From time marks etched like frost rings in ancient tomes, and the stray notes in their margins, one thing is clear: the Abyss didn’t crumble at once.

It even drove the Celestial God back for a spell, like a storm shoved off by a cliff of stone.

No record says the Celestial God grew weak, no whisper of a waning light.

So the Celestial God didn’t sink into a long slump to digest the Netherworld’s power, like a serpent hibernating after a feast.

If there was a lull, it was brief, a winter that passed before the ice could bite.

In short, after thousands of years of resistance, the Abyss only then began to falter, like iron worn thin by endless waves.

And it wasn’t because the Abyss couldn’t beat the Celestial God head‑on, not a sword dulling mid‑fight.

Angels revived in mere months, like sparks rekindled in dry tinder, while a Fiend that could match a full‑grown Angel couldn’t be revived by the Abyss on demand.

The balance swung like a seesaw, gains and losses trading places, and the Abyss slid into the windward side.

As for the final defeat, records turn to mist; among countless versions, the most credible says the Celestial God gathered the power of countless Angels and, in a single misstep when the Abyss engaged her, sealed the Abyss inside the “Abyss” itself, like a name becoming its own prison.

The Celestial God won that war, then found the long river of time bland, like water gone flat.

She plucked traits from Angels like features from a gallery and founded countless races across the universe, scattered like constellations on dark velvet.

Then, using our planet as a root, she forged a special world, the Celestial Realm, a terrace above the sky.

Those she acknowledged, or those of great merit, would be drawn after death into the Celestial Realm and become new Angels, like fireflies lifted into a broader night.

She began to teach the races, and let Angels gift each people the spark of civilization, a first flame in cold wood.

From then on, the world wasn’t plain, like ink spilling into color.

But the Celestial God seemed to spend herself, power poured out like rainfall, and at last she slept in the Celestial Realm, keeping the world running in quiet, like a heart ticking in the dark.

What she maintained was the simplest framework—rules and bounds—like lattice and beam.

She never shackled the races’ deeds, not a hand on the reins.

The not‑divine races remained mortal, leaves under weather.

When their Angels finished their tasks and returned to the Celestial Realm, the races began to war, smoke rising like winter breath.

The whole universe rocked, like a ship in black water.

No one can verify who stopped the fighting; the record cuts off like a blade at the hilt.

It was as if a critical point was reached, a cusp snapped, and the flames vanished like sparks drowned by rain.

Afterward, only a handful of races remained, fingers on one hand.

They came to the foundation of the Celestial Realm, which is the world we stand in now, a rootstone beneath the sky.

They pitched their camps here, fires in a new night.

In one generation of humans, a great sage appeared, a mind like a polished mirror.

By his own magic alone he communed with the Celestial Realm, a lone bell ringing into heaven, and Angels descended to help him teach humanity, a reward like dew on the leaf.

Thus the Holy Court Church was born, a house of light in rolling fog.

Most later records are Church chronicles, ink under watchful lamps.

The Abyss woke once, carved off a tenth of this world like a slice from a glacier, folded it into its own domain, and laid countless energy barriers like nets of crystal.

That land was sealed away from this world, a door shut with iron bars, and the Abyss, power overdrawn, fell asleep again, a volcano going dark.

Countless years later, the Demon Race was born, a shadow rising like smoke from fissures.

The great races staggered into peril; many chose the Demon Race, like reeds bent toward a stronger current.

Then the Hero appeared, a lone blade under stormclouds.

After that, it’s the part we all know, a path already walked.

Manstein sat across from Birand, lifted his teacup, and wet his throat, steam curling like ghosts.

Thought still gleamed in his eyes, a lantern behind paper.

Birand didn’t interrupt; he just waited, still as a rock under snow, for Manstein’s next words.

After a long silence, Manstein raised his head, met Birand’s gaze, and said, flat as a gong tapped once, “That’s it.”

Birand: “…You asshole. You think you can jerk me around?”

“Come on, why would I mess with you?” Manstein rolled his eyes like tossed marbles. “I told the story up to now. What else you want, the future? You brain‑dead?”

Birand arched a brow, a blade’s edge. “Man, you still haven’t said how we actually take down the Celestial God.”

“Huh? I didn’t?” Manstein blinked, a bird startled mid‑flight.

“No crap. If you had, I’d be gone already. You think I stopped to hear a history lecture for fun?” Birand slammed the table, the wood thudding like a drum. “I’m not here killing time.”

“Try to be civil,” Manstein said, sipping tea like rain. “Look at you, acting like a moron.”

“Oh? You want to die?”

