We all know the Divine Beings and Demon Kings loom like mountains beyond heroes, but calling a god merely “strong” is a thin shadow on a bright wall.

Past a point, strength as a scale can’t cage a Divine Being, like ropes trying to bind the wind.

Folk later imagine gods as another breed of powerful life, but gods hold “absolutes,” like suns that bleach all colors to white.

Before a god, it doesn’t matter if your power is one or ten thousand; one strike turns your sum into a negative, like a debt carved into stone.

Humans can’t truly defeat a god; our rank is too low, like ants beneath a cliff, barely entering a god’s line of sight.

That’s why the gods prize souls over muscle—grit and resilience shine like lanterns at night, lifting a person from the crowd like a banner in wind.

Some mortals even surpass a god in one field of thought; that spark is what the gods actually await, like spring after a long frost.

The gods want their young to rise by themselves—so long as it won’t rouse the Ocean of Darkness like a storm struck by oars.

Mortals keep singing of god-and-demon battles, yet mortals can’t observe such high-tier clashes of concept; it’s thunder beyond the hills.

During the Hero Academy’s defense, Anna and the Sun battled; mortals watched from a world away, like stargazers catching a comet.

They were lucky, blindingly lucky, as if fireflies saw the dawn and lived.

But the Deity of Justice here—Justus—still sits in the realm we can call “powerful,” like iron you can weigh in your palm.

Until now, he hasn’t resonated with his authority’s domain, and he hasn’t used his Authority, like a furnace left cold.

He’s only using technique against Stini—only technique, like a river cutting stone—yet it’s enough to press her flat and grind her breath to dust.

Back then, the Deity of Justice held a scepter; once you reach god-and-demon rank, every move carries ritual, like bells swaying in a temple.

A scepter means he wears divine awe and power, a god acting as a god, like a judge on a high dais with thunder for a gavel.

No magic words left his lips, no runes bled onto the air; his body moved plain and clean, like a blade drawn from water.

He simply swung the scepter.

He simply let a great, crushing force fall, like a cliff collapsing onto the sea.

In that state, Augustus—a legendary warrior—had no chance to win; after he ascended as a demigod, he could at least stand like a tree in a gale.

Too bad Augustus didn’t come, like a missing pillar in a shaking hall.

Or else, in my last life—emotion first, a wince like cold iron in my gut—I remember when Anna and I called a brief truce to wreck the peace conference.

In that chaos, Justin stole every god’s remains and revived the Deity of Justice, like a thief lighting a pyre with stolen bones.

Hero Augustus rushed to reinforce SkywardCity’s core, like mortar smeared onto a cracking wall.

He bought the Council of Sages time to gather people in the safe quarter, and he abandoned most outer wards, standing alone to brace the center like a lone buttress.

When the Deity of Justice rose, there was no Stini to smack him on the head; he swaggered to kill us Demon Kings and claimed he’d reset justice in the world, like a broom sweeping a battlefield.

Then—shame burns first, like heat behind the eyes—then I killed him instead.

I wondered then why the Deity of Justice felt so limited; after seeing the Godslayer Sword’s history-echo, I learned he was incomplete, like a statue with a missing heart.

As for why all the remains were gathered and he was still incomplete, that’s for later; some wounds hide under fresh snow.

Anyway, my killing him was an accident, but he was a true god; if I hadn’t been there, he would’ve done what he said, like a tide reaching its mark.

Fate always—no. There’s no fate in this world.

It’s the script written by Head that’s cruel, like ink that won’t wash from the skin.

Back to the point: when the Deity of Justice used his scepter, he used a god’s station and face, like a mask hammered in gold.

Now the radiance in Justus’s hands gathers again.

It hardens into a two-handed Greatsword, like moonlight poured into iron.

He grips it with both hands, turns his body slightly right, lowers his center of gravity, and takes a mortal swordsman’s stance, like a man standing in rain.

It’s the way mortals fight.

Light lives on his face; his crystalline lids lower and rise, like shutters over a lamp.

Maybe I can’t read the emotion in his gaze.

But I can see the iron will inside, like a pillar sunk deep into earth.

He says to Stini:

“Remember this. You don’t need to answer. Listen. Step forward with your sword, and listen.”

Stini was exhausted for a moment; she carries many blessings and that hero’s glow, a halo like sun through mist, and she recovers fast.

But her sword is broken, only a third remains, like a snapped branch; it lacks even a dagger’s tip.

As she searches in a rush, a gorgeously adorned sword whirls in, and it plants itself in front of her like a falling star.

“Use this one.”

I pull back the hand that threw the Godslayer Sword, Awaken, and nod to Stini, like a captain giving a signal.

The girl grips the Godslayer Sword and pushes herself up, like grass springing after rain.

She lifts the blade, wipes sweat from her face, and lets it patter to the ground; she walks past me.

“Thanks, Andor. Hold this for me first.”

She stuffs the remnant Holy Sword into my hand, flicks her wrist, and strides off with easy flair, like a sparrow with a fox’s heart.

That small back looks cool as a knife.

“I’m here. Speak.”

“I’ll speak my justice—hah, what you call your ‘evil justice,’” the Deity of Justice says, voice like steel over silk.

“I won’t force you to agree. So listen. And don’t die while you listen. That’s all I expect of you. Can you do that, Hero?”

