for good.

Manstein’s question hit the bruise; it throbbed like thunder behind his temples.

He made a smile that didn’t reach the eyes, a blade wrapped in silk. “Then, do you have a way?”

Manstein smiled, calm as a lake at dusk. “Naturally.”

Birand’s distrust swept over Manstein like a cold tide. He pointed at the Godslayer Weapons behind him and let out a thin laugh. “Don’t tell me you plan to use those toys.”

Manstein just kept smiling, a lantern held steady in wind.

Birand shook his head, half a sigh, half a growl. “Do you even get that, to the Celestial God, those things are toys? Sandcastles before a wave.”

“If she wakes and draws on the River of Life, one flick of her hand—your toys are scrap. They’ll really be toys, broken under a heel.”

“She’s the master of all things now. I’m sure at least eighty percent of the materials you used for repairs belong to her creations. To her, anything made can be wiped clean by the River of Life.” Birand’s laugh was cold, like sleet on iron; teaming up with this man felt like courting madness.

“Hold on, my dear Hero. You said it yourself—the Celestial God can erase them with the River of Life only if they’re her creations, right?” Manstein’s smile was odd, like a mask carved from moonlight.

“You mean… you have a workaround?” Birand’s brows drew together, a shadow over a sunlit wall.

The man had prepared well; so many pieces laid out like chess under starlight. How did he even know…

“No, no. Not quite. I’ve only found a Godslayer Weapon’s framework. Even repaired, it’s just one Godslayer warship.”

“A warship?” Birand blinked, as if a gull had cried in a forest.

He’d heard a line that didn’t belong to this world, a steel taste in the mouth.

“Don’t you know, Hero? A ship about the size of my Holy Sanctuary’s main cathedral, bristling with magic launchers, powered by energy crystals—a sea-born fang. You organized naval war once, didn’t you?” Manstein sounded genuinely surprised, like finding snow in spring.

“…It’s nothing.” Birand rubbed his aching temple, a drum beat under skin.

Forget it; best not to grumble at stray terms that buzz like flies.

Back then, you couldn’t call them warships; just larger wooden sailers, a few mages, Elf Race and human archers, and some dwarven contraptions clanking like old mills.

Nothing like the steel leviathans roaring in his mind, waves breaking like glass around them.

“Please don’t interrupt. I’m explaining.” Manstein lifted a shoulder, helpless as a leaf caught in a rill.

Birand’s mouth twitched. He nodded, a short dip like a blade to its sheath.

“Back then, those Fiends made a flood of such machines, battle after battle, yet they still lost. Their Race vanished like smoke. My team analyzed the Godslayer warship’s components and updated them with modern magic. I plan to build many, very many. A full fleet might scar the heavens. I don’t really grasp this demonic miasma… so I’m studying captured Fiends, see what we can learn.”

Manstein shrugged again, palms open like a road crossing in dust.

“If you were the Demon King, our odds would rise like sails catching a fresh wind.” He sighed, a reed bending and springing back.

“The Demon King? Heh. I have a way.” Edlyn’s voice flickered through Birand’s mind like a candle behind paper; his smile cooled into steel.

“We’ll talk when the time comes.” Manstein coughed twice, dry as parchment.

“We drifted off. Back to it. In old texts I’ve studied, I found several methods to immunize against the Celestial God’s power.” Manstein’s smile held weight, like a key in a palm.

“The Fiends’ leftovers are treasures, every shard a star-stone.”

Birand nodded, understanding flowing like warm tea. “Good. Very good. With your help, this time we’ll make it.”

“I couldn’t tell at first, but you, Bishop, have rebellion brewing in your heart like thunder behind mountains.” Birand’s half-smile cut like thin wire.

