The Great Ones are called great because their essence runs deeper than human sense can fathom; from a human angle, we tag them “great” and shelve them together.

A human label means nothing to a Great One, just as an ant’s idea of humanity means nothing to us.

To their eyes, humans are small, pitiful, helpless—yet bristling with pride. Some Demon Kings who ignore mankind still can’t grasp us. Their supernal sight and long mind can’t fathom why money, muscle, and rank—things bound to matter and limit—give humans the nerve to meet their gaze.

Greatness doesn’t guarantee sympathy for small, stubborn thoughts.

So from this angle, aside from the world’s only Hero with Immunity Privilege who can face a Demon King head‑on, any other slayer of Great Ones is theater.

Ugly, yes, but that’s the colder truth of this world. To a Demon King, the material realm feels thin, like a blurry game. Humans flail like NPCs; the Demon King plays on god‑mode—locked HP, instant teleport, mark, one‑hit kill. Play too hard, and a Divine Being who loves humanity slaps on a title seal—interference. He can also just delete the save, a one‑man apocalypse, and end the game for everyone.

Heroes wager a will to die and iron in their bones to please the Demon King, to make him think, “Ah, not bad. If I don’t die at this level, I’d slight this one.” Then he swallows the finishing blow, takes defeat straight, and often leaves a gift or blessing before parting.

—I admire your courage, mortal.

—Well done. I admire your courage, mortal. Try not to die of boredom before we meet again.

—Keep your head on your neck for now. It’s mine to collect. Don’t forget.

A Great One’s gaze presses the soul like a mountain wind; a Great One’s mood spills into “blessing” or “curse.” If not for the Great Ones people call Divine Beings, the ones who love mankind, life here would be nightmare‑difficulty.

Thus the first churches rose from gratitude. After the Silver Era, every new faith was born from use.

Enough. All of that circles one problem, one tale:

The Divine Beings exist beyond human sight, and beyond human forecasts.

In other words, trying to scheme against heaven with human wits is absolutely, absolutely, absolutely impossible.

“…We can’t do it, Brother. It’s impossible. I know you’re very, very strong, but strength isn’t the problem. If your plan holds, the instant we land in the Starry Sky Divine Kingdom, we’ll get tossed into the Sea of Light for a bath.”

“Huh? Why not? Spell it out.”

My spirit sours while I explain the plan to siblings trapped behind their own horizons. A Demon King doesn’t get a sore throat or aching jaw, but my mind grates like sandpaper when I talk to lunatics.

These idiots are always good at dragging everyone down to their IQ, then winning with an ocean of reckless experience.

If they tried, they could glimpse a century ahead; but for them, that effort feels worse than just killing someone now.

In their world view, it’s black or white. The world splits into three: things you can kill, can’t kill, and will be killed by.

Forget it. I never expected them to build anything on the planning front.

“Right, I can’t hide a plan this big from the gods. So we shift the angle. Who can hide it? I just need a friend who can throw a black curtain over the gods’ radar. Then the plan’s fine, isn’t it?”

“‘Radar’? What’s that? Is it tasty?”

“Idiot! In a normal conversation, you should ask: ‘Who’s this friend? Can we trust them?’ Then I’d answer: ‘I can’t say the Name, but you came to see me, which means you’re hoping. Doesn’t that hope deserve a wager?’ See? Clean. The dialogue flows. Not you getting stuck on ‘What’s radar?’ Get my meaning, idiot!”

My dear little sister, unlucky to be my punching bag when my head thunders, lets out a cute “Eek!” and curls on the chair, trembling. Her superior retainer steps from the shadows and strokes her hair.

Damn it!

Why are these cannon fodder so hard to coax? Can’t you just go die for me, nice and neat?

Anyway, these under‑leveled clowns, not ready to invade the human world, will never abandon a chance to bet against me. Even if they suspect they’re fodder, they’ll still roll the dice.

I just fell out with Stini, heart sour with parting and grit, which already soured my mood. Now I’m soothing this bunch of anxious schemers with little private desires. I haven’t slept for days. All I hear is, “Brother, this plan won’t fly,” “Brother, how about we go kill the Iron Kingdom Colonna,” “Brother, look how pretty I am—help me, like, in bed.”

Fine. Make noise for a few more days. Give it time. I’ll pray devoutly you die as miserably as possible.

Only, and only—

That mortal enemy who should start fighting the instant we meet sometimes brings me good news.