Perspective of those behind the “screen” (2)

[Note: I will say this again: the characters' reactions are not absolute truth. Their opinions do not represent what is actually true in the story, nor do they reflect what is true for Devas.]

(P)(A)(T)/CalleumArtori.

[...]---[...]

When it all happened, the first to react was the human—of course.

But when Jinn and Ozma followed him into the portal, they too sensed that something was wrong.

Being the first to enter, the human was a step or two ahead, yet the moment they noticed the atmosphere inside the tunnel, both of them reacted immediately.

Which, compared to what followed, wasn’t nearly fast enough.

The second to react, right after the human, was—surprisingly—not Jinn, even though her senses were linked to his. She could have perceived the danger almost instantly on her own, but she didn’t move.

The second to react was Ozma.

The old man in Nightmare’s body raised his cane, The Long Memory, pointing it upward, ready to unleash all the magic stored within it in a single strike.

Even without knowing—or being able to tell—where the danger was coming from, only that it existed, his instincts, honed across thousands of lives over tens of thousands of years, drove him to aim in the direction he deemed most likely.

Ozma never got the chance to attack.

Jinn, who had just begun to respond, drawing in her magic, didn’t either.

Both of them were seized by the Shadow Puppet, which shot out from the human’s shadow at such an absurd speed that it not only pulled them out of the portal, but hurled them backward for dozens of meters.

As they were flung through the air, Ozma—his mind still fully locked in “war mode”—didn’t notice, but Jinn did.

Held by the Shadow Puppet’s left arm, her eyes—ringed with deep shadows from the activation of the orange-eyed palm mark on her thigh—caught sight of items appearing out of nowhere, carefully arranged atop cushions.

On them, she saw the Slime Staff, where Millia slept; Lucy, the axe, dormant; the coin Goldie, inert; the Money Trough, with the pig Flig inside; and the Full Moon Squeaky Toy, with the fox Wilson asleep.

All of them meticulously arranged, each resting on its own cushion, like five precious treasures.

It would have been a beautiful scene under any other circumstance.

Here, it terrified her more than anything else.

Then Jinn felt it—through her connection with the human.

Pain.

Not in her own body—the pain had been cut off at the boundary of their link—but she could still feel echoes of agony bleeding through from the other side of the gate. The darkness there rippled violently, like a still lake struck by a massive stone.

Then everything went silent.

The darkness within the portal stilled once more, and the connection Jinn felt with the human became impossibly distant.

The next second, Ozma, Jinn, and the Shadow Puppet hit the ground.

Ozma drove The Long Memory straight into the concrete, cracking it open and splitting a clean fissure across its surface. Then he launched himself like a missile toward the portal, while Jinn turned into smoke and tried to slip into the Spiritual Realm, surging forward toward the center of the Shadow Puppet’s chest.

Neither of them succeeded—for different reasons.

Ozma’s ankle was caught by the Shadow Puppet’s right hand, which spun him around and hurled him in the opposite direction.

Jinn, on the other hand, got a little further—but not far enough.

Her goal was to enter the Spiritual Realm and reappear beside the human. But when she crossed over, what awaited her was not the familiar beach house, the calm sea, or the blue sky streaked with pearlescent clouds.

Jinn opened her eyes, rising from what seemed to be a shallow pool barely two meters across, and found herself on a tiny islet.

Something simple—barely ten meters from its center to its roughly circular edges.

She looked around frantically, rising from the shallow water, searching for the landscape she knew.

There was nothing.

This was, without a doubt, the Spiritual Realm.

And yet, at the same time, it wasn’t.

Her long black hair swayed erratically, and her soaked summer dress clung to her blue skin.

The islet seemed to float in an endless void—above, below, and in every direction. Absolute darkness, as if that small patch of land was all that existed.

The ground was covered in sparse vegetation: dark green grass and thin roots spreading outward from a “sprout” at the island’s center.

It was a tiny tree, no more than thirty centimeters tall.

Jinn recognized it.

It was the seed the human had received in Remnant.

She hadn’t known it had sprouted.