“No choice. She hasn’t shown herself in the world for too long. Faith wanes like an old fire. Our Holy Sanctuary’s grip on hearts isn’t what it was. Once, outside we had the Demon Race and eight breeds that bent to their shadow; inside, we had the Celestial God’s miracles blazing. We asked, and the world gave—wind and rain on command. Now peace drags on. People stop taking us seriously.” Manstein’s laugh was cold, frost lacing a windowpane.

“Won’t be long before the Mage Towers replace us. Don’t forget—those towers thrive everywhere like mushrooms after rain.”

“For my Church’s future, I must act. I’m not the sort who bows easy. A Celestial God without mercy for the living—I don’t crave her favor. So yes, I’ll rebel by any means.” Hatred flashed in Manstein’s eyes, a spark jumping from coal.

Birand caught the tremor, like a hawk seeing a mouse under grass. He smiled. “Good. Then may our banners catch wind and our blades drink deep.”

“Hehe. You still need to recall your old comrades, Hero.” Manstein smiled, respectful like incense before an altar.

“Of course… but now, back to the first question. What must I do to defeat, even slay, the Celestial God?”

“…” Manstein held silence for a breath, heavy as snow before it falls.

Birand narrowed his eyes, night pooling in their corners. “You’ve told me how not to get erased. I know that. I have ways too. But how do I beat her?”

“Hero, sit and let me tell you a story. You’ll understand.” Manstein sighed, as if he’d set down a blade and picked up a book.

“Go on.” Birand dragged a chair, sat wide and unguarded, his stare naked as a blade laid on a table.

Manstein smiled, thought for a beat, then spoke. “From countless ancient ruins, past scholars’ notes, and myths kept by many peoples, I’ve woven and ordered a story; it’s as complete as fog will allow.”

“Mhm.” Birand nodded, looking at him askance, like a wolf listening under trees.

It’s a tale from before any species drew breath, a night before dawn across the cosmos.

The universe was still chaos then, a sea without stars, a sky without birds.

No life, not even a single star—just silence like black glass.

Then, for reasons unknown, the universe erupted, a storm of fire cracking the void.

From that storm, a mysterious being appeared, a lighthouse rising from abyss.

It knew all, could do all; it worked for ages long as mountains, shaping the world we stand in, scattering stars like seeds, then vanished like mist.

It became three streams of energy, flowing into the cosmic dark like rivers under ice.

Life rose in scattered places, like green shoots poking through ash.

After many evolutions, three beings wielded most of that power, three peaks under the same sky.

In our words, their names are the Abyss, the Celestial God, and the Netherworld.

In ultra-ancient times, I even found clear records of the three, marks carved like runes on bone.

The Celestial God seems most often called Yulia; her famous warlords march like constellations.

Later, they governed the great celestial zones, archangels by title and thunder.

Arcaniel, Angelina, Bernice, Mikaen, Dinia, Ferrero, Galiel—names like bells in a high hall.

The Abyss was called Milan Edward, a shadow with a blade’s glint.

The rest was smudged by some unknown power, ink washed by rain; we couldn’t see it.

The Netherworld was called Ghoulia, a chill in the throat when you speak it.

These should be their earliest names, roots under the soil.

Later, while exploring the unknown, the Netherworld was gravely wounded by the universe’s lingering explosion, a storm that never fully died.

The Abyss seized the chance, slaughtering his forces like wolves in winter; the Celestial God stole power from the Netherworld, deepening the wound like salt in a cut.

As the Netherworld withdrew, the Abyss found him again; the two leaders clashed, lightning meeting mountain.

No one knows the result; the page tears right there like bark under blade.

We only know the Abyss returned to the front, kept fighting the Celestial God, his banner still wet with rain.

The Netherworld never appeared again; a silence like snow over graves tells its tale.

Yet the Netherworld sought out the Hero, which proves he didn’t fully perish; he works in shadow, a hand behind the curtain.

Enemies in the dark are always the most frightening, owls that watch while you sleep.

With the Netherworld’s power in her veins, the Celestial God stood stronger than the Abyss; the later outcome was clear as sky after storm.

But…