Head knows everything.

“Everything” means all of it, like a sky with no horizon.

Anything that can be thought, named, or shaped in being—Head knows it, like reading veins in marble.

He is the sum of wisdom, a sea with no shore.

He knows what Element is thinking; he knows what Sane is planning; when the unspeakable “Dominators” broke in, they reshaped themselves into forms this world allows, so he knows those monsters too, like counting thorns on a rose.

He knows the past and the future. The all-knowing Divine Being—that is Head, a lantern before rain.

He promised to guard the human world forever; he has never broken that oath, like a stone that won’t crack.

But he never swore he wouldn’t lie, a blade kept under cloth.

He knows what each word plants in the soil of tomorrow; he knows what each act bends on the branch of days to come, like a gardener tending wind.

So Head gave different answers to different Divine Beings, letting the gods of the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom harvest different justices, like fields under different suns.

Absolute justice died when the Creator was killed by Saster, a star falling into night.

The twelve Primordial Deities inherited shards of “justice”—each a true star, each a different light.

Through language, Head used his brothers and sisters, used friends of like mind, and braided a kinder future like a garland on a storm night.

Of course, ugly work had its place: he showed power to win a voice among the gods, like raising a banner in a windy pass.

He wasn’t born a king; he knew guiding the future required a certain seat, a certain height, like a lighthouse before the tide.

One could say the Silver Age was woven by Head from countless “future” blueprints he knew, selecting the most beautiful sheet like a weaver choosing silk.

Naturally, Head also knew he had always fought alone, a single lamp on a long road.

He wanted to hand authority back to mortals.

He wanted light and dark to mingle—darkness staining light, light staining darkness.

He wanted a world with no pure, absolute idea, like ink washed into water.

Then the last day wouldn’t come, and Andreas wouldn’t destroy the world in a death duel with Ferrel, like a thunderhead that never breaks.

Yet not every Divine Being can die for humankind, like cliffs that refuse the sea.

Perhaps the Primordial Deities who loved the mortal world could do it.

But what of the later gods born from natural things, like mist rising from lakes?

They were tainted by the Ocean of Darkness to some degree.

Their justice was relative; their holiness relative.

They couldn’t sacrifice like the Primordial Deities, like trees that won’t bend in a storm.

And even after such sacrifice, the world gained wouldn’t be as lovely as imagined; even the justice of a Primordial Deity couldn’t bear it, like a mirror that refuses a crack.

Three quarters.

By observing the “future”, Head had seen how many among the gods would oppose his plan to return authority to mortals—three parts out of four, like shadows overrunning a square.

It wasn’t the only way to prolong the mortal world.

It was simply the way he hoped for most, like the path that leads through green valleys.

To Element, who trusted him utterly, Head told most of the “future” he had seen, but he also lied, also hid pieces, like folding maps under a sleeve.

Element wasn’t his puppet; Element had his own mind, a river with its own current.

If Head told him everything, Element would become his opponent in the late Silver Age, like a river that turns against its banks.

Head had already seen that “future”, a script carved in ice.

The “future” never errs; Head knew what he saw was the single truth, like a star that doesn’t blink.

So far, everything lay within his plan, like stones placed on a Go board.

On the first world line, if the Endless Demon King hadn’t returned from the future, Element shouldn’t have gone to aid, like a drum left silent.

Ferrel and Bel—facing an enemy unseen before—would’ve lost the initiative, losing a right eye and a left hand, like warriors stripped of shields.

So when Andreas struck, the twin gods of power couldn’t meet him at full strength, a bow without its full draw.

That sped the gods’ defeat.

Eternal God Feriel would be born sooner.

The mortal world would pass to the Bronze Age sooner.

Yet even this shortened front almost erased the young civilization, a fragility the dead Creator would find hard to accept, like porcelain in a hailstorm.

Thinking of this, Head sighed, a wind through pines.

But this time, Element went to aid, and the gods wouldn’t take damage, like shields raised before the rain.

It wasn’t a decisive factor; only small things shifted, like a butterfly’s wing nudging weather in later tales.

Head communed with the supreme great light behind him, like a monk beside a sunlit window.

He confirmed for the last time the “future” hadn’t changed, just as he’d planned, a knot tied firm.

Then he summoned the star-spirit standing at his side, like calling a firefly to hand.

“Come, help me cut my hair,” he said, a smile like warm tea.

“My Lord…” the star-spirit hesitated, like a leaf trembling.

“Yes, cut my hair. It’s too long. I feel stiff when I move,” he said, like shrugging off old rain.

Confused but obedient, the star-spirit followed Head’s instruction, steps like soft bells.

With his leave, she trimmed his long hair, strands falling like pale rivers.

As the hair that linked the great light snapped one by one like silk threads, the great light behind Head dimmed, like a sunset ebbing across water.

Wisdom God Haydon lowered his rank, becoming closer to the human world, closer to a mortal, more able to intervene, like a mountain stooping to speak to a village.

“Right, just like that. Now I need to act on my own,” he said, smiling like dawn after frost.

Head took the shape of a beautiful androgynous figure, a moon carved in flesh.

He touched his short hair and smiled, a blade of moon shining at his ear.

He rose from the throne, like a heron from still water.

For the first time since the accord at that place, he left the realm of thought and walked outward.

He used his eyes instead of authority to see this world, like a traveler stepping beyond a gate.

Head descended upon the Time Ruins and, within two days, cleared out every twisted monster called “Dominator”, like sweeping ash from an old temple.

The Divine Kingdom and the Demon Realm trembled in shock, like thunder rolling across two horizons.