"Two hundred years ago, I sat at Swordgate like a stone at a pass, guarding one door. With words or with a sword, I barred foes. That was duty."

"Fifty years ago, I cut away everything like pruning winter branches, leaving two swords and one incense burner. That was resolve."

"Ten years ago, my killing intent ebbed like a tide; I sealed my blades and shed no blood. That was helplessness."

"Three years ago, death neared like frost. My swordcraft stalled, yet a wisp of insight rose like smoke. My heart was still water. That was calm."

"'Ah, the deathline should arrive with the peak of the sword,' I thought, like tracing a far horizon. Nothing more."

"I want to see what the highest sky of swordcraft holds, like a bird peering above clouds. Only to see."

The Sword Saint’s voice stayed clear, clean as a mountain stream under ice.

Under that clarity lay age, like moss on old stone, impossible to hide.

Among humans, barring mishap, the average life is two centuries, like candles burning down. The body simply wears out.

The Lunarfolk sip moonlight and earth-vein essence, like roots drinking dew. Even if broken, they can recast the body.

Yet their lives are only a little longer than elves, like a longer shadow at dusk.

Because a soul has a lifespan too, like a thread that frays.

Their souls aren’t fragile, yet bearing power too great is like ice under spring suns. It cracks.

When a Lunarfolk dies in bed, the soul seldom reaches the realm of death; it’s already splintered like glass, with no rest after.

"I should not become a Divine Being. I have no great soul, no great spirit, not even a hero’s mark, only swordcraft and stance to boast like a banner. What virtue have I to earn favor beneath your Crown?"

"A war god need only wage war well, like thunder that strikes true. No lofty virtue is required."

"Without greatness, is a god still a god, or only an echo in an empty hall?"

"…"

"We mortals honor gods not for raw might, but for deeper, greater thought, like stars that steer sailors. Such gods make heroes bow."

"With divine power and divine eternity, yet without divine thought, you’re only a powerful monster, like a mountain without a path."

"I watched humans for countless years," the god said. "I wove worlds for you like a loom. I still don’t grasp what you want. Immortality? Resources? Flight? Exploration? Truth?"

"All of them, like colors in one spectrum."

"Nod, and after you ascend, you’ll gain them," she promised, like a merchant laying out wares.

"Yet each person has a wish of his own, and that isn’t mine," he replied, like closing a gate softly.

"Then what’s your wish?"

"To see what lies in the highest sky of swordcraft, like looking over a cliff. Then to die as a warrior, as fate wills, like a leaf falling."

"That’s a pity," she said, like rain missing the fields.

"My sword will end as a last echo," he said, "and I pity that too. But human strength has limits, like lungs at high peaks. In this world, what’s beyond reach, I won’t force. This tattered soul and humble thought are unworthy of human acclaim. Under your Crown, no human soul matches you; no one deserves apotheosis."

God of Strength Bell surged without warning, like a storm breaking.

Her greatsword wrapped every concept that could be called strength, like a river of iron, and chopped straight down.

The Sword Saint let his hands hang like empty hooks. His gaze lowered like a bowing reed. He offered no defense.

"I told Head about you," God of Strength Bell said. "He said this era has no apotheosis, no mortal ascending as a Divine Being. Yet he didn’t stop me from seeking you."

God of Strength Bell exhaled long, like wind through pines, and drew back her greatsword. She hadn’t nicked the Sword Saint at all.

"Because you’re a Sage, you’ll know right from wrong," she added, like a teacher praising a pupil. "Head foretold it. His prophecies never miss. Not this time either. But weren’t you afraid I’d fly into a rage and kill you?"

"That is the greatness of a Divine Being," he said, like a monk ringing a bell. "You shouldn’t be guessed by mortal love and hate. Your thought won’t sway for such tiny things."

"Ha. An amusing sage. Sword Saint, where’s your last stop?"

"By the Demon King’s word, still the Gate where I’ve tarried two hundred years, Swordgate," he said, like pointing back to an old tree.

"Then, Nameless Sword Saint, I’ll come to your funeral," she said, like setting a date under the moon.

"Then, under your Crown, please enjoy it to the full," he answered, like pouring a final cup.

Divine Beings are the world’s rules and concepts themselves, like currents under the sea. As long as rules and concepts endure, gods remain.

God of Strength Bell dispersed into particles of light, like pollen in air, and drifted back to the godrealm.

