Head, I need an answer.

Bell stormed into the Chamber of Thought. She drove a fist into a pillar. Boom—the stone rang, and ripples spread like rings on dark water.

I’ve given you all I can give.

As in the last ten millennia, Head sat high upon the throne. His hair held an unnameable sheen, a color beyond speech. It drifted back, spilling into the great light behind him like a slow tide.

His face shone. His eyes stayed closed—thinking, or sleeping—yet his words struck like bronze.

What else can’t you give? Wouldn’t it be better to explain?

Anger first, then the stomp. Bell’s heel bit into the floor. The Chamber, woven from pure order, began to break like matter. She hadn’t used any authority; her fury simply threaded “force” into the room, turning thought into weight and stress.

She didn’t need breath, yet she drew one deep and let it go slow. She knew anger was useless before an all-knowing immortal.

You know about the Sons of the Demon King invading.

I know all things. You know that.

Then why not stop their cruelty? We swore before the Creator’s corpse that we’d guard his child forever. Don’t you hear mortals cry? They pray and weep to us, and that damned Primordial Accord shackles our hands. Doesn’t it hurt, Head?

The Chamber, fed with the notion of force, cracked under the bearer’s wrath. The vast palace rumbled. Star-spirits’ carvings, cut over millions of years, sprouted fine fractures like frost.

Bell, stop. Will you shatter the starry vault we guard?

Sorry. I pushed too far. Her hand covered her mouth; her knotted brow smoothed. But I’m still furious. As you’ve said, the Primordial Accord exists to protect the world’s continuance—I accept that. As you’ve said, “keep the pact and accept its penalties,” and the Divine Being who descended to slay the Demon King was punished—I accept that.

You know I’m never wrong.

Right. I’m not good at thinking, not compared to you. So I want one answer. One reply. One explanation.

Calm finally took her. Her irises, tinged with impossible hues, became still as a quiet lake.

These twenty-four Sons of the Demon King don’t fall under the Primordial Accord, right?

Right.

They used illegal means to invade. Never before have so many descended together. Some Son whipped up this damned plan on a whim, right?

Slightly off, but broadly correct.

If they’re outside the Accord, then we’re no longer bound. We don’t need to obey that trash clause—“Divine Beings and the Demon King don’t contend in the mortal realm; let the Sons and mortals decide their fate”—right?

That’s right.

Then why not let us descend and wipe out those filthy—

Bell!

Head finally opened his eyes. The light inside them held endless greatness; truth and secrets shimmered there like constellations. No one could bear that weight of thought. Even the God of Strength, Bell, had to look away.

His voice wasn’t loud; it was low and heavy, yet it shocked the halls. His anger in those words reached the other Twelve High Seats.

You may call them Demonfolk. But do not slur them. Do not forget the heroes of old.

I admit that. But their offspring aren’t as great as the first generation—

If not for us, for the world, their children would have been pure as we are—bright and good, without stain.

But they’ve fallen! Fallen into our opposite, into the shape they once despised most!

Behind Bell, the great light grew wild and flared. A holder’s surging wrath changed the room like weather.

They haven’t. The oldest heroes still keep their oath. The newborns are simply born leaning toward evil. Their free will’s path is beyond reproach.

The light on Head’s face grew fiercer. It flickered and swayed, showing the ruler’s suppressed fire.

Bell, I accuse you. Apologize to them.

I didn’t—fine, fine. I, God of Strength Bell, apologize to the Demonfolk. I shouldn’t have spat filth. I admit my fault.

But, Head, you should give me the answer I want.

Silence answered for a moment.

You know I’m all-knowing.

So you can dispel my doubt, but you just won’t.

Because I know all, I refuse to deceive you.

So you’d rather stay silent and let the other High Seats grow more resentful?

Head lowered his eyelids and sighed, a soft wind inside a vast hall.

If I could, I’d share what I foresee with you, my brothers, my kin—

The future.

Bell, you don’t know what your deeds will do later. Mortals say the world is fickle. Since we were born to guard the mortal realm, time binds us too. We are no longer concepts beyond time and space. We think. We weigh. We can do more—and we can’t do more.

At least now, only Tim and I can foresee the future.

We’ve grown closer to mortals in how we exist and think. So we can strike the mortal world harder, yet accept more fetters. Ask him. I believe you’ll get a better answer.

As the all-knowing and a seer, I plan everything. For millions of years, this is how we’ve lived.

Some things I cannot say. A move that looks favorable now may later twist into harm. Good intent can do evil. You don’t know. I do.

So you won’t explain because our thoughts could bend the future’s path?

Not fear—knowledge. If I explain, the cost will grow. Know this: the path I don’t choose is never the best future.

Bell may govern strength, but she isn’t just muscle. As one of the oldest Divine Beings, she thinks more than most.

But before, you’d explain. At least sketch the causes and effects.

As you see—breaking the Primordial Accord, forcing open the gate between the mortal realm and the Demon Realm—does this look like a normal Demonfolk invasion?

I do have doubts. The Sons of the Demon King shouldn’t be this strong. Which is why we should descend fast, stop greater ruin.

Normally, yes. They broke the pact and they’re too strong. But this invasion will begin a transformation. Even for us, it could crack the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom.

…Don’t understand.

You’re all-knowing in strength. You can see the world’s rules tilt. But you see only where your gaze falls. I see the age to come.

Silence fell again, like snow muffling a city.

You don’t lie.

I can swear.

And I know you’re hiding something—not because we’re short-sighted.

…Yes, I admit it. After this, some of you will resent me. When it’s over, if you judge me unfit to lead, fine. If I owe you, I’ll repay with my life. But this is too important. We must move according to my plan.

…So important? Enough to make you give up immortality and duty?

You suspect I’d forsake my oath? Your phrasing makes sense. I can explain that. I believe what we gain will outweigh the loss of a Wisdom God.

Makes me suspect you aim to erase the Ocean of Darkness. Only a deed like that matches your sacrifice.

You know—where there is light, there must be dark. Where there is a lamp, there must be shadow. We can’t, and mustn’t.

I know. That’s why I’m more puzzled.

…

I’ve never doubted you’ll keep your oath, my kin. But don’t gamble with my trust. I need you to swear to Appoint.

Of course. I, Wisdom God Haydon, swear to the Creator. I swear to Appoint. I swear to the Sea of Light and the mortals I shelter. My vow to guard the mortal realm will go beyond forever. For it, I will commit wrongs and speak falsehoods, yet without regret or shame. All I do is for what I guard—the Creator’s child. Now, will you trust me?

Bell nodded, grave yet relieved, and turned to go.

I do. That’s enough. I’ll prepare as you direct. As before, I’ll follow your lead.

Think—how many tens of millennia have we lived this way?

Can’t remember. A very long time.

You’ve always trusted me?

Yes. I said it when I came in. I trust you. I just needed an answer.

Then—Head watched Bell’s retreating back, his face bright as a mask of dawn, unreadable—even if my leadership sends you to die, will you still trust me?

Bell turned. After a breath, she faced forward again and walked toward the door.

I will. I believe you’ve weighed it. You can bring us a peace greater than any Primordial Deity can buy.

Her words hit the floor like iron.

Afterward, the Chamber of Thought settled with the fading footfalls. Head closed his eyes once more. He slept again—or he saw again.