“No problem, Deity of Justice.”

He laughs, bright and clean, like sun catching fresh snow.

He moves first; his robe causes no drag, like water around a fish.

He steps and leaps nearly three meters.

A jumping slash. A warrior’s common shock tactic, like a hammer falling from a tower.

If it were a transcendent strike, Stini wouldn’t know how to answer.

But if it stays within the physical, fought like a warrior in earth and wind, she can meet it by instinct.

She raises the long sword—Awaken—and braces against the descending Greatsword, like a bridge under flood.

At the instant of contact, she turns her blade and lets his sword slide off to her side, like rain off a tile.

In close quarters, a longsword whips faster than a Greatsword, like a sparrow darting past an eagle’s wing.

Of course, in our duel at the Hero Academy, she didn’t use blessings while I ran the Hero template; my Greatsword was faster than her long blade—doesn’t count, different weather.

Justus steps back on a slant, and the Greatsword’s arc turns from vertical to horizontal, like a wind shifting across a field.

He pivots and swings again, plants the hilt on his shoulder, and hews down with force, like an ax splitting old oak.

“They always charge. They take the front.

They know how far they can push, and that’s how far they’ll carve the map,” he says, breath drawing deep like a bellows, and the blade slams down.

Stini already closed in, but Justus retreats one step; that one step slows her reunion with him, like a wave finding sand too soon.

She has to meet the Greatsword head-on.

The blade bites the ground, and a twenty-meter crack races out like lightning under ice.

“They seldom block blades for others, yet they pack tight, shield every face with ruthless efficiency,” he says, voice steady as drumbeats.

“They keep attacking, because they know—without attack, there is no victory.”

Justus keeps his swing range tight, a fenced square of steel; Stini can’t find a clean angle, and the Greatsword’s length pens her rush like a hedge of spears.

“They don’t fear death.

Even if monsters and demons ring them round, they stand and fight, hold a plot of ground, and die to the last,” he says, eyes like cold stars.

“They have no faith. They only think for the sake of the living world.”

He starts to charge a strike, building force like a storm swelling behind clouds.

It’ll hit harder, and it will open more gaps like cracks in an old wall.

Stini seizes the chance; she dashes in, thrusts and hacks in a stealing flurry, leaving a few marks on the god’s body, like claw-lines in marble.

Beautiful divine blood flows and steams away, vanishing like dew in sunlight.

Justus guards while he gathers, turning aside every fatal line, like a gate that won’t let wolves in.

Then the Greatsword’s engine hums; blade-speed climbs like a hawk riding a thermal.

Stini times it right; the sweeping cut brushes her hem, a kiss of wind on cloth.

If it misses, then swing again.

Don’t let the blade bury itself in earth and waste its strength; turn the miss into motion.

Spin the body, reverse step, whip the long sword around, and launch a second cut, like a wheel catching fire.

She sheds the second blow’s force and rolls clear, like a pebble skipping a wave.

“They never give up.

They never grow proud.

They never grow greedy,” he says, words marching like soldiers.

“Every virtue we can name is just common sense to them.”

Then the third strike.

I like this rhythm too—one cut pressing the next, like tides stepping up the shore.

“Their long courage lasts longer than a short-lived race, long enough to see generations change,” he says, blade singing like a winter wind.

“They guard the quiet of night and the peace of day.

They need no understanding, no approval.”

The third arc nets every escape.

Stini tries to shed force again, but Justus has room to adjust; he trims the angle and lands a clean heavy blow, like a hammer kissing an anvil.

Blood seeps from her gums again; a few wounds opened by Holy Sword shards split anew, and new blood jets like crimson threads.

“They are absolutely fair, able to see good and evil from the whole,” he says, voice clear as a stream through stone.

“They never hesitate; the verdict on good and evil is already written, and every act follows as naturally as rain.”

Stini swallows the iron-tanged liquid in her mouth; from the weight in the Greatsword she understands what the Deity of Justice wants to show, like reading a message carved into bark.

“When they die, they leave only blood and soul as inheritance,” he says softly.

“That is what matters most.”

He is telling a hero’s old tale.

With sword and speech, he lets her see the afterimage of those who once walked justice, like footprints under frost lit by dawn.

No dodging. Face it. Step in. Fight to the death, like wolves meeting in snow.

As the old heroes did, growl a low, long war-cry and charge, like thunder walking on legs.

Each clash of blades strikes sparks, the fire that gods call justice, like meteors chipping the dark.

Short hops and pivots tighten power, like coiled springs.

Neither side dodges nor flees; each cut meets a cut, like waves meeting waves.

The cross-talk of steel rings like the sweetest music in the world.

Their footwork treads the finest dance on earth, like cranes stepping through reeds.

Read the meaning from the other’s sword.

Read the person. Read their oath, like ink bleeding through paper.

“They are brave beyond measure, no matter who stands before them,” he says, voice like a banner in wind.

“They are wise beyond measure, knowing the worth and meaning of each swing,” he says, eyes steady as stars.

“They are pure beyond measure, acting free and easy,” he says, smile thin as a knife.

“But they do not pity.

They never—never,” he murmurs, looking down at the longsword buried in his chest like a stake through a tree.

Stini’s hand still trembles, like a leaf in crosswind, yet she grits her teeth and clamps the hilt tight.

“To enemies—to evil—we show no mercy.”