From start to finish, she didn’t glance at me, like I was mist.

I kept silent by agreement, like a shadow on a wall. We treated each other as absent, like two ghosts passing.

The Sword Saint turned and smiled at me, like sunlight through leaves.

"Demon King, that’s the joy of travel," he said. "It’s full of possibilities, like paths branching in a forest."

"Yeah," I said, with a barbed tone like a thorn. "Temptation’s part of it. Congrats on choosing the route to a happy end. You still scared me half to death."

I had no need to accompany him to meet a god, like a fisherman walking into a court.

"You satisfied now?" I asked, smoke in my chest like a banked fire.

"To speak with a Divine Being is part of honor too, like incense at a temple. Only one thing remains unclear."

"Go on," I said. "I already met a god with you; answering one question is nothing, like tossing a pebble."

I pointed the way for everyone and kept us moving, like a guide on a ridge.

A short talk with God of Strength Bell wouldn’t derail today’s plan, like a ripple in a lake.

I’d feared the Sword Saint would accept and ascend, like a kite cut free.

Then the world would gain another like Sun, who’d even break oaths and descend to slay the Demon King, like the sun burning through fog. This funeral-journey would lose all meaning.

Luckily, the Sword Saint refused, like a door stayed shut.

"Why me?" he asked, like an arrow loosed.

"Because your sword is fierce. Because your stance is first under heaven, like a peak above clouds. Do you not know how strong you are?"

"Why lie?" he said. "I’m only a martial man, like a stone in a river. There are stronger. If you won’t answer, you can refuse."

That keen and spacious view that holds the world and himself together, like a sky over a field.

That’s the reason.

"Fine," I said. "It’s because of apotheosis eligibility, like a brand under the skin. I hate spelling out god-and-demon secrets. They’re beyond the common road."

"You shouldn’t know them, like a child with a blade. But since you’ve been invited, the Divine side broke the rules first. I can speak."

I scratched my hair, like raking dry grass.

More and more piles up: the Time Ruins in the Endless Sea, the Sword Saint’s pilgrimage, Anna’s wedding and funeral, all jammed together like carts in a lane.

Feels like I’m losing hair, like autumn shedding. Illusion?

"My liver probably needs replacing," I muttered, "kidding," like a jester in a hall. "Think of apotheosis eligibility as an aptitude beyond mortal, a possibility to become a god, like a seed with lightning in it."

"So my talent is actually good?" the Sword Saint rubbed his chin, like warming a stone. "Though the past needn’t be revisited, this is the first I’ve heard."

"No. Your talent is garbage. Even a farmer learning fists or spells would beat you, like weeds outgrowing a rose. No dispute."

"…"

"Your face looks bad, like paper in rain. You okay?"

"How to say it?" I frowned, like a crease in silk. "How to put a thought into human words?"

"Think of it this way. Stance isn’t tied to talent, like wind not bound to leaves. Apotheosis eligibility is the same."

"If you want proof, I can only call it extraordinary, like a star visible at noon."

I paused, like a foot above a step.

I thought the Nameless Sword Saint would press me. He didn’t. He walked on, like a river ignoring stones.

"Don’t need more?" I asked, like tapping a door.

"If it troubles you, as a companion I’d feel ill at ease," he said, like lowering a flag.

"Thanks for the thoughtfulness," I said, like accepting tea.

"What I shouldn’t know, what would tangle threads, I won’t hear," he said, like cutting a knot.

"Lost interest, or worried for me?" I asked, like weighing a coin.

"Both," he said. He stroked a grass blade, like smoothing fur. The incense burner at his waist breathed a faint ashy scent, like embers after rain. "All who live must pass. I won’t demand a hero’s name or friends to stay. But this human body is my pride, like armor kept bright. I won’t beg for more."

"…"

"To die as a warrior and to see the peak of swordcraft are equally important, like twin peaks."

"Like that spell, right…" he said, like recalling a verse.

"This body of Valor cannot grow old upon a sickbed," he laughed, like steel ringing. "If I were a Divine Being, I couldn’t die at all."

I stopped and saluted him, like raising a blade to the sun.

"Demon King?" he asked, like a bell’s note.

"Nothing," I said. "Just the respect due to someone worthy, like incense before an altar. I believe the God of Strength will kill you herself."

"Mm. My honor," he said, like accepting a wreath.