Within the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, among the Twelve Apex Seats, inside the Hall of Authority.

“I still can’t accept Head’s decision. Why must we hold our tongues? Why can’t we descend and drive those breaching Sons of the Demon King back to the Demon Realm?”

Sun spoke in the chamber. The great light behind him bent and lashed like a storm-tossed sea, betraying the unrest in his heart.

“Because He has never erred. We’ve all seen it.”

Fiz, the God of Strength, lifted his visor and drained his cup. A waiting star-sprite stepped in and filled it to the brim.

“Just because He’s never erred makes me more uneasy. If He errs once and we can’t perceive it, the disaster would be unbearable. What are you drinking? Not Wine God Wien’s work.”

“Mm, that.”

Fiz motioned, and the star-sprite offered Sun a cup.

“A precious offering from my faithful. They had a bountiful harvest. Really it should’ve gone to Element or to Bailes, God of Balance. But—heart given is heart received.”

Sun tasted it and frowned, a sunspot on a bright face.

“Only so-so.”

“Right. We don’t need it. We have better. But it carries intention—the soul’s tether of my precious faithful. What you drink isn’t what I drink.”

“However you spin it, it can’t beat Wine God Wien.”

“Of course. Mortals have limits.”

“What are you getting at?”

“Even so, we should encourage them. They weren’t born flawless like us. They fill their gaps by learning after birth. A heart leaning toward light shouldn’t be veiled—that’s my point.”

Fiz’s tone held an edge of meaning. Sun arched a brow and pressed back.

“Sure, reward the brave as they deserve. But what mortals lack beside gods and demons isn’t bridged by effort alone. Before a chasm that vast, even a fearless bridge-builder hesitates. We aren’t here to extinguish hope.”

“New stars rise from ruins. A keen edge is forged in stone and fire. A sword truly yearning for light won’t snap so easily.”

“Not so certain. A new blade is most brittle at the first hammering. And guarding the Creator’s youngest until they can stand alone—that is our charge.”

“So I ask you, Sun.”

Fiz stood and returned his cup to the star-sprite, offering thanks.

His frame was massive, his full armor magnifying his presence. Face-to-face, he seemed two heads taller than Sun.

Mortals would feel crushed by such bulk. Gods wouldn’t.

To gods, size means nothing. Distance means nothing. They are the flesh of ideas, absolute and entire.

Neither self-abasing nor proud, they spoke like sages in discourse.

“So when will you let the children walk on their own? The Creator doesn’t want offspring we’ve trained into mouths waiting for a spoon, running to us at every snag.”

“I’ll let them move on their own. But the great currents? The calamities? Will you pin everything on the children’s uncertainty? Fiz, I’ve never belittled my duty. You know how fragile the human world is. Darkness keeps drumming at the walls. They walk a tightrope. One misstep, and it’s a plunge into the abyss.”

“The revel after victory is always brief. Most days are hard-fought—screams, raw meat, dirty blood. We never relax, and neither do the children. They fight with all they have for those they love and the world they call home.”

“I say it’s not enough. We must step in. Miracles of a Hero don’t show up every time.”

“I say it’s enough. History should—and must—be written by the children themselves.”

“Even if that means more pain and tears? Their immature choices hurting the innocent?”

“Mortals aren’t gods. Judging them by us is too harsh. They must swallow the fruit of their choices. That’s how they grow.”

Neither god yielded. The great lights behind them billowed, collided, and held, a pair of suns refusing to blink.

At length, Sun stepped back and drew in his radiance.

“I’ll concede you’re right. But tell me—do you believe the children will truly grow?”

“Everyone grows—no, everyone changes. Into shapes better fitted to the world. The children, the Demonfolk, you, and me.”

“I don’t mean a person’s growth. I mean the children as a race. Sages wither and enter Death’s realm. Can the newborn truly inherit their thought?”

“On the whole, yes. Most fair thoughts are lost to time, yet something remains. Great souls always leave something worth remembering.”

