"If you take back your strength, you won’t be any weaker than her."

The words were soft as down, yet they slid into Aphelia’s ear like a demon’s lure. Her heart lurched first; then she whipped around, fixing on the woman in white like a drawn blade finding its mark.

She searched those clear eyes—still water under moonlight—for a ripple of mockery, any seam to pry at.

But…

The woman in white met her stare, tranquil as a lake at dawn, flawless and unruffled.

“Is that true?”

“Of course it is, but—”

A slender, jade-white finger pressed to Aphelia’s lips, cool as a petal silencing breath.

“Watch it all first, learn what came before, then decide. If your heart stays the same, I’ll tell you how to take your strength back.”

Her voice fell like drifting snow, and the scene turned; reels of peril unspooled before Aphelia’s eyes.

Countless brutal battles flared like storm-fire, starring two awe-born goddesses and the people they led, fighting the Eldritch Gods across a continent waking from ruin.

On the side of Good, Brynhildr stood like pure law, guiding legions with honor and blessing—more high priestess than tyrant, and never one to trumpet herself.

For her followers, who had built their new civilization in her wake, she was already their beacon and their head.

Under her banner, a cadre of peerless knights gathered, lances like meteors, sweeping battlefields clean.

On the side called Evil, Brynhildr-2 also exalted a code of honor.

She hadn’t forgotten her oath to guard humanity, yet she was no doting mother.

Unlike the original, her honor was the jungle’s law: win it through war, prove the self by killing, whether against kin or foe.

She even raised colossal arenas in the old style; prevail among the many braves, and you won her favor, supreme rank, and a god’s blessing.

For people who lived on war, her blessing felt more like a medal pinned to the chest than raw battle strength.

Two extreme forces bred two cultures, yet they fused cleanly, because both sides bowed to the same deity—Brynhildr, who led humanity out of its darkest night.

Given time, the mortal world should have been an ever-greening scene.

Yet under the surface, currents pried at the bond between the goddesses.

As the ruthless face, Brynhildr-2 kept reaching farther, hungry to chase beyond the continent, into the star-sown void, to annihilate the Eldritch Gods that plagued mankind.

As the benevolent original, Brynhildr refused; years of blood had taught caution, and a civilization’s weight sat on her shoulders. Her sight ran far, her hand held tight: consolidate and defend.

Though they argued—storm against stone—neither ever wished to unmake the other, until the day an alien civilization fell like a star.

In the years after the Eldritch God war, their quarrel thinned in the joy of restoring order. Even split into Good and Evil, they reached fresh accord on one premise—protect humanity.

Guided by goddesses whose power and craft ran ahead of the age, humanity should have rebuilt its world and walked into splendor.

It should have been so…

In the rebuilt city of steel, a black observatory at the pinnacle stood like a giant, silent and watchful over the stars.

After the Eldritch God war, the goddesses agreed first to raise this colossal observatory.

Forged by divine power and braced by artifacts, it became humanity’s strongest weapon.

Brynhildr’s Holy Sword served as guide.

If an Eldritch God came within the planet’s reach, the Holy Lance would take the role of the spear.

Under two divine forces, it would pierce the core and shatter the foe in outer space.

Its name: Gungnir.

Borrowing the title of the legendary lance, once fired it would shine like the legend, its radiance sweeping the universe.

Both Brynhildr and her second knew a groundfall would reap ruin; it had to be stopped above the sky, or even a kill would leave only titans like them alive.

On this day, the observatory peered through Aether and caught starry light rushing toward this world.

“Goddesses, we’ve observed a suspicious body!”

The priest in ceremonial raiment dropped to one knee, reporting to the two before her.

“We sensed it too; that’s why we came.”

Brynhildr wore white robes as ever; her face was calm as frost, watching the priest, waiting for the answer.

“Yes! Aether readings say less than half an hour until it enters firing range. By Aether density, the object may be a mass no weaker than an Eldritch God. It hasn’t answered our hail. Shall we shoot at once?”

The priest slid the Aether chart to them; she was ready—one word, and she’d crush that thing in the void.

Studying the report, Brynhildr fell into thought. The incoming thing was strong—a diluted Eldritch God by Aether—yet the two of them could erase it.

But it had shown neither goodwill nor malice; if they smashed it outright, they might draw the gaze of stronger alien powers to their reborn light.

The brighter the power, the louder the beacon.

Once Gungnir fired, their revived civilization would be a bright lamp in a dark universe, drawing swarms like flies to carrion—kind and cruel alike.

“Good—spin it up. Shoot it down.”

While Brynhildr weighed the cost, her second was already smiling as she keyed in her Aether seal, arming Gungnir’s spear.

She hesitated not at all; battle-ardor rose like heat-haze as she stared at the Aether chart.

She worried less about harm to humanity than she longed for war—for one fiercer than any since the Eldritch Gods.

Her Aether seal blazed with naked edge; even the priest raised her robe to shield her eyes, unable to stare into that authorization.

It felt like Sigdrifa herself standing there; any mind that cast wicked thought toward that mark would be shredded by sword-light into dust.

“Wait, Sigdrifa. This may catch the eye of unknown civilizations…”

“Doesn’t matter~ Unless you think letting it hit ground won’t cost us a thing.”

By now the second had taken her own name—Sigdrifa. She arched a brow, her refusal to Brynhildr clear.

“But we still lack the strength—our civilization does, at least. What if we lure something stronger than the Eldritch Gods? In memories from the last age, the starfield hides many powers greater than ours…”

Brynhildr sighed at Sigdrifa’s recklessness.

Split from her own body, Sigdrifa proved that flaw had always lived in Brynhildr too; blame would be pointless.

So Brynhildr tried to lay it out; with one root, they could still meet in the middle.

“I know. The star map’s not even complete. Even so, I won’t let it into our sphere. What if it’s hostile? How can you swear what it brings is something we can easily resolve?”

Sigdrifa folded her arms, unimpressed by the sermon. Her wisdom matched the original, and as a war goddess her mind chased more angles.

“Facing an alien civilization, we have to weigh more—species, disease, culture, all kinds of invasion. For a civilization just reborn, the impact won’t be small. Power isn’t everything; there’s plenty it can’t fix.”

“Better to destroy it than let it land.”

Against her iron will, Aphelia felt herself dim a shade.

“No. I still oppose that. We can intercept it and talk before it touches ground.”

After weighing it again, Brynhildr shook her head, refusing Sigdrifa’s call. As the Good face, she couldn’t accept killing a thousand to avoid missing one.

Their gazes met, and the priest stuck between them bowed lower, heart knocking, afraid of catching the spark of divine wrath.

After a long hush, Sigdrifa sighed.

“Fine, fine. I’ll go with you and cut it off first.”

“That’s more like it.”

Seeing Sigdrifa relent, Brynhildr smiled, gentle as dawn. In a blink, they turned to streaming light and surged toward that glow in the stars.