Beside the small tree, lying on the sparse grass, was Ozma’s soul. His eyes were closed, his consciousness still within Nightmare’s body.

The tree, with its few branches and even fewer leaves, stood motionless. And hanging from one of its branches was a small doll—no more than five centimeters tall.

Its body was entirely black, made of dark lines stitched together like a rag doll. It had no left eye—only loose threads—while the right was a deep red button.

The doll swayed, hanging by the neck from the branch, its arms and legs limp.

Its stitched mouth, forming a crazed white smile, parted slightly, tearing some of the seams.

Then it spoke, with tremendous effort, in a weak, delirious voice:

"Don’t… come… danger…"

After that, it went still again, swaying gently—despite the absence of wind.

Jinn didn’t have time to react.

Two hands grabbed her ankles and yanked her out of that place, dragging her back into the real world.

On Earth, she landed sitting on the ground, as if everything had been nothing more than a hallucination.

In front of her, collapsed on the asphalt, the Shadow Puppet had turned into a small rag doll—identical to the one hanging from the tree.

[...]

Ranni had a bad feeling.

Seated in her chambers at the top of her tower in the Three Sisters region of Liurnia, the witch remained perfectly still.

The room was circular and dimly lit, enclosed by gray stone walls, with shelves lined with ancient tomes and carefully arranged astrological instruments.

The air was perpetually cold—something that meant little to her doll body.

In her porcelain form, with pale blue skin, four arms, dressed in heavy dark garments and her wide snow-witch hat, Ranni gazed out through the large open window.

Her spectral face, faintly overlaid upon her physical one, followed the same direction.

She watched a streak carve across the night sky.

An orange “comet.”

Radahn stayeth the stars. The firmament’s fate is bound fast, she thought, her mind racing. Naught should stir in the heavens above. Naught at all…

Something… is amiss.

And yet, as she observed the descent of that small celestial body, a powerful intuition struck her.

Part of Ranni felt that this was exactly what was needed to break the world’s stagnation—something that would set in motion the mechanism halted by her brother’s hand.

But another part of her felt it was nothing more than a harbinger of catastrophic destruction.

A part of her felt oppressed as the light fell.

The comet radiated a massive, crushing aura.

Humanity.

A concentration of humanity so overwhelming and unnatural that it seemed to suffocate Ranni’s perception.

And more troubling still was how that aura reacted to her.

That oppressive humanity exuded a silent, instinctive rejection of the moon. Because of her deep connection to the Dark Moon, Ranni felt the spiritual friction sharply; the comet’s aura seemed to instinctively repel any interference or guidance from the heavens, the stars, or higher entities.

And amidst all of that, the worst feeling emerged.

The divine aspect of her soul—her Empyrean nature, which she so despised—still lingered, even after discarding her original body, and it warned her of extreme danger.

The spectral face partially overlapping her doll’s expression tightened. Ranni felt a chill, even though her artificial body was incapable of such sensations.

It was exactly the same feeling she had experienced on the Night of the Black Knives, when she performed the ritual with the fragment of the Rune of Death to slay her own original body.

This may slay even gods. Aye… it may slay me, she concluded.

Ranni followed the orange light as it tore across the sky until it vanished beyond the horizon, crashing heavily into the earth. The shockwave was distant.

She retraced its trajectory in her mind, calculating its direction and descent angle beyond the misty bounds of Liurnia.

Limgrave, she estimated, tightening two of her four porcelain hands. In the heart of Limgrave it hath fallen… mayhap somewhat to the east.

Ranni remained at the window, staring into the distant darkness.

"It seemeth I must needs send one to make inquiry," she said to the empty room, her voice calm despite her concern.

Seluvis would but seek to twist such power into one of his wretched puppets, and Iji is needed here—to guard the path and lend his counsel, she reflected, her spectral eyes glowing faintly in the dimness.

She didn’t need long to decide.

There was only one logical choice. Someone who did not fear the unknown, whose instincts were unerring, and whose loyalty was the only thing she trusted completely.

"Blaidd," she called. "Didst thou behold the orange light?"

The response came without delay—deep and distant, echoing directly in her mind.