“Hey… I’m joking.”

“Then get to the point.” Birand glared, heat behind ice.

Manstein thought a moment, eyes narrowing like shuttered windows. “In short, I found these prehistoric ruins, so I also hold weapons the Abyss used against the Celestial God, blades forged for gods.”

“Know this: Angel and Fiend birth cycles aren’t a simple one‑to‑two or one‑to‑three. In every way it’s a steamroller,” Manstein said, voice low as night. “That the Abyss resisted for thousands of years means these tools were no trifles.”

“But the Abyss still lost,” Birand cut in, cool as a lake. “You can’t be sure the Celestial God didn’t crack them already. And you can’t say a weapon built to fend off ordinary Angels can kill the Celestial God, a mountain not a hill.”

“In other words, you old bastard still haven’t hit the point.”

“Tsk. What’s the rush?” Manstein clicked his tongue, a pebble on tile.

“Keep dragging this and you’re padding word count. Careful someone smacks you.”

“Alright… fine.”

“In short, I explored many ruins tied to the Abyss and found all kinds of incredible weapons, each humming like caged thunder. Using them against Angels feels unnecessary—overkill, a hammer for a fly,” Manstein sighed, breath misting like winter.

“Oh?” Birand paused, puzzled, as if a gear missed its tooth. “Got a clear benchmark?”

“Let me put it this way. With your current power, Hero, even your strongest defense—your tightest shield—couldn’t take one shot from that thing,” Manstein said, fear flickering like a candle. “When it fires, you’re done in less than a heartbeat. Not even ash left.”

He had once recovered a Godslayer Beam that was sixty‑three percent ruined, a blade chipped but still sharp, the least damaged they had ever found.

A subordinate slipped, triggered the remnant energy, a match against dry reed.

The Paladins he’d brought formed a special collective spell, the strongest Sanctuary barrier, a wall like diamond.

It still evaporated under one shot, a snowfield under sun.

Manstein himself went down hard, grievously wounded, life hanging like a frayed thread.

If a Godslayer Beam were intact and fully charged, it could punch through the Celestial Realm, a spear through silk and stone.

Yet one thing still knotted in his mind: why did the Abyss lose, a whale sunk in shallow water?

Among all the ruins he found, there were three sets of these weapons, three thunders in a box.

By that count, the Celestial God should have fallen, a tower under quake. So what happened?

For now, he wouldn’t tell Birand, a card kept up sleeve.

“Is it really that scary?” Birand asked, doubt like cloud, but Manstein’s eyes held a slice of terror, a shadow on glass.

“I swear on my name. Absolute superweapon,” Manstein said, voice heavy as iron.

“In that case, I still have reason to work with you,” Birand smiled, a fox’s curve, light pulsing in his gaze.

“Pleasure working together.” Manstein extended his hand, a bridge across a stream.

“Pleasure… working together.” Birand shook it, grip firm as rope.

“Oh, right. Hero, about your… transmigrators. What’s your plan?” Manstein said, as if a loose thread had tugged his memory, smile like a crease.

Birand gave a cold smile, frost on stone. “I picked them from the original world for special reasons. Unwanted at home, or orphans, or plain scum. Once their use is spent, I’ll toss them. I don’t have time to send them back.”

“Heh. You’re vicious,” Manstein murmured, a soft hook. He knew Birand wasn’t speaking truth; those people weren’t the throwaways he claimed, not all dust on the floor.

“Right back at you.” Birand lifted his cup, drank slow, eyes on Manstein like a cat on a window.

In the snowlands, no breath of life stirred, a silence deep as buried bone.

Under the high canopy of sky, silver peaks shone blue, glaciers like glass laid with velvet sheen.

The mountains rose and speared the display‑case heavens, majestic like altars cut from ice.

Each giant capped in white stood holy, like priests robed for winter rites.

Then a jarring voice cracked the picture, a pebble through pane. “Damn! That avalanche moved way too freaking fast. Where the hell did it spit me out?” Eli lay half‑buried in drifted snow, a man swallowed by a cotton sea.

Only half his body showed, like a groundhog poking up from the earth, eyes skittering for bearings.

He wriggled free and stood atop the crust, brushed off the white like flour from a coat, and stared dumbly at the strange scene, a stranger at a foreign gate.

He looked up. The sky seemed veiled by a thick curtain, a theater closed, and the stars were gone, lights snuffed like candles.

His signal was gone too, a kite cut loose.

He rubbed his chin, thought like flint sparking. “Did I… fall into some kind of special world?”

Compared to the others, Eli was truly unlucky, a dice that always lands crooked.