Humanity stepped out of the primordial wilds, like dawn dragging gold from a sleeping sea.

We laid foundations, pitched camps, raised walls, as if planting ribs in the earth to grow a spine of shelter.

Some shored up the settlement like roots gripping rock. Some hunted outward like arrows. Some stitched clothes and stirred pots like patient hearths. Some taught lore like rivers passing secrets. Some balanced the work like wind that evens a field. Newborns arrived like dew. The dying left rooms that others filled. The chain lengthened, link by tender link.

We lifted torches and raised banners, another moon beside the moon, a second light to comb the dark plains.

We made torches that burned longer, forts that stood harder than cliff-face, blades that cut like winter on bare reeds.

And we made culture, script, language—things that travel like constellations, shining past a thousand winters.

We began to name beauty, to weigh what beauty is, as if holding snowlight in our palms.

The fire of civilization flared and ran, a wildfire licking the ridgelines and spilling into night.

That same beauty wrapped the Savior Saint’s fists in ghost-blue fire. It welled from his face and frame, clear as springwater, dense as poured glass.

Each time those flame-wrapped knuckles touched me through my cloak, they burned like wolves in bracken. They didn’t just char my shape. They ignited something deeper, something written beneath flesh—

Despair, cruelty, fear—pure-black ugliness. The black mud that makes this body flashed like lamp oil. It roared up, and within seconds, a whole idea inside me felt burned away.

The purer the evil, the weaker it is before this beautiful flame.

Humanity was ruled, driven out, slaughtered by beings who called themselves gods—and sometimes by our own. The fire of civilization flickered like a wick in wind. The beautiful things we made tottered on the brink and fell.

But this flame is mule-stubborn. It keeps burning in the human world. It refuses to die.

What is humanity?

If someone asked you, how would you answer?

You’d say, Those who kneel and still plot revolt. Those who stand on dirt and still watch the stars. Those who live on earth and still don’t flinch from death—this is humanity.

Right, Savior Saint—saint of deliverance. This is your true face.

That beautiful thing—beautiful spirit, beautiful will, beautiful resolve—marks history like carving on stone. It doesn’t break. It doesn’t fade.

The fire ate my face and form. Bone and sinew melted under the cloak, sagging like wax. I could barely hold a human outline.

This is real pain. I didn’t build true nerves. But this blaze that bites essence and gnaws soul—no matter how many times, I can’t get used to it.

You can push me this far. Not bad.

Barely not bad.

But it’s time to fight another way.

Shadow Demon Andor can’t beat the Savior Saint. No doubt. Bad matchup. The fire of civilization burns all evil. It sears out my inside. For a saint who carries hope for the world, “evil,” “otherness,” and “calamity” are concepts he crushes. Unlucky me—I’m all three.

So what about the other me?

The ghost-blue fire raged and burned all that can burn. What’s left is the darkness even civilization can’t burn, scatter, or light—the deep-black seabed.

This is where Andreas should leap in. Whether to save the scene or end the world—that’s a coin toss. If I could, I wouldn’t gamble.

I don’t need to gamble.

Where hope lives and where hope goes to die—do we really need to argue who wins last?

If the Savior Saint is fate that drives back disaster and despair, then I’m the millstone that grinds down every struggle and prayer.

The blue blaze spent itself trying to cook me. My Long Halberd never faltered. Slash and hew, clean and hard. I carved the Savior Saint’s flesh, and the fire turned it to gray ash.

He didn’t howl like the heroes of old. He always fights quiet. His breath is softer than a blade parting tendon. It makes this slaughter feel absurd, and sad.

A saint like this—even if he wins—gains nothing. His heart still drifts like fog, hollow and lost. I can’t help thinking it.

How long can you last? No—I should ask, how long can humanity last?

I can whirl this Long Halberd forever, a storm chewing the plain. But how long can you keep punching?

Fire doesn’t bloom from nothing. Civilization’s flame needs fuel. The proof is on you—your light and fire are going out. Not much. Grain by grain. But truly going out.

He keeps moving like a machine, like a shrine icon. Like a symbol nailed into history. He doesn’t change. He keeps stepping in. He throws his fists, blind to pain, deaf to fear.

I sigh.

If the story doesn’t change, then this is where it ends.

It’s the ending you want, too.

—Humanity can hold off the Endless Demon King Andreas for ten years. The Final Calamity gets delayed.

—But not forever.

—If you can’t break the saint’s iron will, then kill the prayers of the living multitudes. If you can’t make the saint despair, make humanity despair instead.

Breaking millions is harder than breaking one. If I hadn’t seen it, I’d doubt it.

How long has this dull brawl dragged on?

We did nothing but trade the Long Halberd and a fist. Clash for clash. Wounds mended in a blink. Repeat.

Only crackling heat and the thud of heavy things lived here.

A death match without roars feels empty—though I know the will in those fists deserves respect.

How long?

If I could, I’d head home soon. I missed lunch while talking with Stini. My hollow gut still wants the dinner Vega will cook with care.

An upward hook of the Long Halberd threw a fan of blood. It arced back dozens of meters, wetting land the fire had baked into crust. Dry red and wet red blurred into one stain.

An arm, obeying gravity like a stone, fell and hit dirt.

Even severed, the fist stayed clenched, a knot of purpose.

The Savior Saint stumbled at the loss. He staggered back a step, swayed twice, tried to punch with his other hand—then my second, reflex slash opened his chest. The heart split with a red mouth.

Ah. It’s over.

The glow left him. The blue fire died. The slash flung him like a rag. He rolled twice and lay face-down.

With his last hand, he forced up that almost-bled-out body, crawling from the dust.

The hooked butt of my Long Halberd dropped from above at a slant and punched into his chest. It pinned him to the ground on his knees. I lowered my throwing arm and walked toward him.

Do you regret it? Regret answering a lost Divine Being’s call, coming back from your own era, just to die here?

No regrets. It was my choice. His lungs were torn. He whispered. I had to bend to hear.

These were the first words he’d spoken since the fight began.

They also marked the end. He admitted defeat.

Nothing happened beyond expectation.

The humans you guard have fallen into despair. The world doesn’t expect you anymore—that’s the result of a clash of concepts. I told you that result. You understood it, and came with death in mind. For you, that decision…

No regrets.

Mm. I figured. One more question, though—

If even the Saint of the Highest Good starts weighing advance and retreat, gains and losses, choosing optimal over right or wrong—then the world really has no hope. That’s your question, Demon King. You’re right, but I’m not you. Humanity’s best hope isn’t the “correct answer” you tout.

So you can’t stand with me. It’s a sad misalignment. You’ll toss your life for a lone stance. Saint, your noble measure—I can’t learn it.

Humanity doesn’t expect you to, either.

Mm. So be it.

I scratch my cheek—dry bone knitting fast with new flesh. The Final Calamity that was, is, and will be—its unawakened precursor still heals like this, still won’t die.

Endless Demon King Andreas—legend says he has a thousand arms and ten thousand bone wings.

After all humanity’s prayers turned to despair, you still grit your teeth and won’t collapse. Humanity isn’t extinct, after all. Hurting you this badly means “shattering the people’s prayers” works. But it’s a shade short.

Just a shade.

So let’s end it with this.

One of the thousand arms—

This is the wrist that builds a utopia with iron law. If it’s humanity’s own yearning for utopia, it should be enough to kill you.

Any last words?

He thought. His scattered eyes focused for a beat, then fell. He said nothing.

No. Forget it. Do it.

My right hand went through his chest, scooped his heart, and tore it free, warm as a small sun in frost.

Good night, Savior Saint.

Meet the humanity you love again, in your dreams.