"My lady. I beheld the light in the heavens. The stars grow restless, even whilst bound by General Radahn’s chains."

Ranni gave a small nod, alone.

"Go thou unto Limgrave. Some thing hath fallen by the lakeside. Seek what remaineth, and discern the nature of that light. Yet tread with care, my half-wolf."

She hesitated for a brief moment, recalling that sense of absolute danger—and that oppressive humanity that seemed to devour even moonlight itself.

"If aught there yet liveth and draweth breath… seek not to confront nor subdue it, save it be thy final recourse. Observe only. What hath fallen belongeth not to this world. It may exude humanity, yet presume nothing."

There was a brief silence before the reply.

"As thou commandest. I shall make inquiry, my lady, and bring thee word of what I find. Should it threaten thy path, I shall see it dealt with."

With that, Blaidd’s deep, lupine voice faded.

I should hope so, Ranni thought, as silence returned to the room. For if my premonition holdeth true, the fate Radahn straineth to bind hath been swept aside by a force far more dire than a mere falling star.

Yet still…

That feeling refused to leave her.

If Blaidd failed to notice something—or worse, if he were affected by it—there would be no room for error.

Ranni closed her eyes for a brief moment, her mind already made up.

I must needs behold it with mine own eyes.

There was a place in Limgrave where she could observe without directly interfering—a discreet spot, old and forgotten enough not to draw unnecessary attention.

If it had truly fallen nearby, someone would pass through there—whether it was the being within that comet, or someone who had information about it.

And she would be waiting.

Ranni opened her eyes again. The spectral glow intensified for a brief second before fading.

Mayhap I trouble myself for naught… she thought. If aught should come to pass, if need be… I shall act…

The sense of ill omen still lingered.

[…]

Percy liked the rain.

Water in general. He had always felt comfortable on rainy days, taking a bath—whether in the shower, in a river, or in the sea—whenever he was in contact with water.

It was something he had felt for as long as he could remember.

Beside the human, using Hyper Reality 4D in Simultaneous Existence mode, the sensation of rain falling against his skin no longer brought the same comfort and warmth as before.

The smell of scorched mud and blood spread through the heavy air over the lake.

Ahead, the dragon’s massive wings beat with colossal force, creating violent currents that distorted the thick drops of the newly formed storm. The scaled beast took flight, roaring at the dark clouds, preparing to rain fire upon the already devastated land.

Percy wanted to kill that dragon himself… to help the human end the battle quickly so he could recover.

He raised his hand, trying to grasp the rain. For some reason, he felt like he could shape it into a spear and drive it through the creature’s heart… but no matter how much it felt like he was trying, he wasn’t truly there.

He couldn’t help.

Why do I feel this?... Why do I feel like I can use the water?... And what is this feeling…

Something inside Percy was restless. Not just because of what was happening—the human wasn’t in a good situation—nor because of the memory of being crushed like a pancake by the goddess’s hand earlier.

That had been bad, Percy would admit, brief as it was. Almost as bad as Gabe’s smell.

Seeing the human in his current state worried him a lot as well. But for some reason, that only made him more focused.

What unsettled him was something else.

It was himself.

A dual sensation, something that had already happened once before during the Blood Moon, but now it was even stronger.

Beside the human, enveloped in the aura he emanated—the oppressive presence leaking from his entire body, the human essence spilling from his completely orange right eye—Percy felt split in two.

One part of him felt stirred, like a soldier marching within an army with high morale, advancing toward the enemy.

He was that soldier. That part was that soldier. The human was the general at the front, leading them to victory with an orange light.

Paradoxically, Percy also felt like he was in the opposing army.

On the other side, in an equally vast force marching within a river—but with low morale.

The orange light of the opposing general was too oppressive. The humanity there was too overwhelming, and something within it carried a strange golden glimmer that was hostile to that submerged army.

Percy felt the rain falling against his face.

Strangely, both the rain that fell while he stood beside the human—who had just dodged a blast of the dragon’s breath—and the rain that fell on his body in reality.

Weird… why does it feel like this?...