“Your ‘change’ doesn’t always lean toward light. That’s why we should intervene, nudge the scale toward what’s worth keeping. The children’s instability is old as the old age—some save the world, some long to end it. They can’t be fully trusted.”

“We’ll give oracles in hints, whisper when they’re lost, bless them when they’re hard-pressed. That’s the sum of what we should do. What has appeared, even if lost, will appear again. The children must learn to save themselves.”

“…Maybe. I can’t convince you. You can’t convince me.”

The air in the Hall of Authority unknotted for the moment. The clash paused, but both knew nothing decisive had landed.

“By the way, do you know a sect? Or a school, really. Calls itself the Truth Seekers Assembly.” Sun dropped it like idle talk.

“No. Is it important? Should I care?”

“Mm… Something about them feels off. It caught my eye. If you’ve time, take a look.”

“A sect of the fallen?”

“Doesn’t look like it, but there’s a strange resemblance. Your domain of Strength spreads wider than my Sun. I’ve been digging within my own light.”

“I’ll help.”

Sun turned toward the hall’s edge. His body shook loose more light. His human shape blurred at the seams. The great blaze behind him swelled, loftier, vaster.

He shed his bindings and became light—no, he returned to the idea that is Sun.

“What are you going to do?”

Fiz dropped back onto his divine throne, playing at disinterest.

“Save the world.”

“Listening to Head is the real saving.”

“So you’ll go tattle?”

“…No.”

“Good.”

“In three minutes, because I’m idle, I’ll relieve my sister Belle early and guard the Time Ruins. During that shift, through my mistake, my power will ripple across the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom and jolt the domains into brief disorder.”

“Then shift far from the Apex Seats. Don’t rock the Primordial order.”

“The rebel worries for us too?” Fiz teased.

“Don’t joke. My love for this world won’t lose to anyone’s.”

“Even for love and duty, a breach is a breach. At the Primordial Council, when Head proposed we handle this breaching Son of the Demon King as usual, you agreed.”

“Indeed.”

The vast light that was Sun paused and dimmed, the day clouded by a passing veil.

“To break the pact in order to keep it is still a breach. Let the glory be yours; I’ll bear the punishment. I only want to keep faith with my oath and my task.”

“Praise-worthy, and yet… forget it. You know.”

“Hey, Fiz. You said Head knows everything. Right?”

“Maybe.”

He still sounded listless. Not for lack of interest, but because Strength had shown him the ruin of the Hero Academy, and it gnawed at him.

Countless lives were snuffed the instant the ‘Slaughter’ Son of the Demon King arrived. Their souls were hauled into the Ocean of Darkness, denied rest in Death’s domain.

“Then I’ll descend and defeat that usurping Son of the Demon King. Head will know, right?”

“He will.”

“Do you think my descent is in his forecast too? Worse—part of his plan?”

“Head knows everything. He just won’t tell us. He’s likely already picked your punishment.”

“Doesn’t matter. I can’t stand that he knows and won’t say. It’ll never sit right.”

With that, Sun plunged toward the mortal world.

The Accord blocks the swarm of demons from rising into the human world. Light breeds shadow; the balance is fair. The same Accord keeps gods from descending easily.

A mere manifested avatar, a fleeting projection in one’s temple, is fine. But to wield true power in the mortal world, a synchronizer must offer a vessel of flesh.

A Primordial Deity may not need it, yet even they meet rules and rails.

Usually, an agent or a Divine Healer invites a descent. A fraction of the god’s will comes down to bless or to speak an oracle.

But this time is battle—against a Son of the Demon King, the mortal realm’s top tier.

Without resonance above a certain threshold, victory won’t come.

Sun’s own church had no such child. But he found another.

A girl clutched the cooling body of a fallen friend. Her cries tore the air as she begged a Divine Being to watch over them.

Infinita’s agent, is it? The gods are watching you. They just can’t do a thing.

At the thought, the blaze burned whiter, like wrath freed from its scabbard.

He sent down his will and synchronized with the girl.