Exactly so. With that kind of ruthless resolve—kill me, kill evil. The justice I spoke of; the so‑called justice of evil you preached.

The Divine Being staggered back a few steps, a longsword still buried in His chest. Facing death without flinching, He stood like a mountain in stormlight. Stini had seen that posture many times.

So she knew how to face a hero on the verge of departing. The gods knew as well.

Just listen in silence. He’s an enemy—no oath is owed.

The Deity of Justice still held His greatsword, standing proud upon the earth. If not for the blade Stini had driven through His heart, He would have been the picture of a sky‑piercing hero.

“It’s over. Hmph. Yet I see more, not less.”

“Your fools’ tales, your legends, your romances. Tiresome.”

“Absolute justice should die with the old age. I, this useless relic, should bow out. Hmph. You there—Andor—I’m talking to you. No need to stay on guard. I won’t lift a finger.”

My hand, clenched in my pocket, eased. I showed my empty palm to the Deity of Justice.

He must have seen who I was—and more than that. He must have seen that I was right.

Death sharpens sight. Great Sage Angelina said so.

For the gods, the emptiness of dying and the emptiness of ascension feel the same. In that void, their eyes pierce future and history, though their mouths cannot speak it.

“I said I wouldn’t act, and I won’t. You think everyone’s as suspicious as you?”

He glared at me, snorted, then turned his gaze to Stini. He refused to look my way again.

“So be it. Since you’ve arranged everything, then follow the script anxiously. Oddly, it’ll calm you.”

“Hero. You’re the pivot.”

“The souls I cut free, the will, the spirit—the blood and soul they longed to pass on. Did you see them?”

Stini pouted, then answered the dying god.

“I did. I saw brave warriors meet a tide of beasts head‑on.”

“Did you see their justice, their grand cause, their iron persistence?”

“I did. In your blade’s arc, I saw a great soul.”

“Do you accept their justice?”

Stini thought a moment. Then said:

“No.”

“That justice is too pure, too harsh. If a lover caught plague, you’d kill to halt the spread. If a friend was gravely wounded, you’d kill to spare the unit. I admit that cruel justice is a kind of righteousness. But it’s not my justice.”

Her gaze burned like a brand in winter air.

“I understand it. I don’t accept it.”

“…Very well. So be it.”

The Deity of Justice seemed to let it go. He nodded, no longer tangled in the question.

He drew on divine authority. Old afterimages flowed into His greatsword’s cut, poured into Stini’s eyes. She received the experience of countless peak warriors—and their strength, and their spirit.

That was His so‑called “blood and soul inheritance” of the old heroes. Power and spirit. Ability and thought. Equally vital to them.

But Stini refused it.

She rejected the supernal strength and the spirit bound to it. The thought riding that power was too heavy. She believed she could grow on her own and guard the justice she defined.

The Deity of Justice felt a pang of regret. Then, fulfillment.

As He said—if someone simply heard Him tell of old heroes, remembered that courage, sacrifice, and justice, He was content.

He looked up. At some point, the clouds had shredded into blue. Daytime stars still glittered like ice. The gods above still watched what He did.

The Deity of Justice, a sword in His heart, dragged His greatsword and wandered. This might not be the world He loved, but He wanted to mark a few more things, see a few more sights.

“…I once saw—no, the Creator once saw—two of them duel. Heat steamed from flesh and drank the clouds dry. Can anyone still do that?”

“Some can. Few.”

“They don’t split sky and earth with a sword anymore. They know their strength, so they restrain themselves. Tempered power serves to guard what they love, not to seize. Does anyone still hold to their creed?”

“Some do. Fewer…”

“…Yes. Truly… different now…”

The Deity of Justice sighed.

At last He faced Stini. From the hem up, His white robe turned to stone. He ignored it.

“Absolute Justice—me—should die. Then let me die. That’s your choice—taking power back from the gods. You earned it. Then take it. As for tears and pain after, swallow them yourselves. No complaints. You chose this.”

“If I must be forgotten—sealed away with the irretrievable past—then forget me. Kill me. Even the Deity of Justice calls it blameless. I need no grave, no memorial. If you cast off absolute justice, do it clean.”

“But, hero, still—remember. Even as legend. If someone remembers the old heroes’ sacrifice for this world, the old justice is satisfied.”

“Ah, and… Justin.”