The orange light is the Echo Humanitatis leaking from Devas’s right eye… so why does it affect me in two different ways?…

His teeth are still sharp… but not for me… but for something I have…

A part of something inside me…

I’m just one person… so why does it feel like I’m split in two?…

Percy didn’t consider himself stupid, but he’d admit he wasn’t the smartest either. He liked simple things, and this was far too complicated.

The rain is strange too… near Devas, it’s filled with his presence. Everything around him carries a trace of him, like he’s trying to claim the world…

"Percy, are you there, man?!"

But the rain is also the same as always… it embraces my body when the drops hit my skin. The wet bed still feels as comfortable as I remember, my soaked clothes make me feel safe…

"Percy, wake up, man! Wait—are you sleeping with your eyes open?!"

…Wait, I’m lying in my bed in the dorm… there’s a ceiling… how is it raining?!

Finally realizing what was happening, Percy focused on reality. Grover was shaking him by the shoulders, shouting, while water poured from the ceiling, coming from burst pipes that seemed to have given in under pressure.

The entire room was soaked, and judging by the distant shouts and voices, it wasn’t just their room—it was the entire dorm.

"Grover, what happened?" Percy got up, looking around.

The small room at Yancy Academy was a mess.

Posters stuck to the walls were partially peeling and soaked, notebooks on the desk had been ruined by the water, and the linoleum floor was already pooling with it.

Grover stood beside him, wearing a sleep shirt and his loose, odd-looking pants, his curly hair completely drenched.

I’m… not going to get blamed for this, am I?… This time I didn’t do anything!

Grover looked at him strangely for a moment, scanning him from head to toe, almost suspiciously, before speaking:

"I don’t know, man—I was asleep and woke up to an explosion. The pipes just burst! How did you not wake up?! Everything’s completely soaked!"

Percy came up with a half-lie on the spot:

"I’m kind of a heavy sleeper." That part was true. "I was dreaming about rain. I guess that’s why I didn’t wake up. I didn’t even notice."

The last part was a lie.

"Dude, your eyes were open—and your hand was up."

"I… sometimes sleep with my eyes open." The excuse made sense to Percy, but judging by Grover’s look, he wasn’t buying it. "Look, it was a dream. It was raining, and there was a dragon—I tried to attack it, that’s why my hand was raised."

Grover’s eyes widened slightly.

A demigod’s dream?... So it really is him?... But his powers…

Grover opened his mouth to speak, but a loud knock cut him off.

"Boys! Open up, now!"

The sound of keys turning followed, and the door swung open abruptly, revealing one of the school staff members, soaked up to his knees.

"You two, out! Now! The plumbing on this whole floor has blown—don’t stay in there!"

As they stepped out, Percy simply followed Grover, half-lost in thought, while part of his attention remained fixed on the human’s fight with the dragon.

[…]

A hero fighting a dragon was the kind of story Jeanne had heard before.

Sitting in the dimness of her military tent, lit only by a faint oil lamp on the table, the space was practical and austere.

There was her cot, maps spread across the wooden surface, and a metal stand in one corner where her silver armor rested for the night.

Jeanne was in her nightclothes.

A simple, loose white cotton nightgown that fell just below her knees.

Her pale, clean skin—at least as clean as it could be under the circumstances of a military march—contrasted with her long blonde hair, now undone and falling freely down her back.

Her deep blue eyes stared into nothing.

Jeanne was not someone who liked staying up late, even though, given her position, she often had to.

As a girl from the countryside, her routine had always been to sleep early and rise early. Staying awake deep into the night wasn’t natural to her, and she would usually grow drowsy with ease.

But not tonight.

Using Hyper Reality 4D in Simultaneous Existence mode, Jeanne was both inside her tent and standing beside the human. In her avatar, she was still wearing her nightclothes.

She had another avatar set with her armor, but at that moment, her mind wasn’t on that. Barefoot, she could feel the wet ground beneath her feet—the water, the blood.

The look on her face was sorrowful; her expression, melancholic.

A hero to slay a dragon… Just as Saint George, Saint Martha, Saint Margaret of Antioch… and as Saint Michael the Archangel himself will.

A hero is a hero, even if he does not see himself as one.

She looked at the human’s back; the difference in their height was evident, even with the human in his weakest state, worn down and partially hunched from his broken leg.

Even if he were bent over on the ground, and I stood beside him, his presence would still make him seem larger. Just like now… Devas.

Jeanne knew the human came from a distant future.

That even after centuries, both her faith and the God who guided her still existed—just as the Church itself did. Not that she had ever doubted He would still be worshiped in the future.

She knew the human was not a servant of God, even if he did not deny His existence, as she herself had seen many do.

He knew, without question, that the Lord existed, yet he did not worship Him—and often seemed angry. Jeanne wasn’t sure whether that anger was directed at the Lord or at the Church itself, but it was there.

For many, that would be reason enough to explain why so many misfortunes seemed to plague him—countless dangers circling him like vultures over a dying man. If not that, then the blasphemy of acting as The Serpent, The Dragon, would be more than enough to justify the state he was in.

Jeanne did not believe that.

As she watched the human raise his left arm—the one with his only hand—grasping at the air, where, in the next instant, the “handle” of the grotesque and massive Haemorrhaxe appeared, she held a single thought:

God gives the greatest and most difficult battles to His strongest and most resilient soldiers.

The ground beneath cracked, fissures spreading as the enormous weapon fell, dragged by its own weight, slamming into the stone ruins with a wet, meaty, repulsively heavy impact.

Jeanne knew that, in every sense—and in many more she could neither articulate nor fully grasp—the human was not a warrior of God.

The very essence leaking from his blazing orange eye, the faint golden lines she knew ran along his teeth, were proof enough.

To call him such would, in itself, be blasphemy—and the human would vehemently deny it, likely offended.

And yet, as she looked at the dragon in the sky, fire gathering in its massive jaws… as she looked at the human who, even in his most deplorable, weakened, fragile state, raised his left arm—muscles still so massive they rivaled the thickness of her own thighs, stronger than the steel of her armor—lifting a weapon of flesh, bone, and muscle that she knew weighed as much as a dozen horses…

As she looked upon that scene—at the human facing the beast head-on, without a single trace of fear on his face—she held onto her faith.

"You… divine spawn, lizard..."

The human’s voice was hoarse, ruined, dragged down by the madness Jeanne knew always followed him.

He pulled the heavy Haemorrhaxe from the ground.

She would not impose the title upon him. She would not declare it, for only God held that authority. But in her heart, she kept her faith.

The Lord was wholly good, and He aided His warriors.

"I cast you down!"

Jeanne watched as the massive weapon cut through the air faster than any arrow and struck the dragon head-on—crashing into its scales, which gave way, tearing through its flesh, ripping away one of its wings and sending it crashing down.

"A hero to slay a dragon… A man to strike down evil…"

Jeanne fixed her gaze on the human’s back as he began to walk, leaning on his cane in his left hand, his broken left leg held together by a black hand formed by the bone mask covering half his face.

She followed him.

The human’s march beneath the torrential rain was crooked, painful, unsteady.

The darkness was nearly absolute, broken only by the glow of his single eye, which tore through the night, leaving a suspended trail of orange light with every exhausted step he took.

Jeanne followed that trail.

The human stumbled over submerged stones and drowned roots, falling to his knees more than once, only to brace himself with the cane, rise again, and keep moving through the mud.

Whenever he fell, Jeanne stopped. Whenever he walked, she walked beside him.

She knew she couldn’t help him, so she stayed with him. She knew she couldn’t take his pain, but at least she could walk at his side. She knew she couldn’t aid him in his battle, so she bore witness to it.

With a sorrowful expression, the human who would one day be called a saint walked beside the human who had once been called the devil.

[…]

Death was something Serafall Leviathan—once Sitri—was accustomed to.

She had fought in the Underworld’s civil war, taken her share of lives, and seen her share of fallen allies. She had fought more than twice—if not three times—as many battles as she had years lived, and she would fight many more, live much longer still.

Death was something she was used to, though in essence it remained a distant concept. Age would never catch her; time moved far too slowly to touch her wings.

And yet, death was still something she knew well.