“That child… hmph. He didn’t want to speak, so let his story sleep with me.”

“Except you—I think only you, Stini—you may raise him a grave. Even a nameless mound. He labored for the world’s ascension. He almost became a hero.”

“—If I had insisted on unifying the ‘justice’ of this world.”

At that thought, the Deity of Justice knotted up, then sighed long.

“Why not this bloodless, tearless absolute justice? Set one final standard—clearly that would be better… Forgive me. I still cling to it. I truly…”

“Ah… his soul has entered the death‑realm and sleeps. He’ll hear no praise or curse. But still… offer a rite for the rebel who almost was a hero.”

Stone had climbed to His waist. He brimmed with unwillingness. He thought to swing His greatsword at someone—anyone—but no one stood before His blade.

No one was wrong. No one deserved punishment.

He let the greatsword drop and lean against the earth.

He reached one hand toward the sky and cut me the faintest glance.

He asked for something small. I loosened my fist in my pocket and nodded.

In that instant, the world changed. New wording slipped into the laws. Nothing grand—nothing like physics.

High in the clouds, Head read the new clause, smiled wryly, and waved it through.

From this moment, old afterimages would sometimes drift into dreams. A Holy Knight swearing at a god’s statue might glimpse old heroes vowing as they battled a tide of beasts. A child with a wooden sword would mimic, without knowing why, the stance of a hero in sanctified armor, thorn‑crown upon brow, the Endless Codex in hand.

Old justice would be etched again in the souls of the young. Even if no one lived by it. Even if it survived only as sign, symbol, history, and tale—the young would still remember the shape of virtue and right.

The Deity of Justice, satisfied, let His petrified hand fall.

“…Ah. I see it now, Head—your justice, your correctness, your right answer. Seems I misread you…”

“…Andor, you won’t always play the proud riddler. Sometimes even you must choose. All who live get hurt. You’re clever enough to pick the least.”

“…Hero—Stini—look more. Try to see more. The world’s wide. There are many, many possibilities…”

His gaze skimmed Elina, Raven, and Abigail as they rushed in.

“…A prince who traded eyes but not heart, still blind. A Divine Healer naive yet pragmatic, timid yet brave. An alchemist too gifted to grasp the ordinary. A machine that gained a human soul. An archer reborn at the point of collapse. A Demon King driven mad by doubt…”

“…The future will be interesting. Pity I won’t see it…”

“Wait!”

Stini’s voice cut through the rain.

“Please tell me! The ‘they’ you showed me—who were those old heroes?”

“Their wisdom surpassed humankind. Their courage surpassed the beastkin. Their strength surpassed the dragonkind. Their art surpassed the elves. Their song surpassed the merfolk… Hmph. By now you don’t see?”

“No. I’m sorry—I don’t…”

“Your enemy. And your lover.”

“Tell me. Tell me the truth. No—I don’t understand! Among the Primordial Nine Races, there’s no such race!”

Another dismissive breath. He ended Stini’s questioning with, “I’ve said enough.”

Stone climbed the god’s neck. He lifted His face to the sky one last time.

Clouds broke and gathered again. A downpour crashed down—not His grief now, but the grief of heaven.

Their kin’s time had come.

“…Dis—Death—have you arrived…”

Most of His tongue was stone. He forced the last words out.

Something nameless walked past us. Passing by, seen by none, comprehended by none.

Even in my beyond‑mortal sight, He wore the shape I imagined.

Black robes. A scythe in His right hand, resting on His shoulder.

“I’m here, my kin. I’ve always been here.”

His free left hand brushed the Deity of Justice’s eyelids shut.

“You’ve done well. Now, sleep.”

Marble flesh weathered in an instant, as if ages blew past. Beauty crumbled. Shards skittered on wind and rain.

At the end, nothing remained.

Only a longsword. And a greatsword.

Death’s silhouette faded like a thought, gone at a blink.

Stini doubled over, coughing in pain. Blood poured from eyes, ears, and nose, crimson under rain. She didn’t try to stop it. She let the storm wash it away.

I took one last look at where the Deity of Justice had stood. I told my companions to take the two swords. We slung Stini’s arms over our shoulders and carried her back to the Grand Temple.

The war drums fell quiet. The crooked were chastened.

“It’s the same as before,” I said to Abigail and the others with a wry smile. “A win that doesn’t feel like one.”