In her dark room, alone, Serafall lay on her bed.

The space around her was grand and eerily silent: a vast room with a high ceiling, walls adorned with dark tapestries, shelves filled with ancient books, soft carpets, and large glass windows veiled by heavy curtains that allowed only thin, pale beams from the Underworld’s artificial moon to filter inside.

This was the most “normal” of the rooms she had personally designed—Room Number Four.

Even so, “normal” was a relative term in her case.

There were other spaces far more eccentric, including her magical girl room, filled with figures, merchandise, and official items from the very series she herself had created.

On top of the perfectly made silk sheets, she wore a black lace babydoll—thin and partially transparent.

The sheer fabric clung to her pale skin, outlining her mature, curving silhouette—so different from the childish persona she usually presented to the public.

The full shape of her breasts rested freely, her pink nipples faintly visible through the fabric, as was the small dark panty that barely covered her and accentuated the curve of her wide hips.

Her long black hair, usually tied into twin tails, was loose, spread across the soft pillows.

At her current level of power, she didn’t need to sleep every day.

Sleeping once every few months would be enough to keep her at her peak. But like all devils, she indulged in pleasures—big or small.

She didn’t need to sleep every day, but she liked sleeping, so she did; she didn’t need to eat—her demonic power was enough—but she liked the taste of food, so she ate; she didn’t need many things, but she enjoyed them, so she did them.

"You didn’t have to fight… but you did…"

Her voice echoed softly through the dim room.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, Serafall’s mind—linked through her avatar in Hyper Reality 4D, in Simultaneous Existence mode—was in the mud and the pouring rain.

Her physical body remained lying on the silk bed, wrapped in comfortable lace and safety, while her virtual existence, dressed in pajamas, followed the human’s crooked, agonizing, staggering steps.

Serafall was certain that the human could have run from the dragon instead of fighting—he could have hidden and healed.

Yet your first instinct when faced with danger is never to retreat. Even against that goddess’s attack, you didn’t try to flee—you fought back.

Wounded and broken, your first reaction was to stand your ground against a dragon.

Serafall knew she could destroy the dragon the human faced with little effort. But in the state he was in… with those injuries?

She wasn’t even sure she could reach that point. She knew she would have died long before.

She watched as the wounded dragon tried to open its jaws, only for the human to drop his cane, step forward, and slam his hand against the beast’s snout, forcing it shut.

The flames surged back, burning the creature from within and spilling out through its wounds.

You eat when you are hungry, without caring whether what you consume once had a mind.

You kill when you are angry. You destroy when you wish to destroy. You heal when you wish to heal.

You sin with one hand and bless with the other, simply because you chose to.

You do what you do because you want to—you are what you are, for what you are: human.

A tyrant is still a tyrant, even if he is kind and gentle.

Human and creature stared at each other in silence.

One, afraid. The other, with a weary gaze.

Myself, two months ago, would have thought you very much like a devil—someone born into the wrong species.

She scoffed.

Foolishness, as you yourself would say. A human is a human, and if anything, we devils are the ones who resemble your kind. She hummed softly, watching the human drive the Relic of Destruction into the dragon’s snout.

She adjusted her words slightly: we resemble you.

She watched with a strange, possessive smile—at once gentle and delicate—as the human commanded the black hand of the Bone Helm to attach itself to the stump of his right arm.

Then, in a single motion, he drove his hand into his own chest.

The wet, sickening sound rang louder in her ears before the human tore one of his left ribs free by force.

"You’re insane," she stated simply, watching as the human climbed onto the dragon’s snout. "And in the end… perhaps the sanest of all."

Watching him, the Maou had only one thought—so strong she spoke it aloud, though no one was there to hear:

"God created humanity in His own image and likeness. The Devil, Lucifer, in his envy, created devils in an attempt to imitate divine perfection—but only succeeded in shaping us as a corrupted reflection of the most chaotic, voracious, and brutal aspects of humanity itself."

“Perhaps that’s why Sirzechs, Ajuka, and Rizevim reached the heights they did…,” she reflected quietly. “Two touched the humanity within themselves in a way no other devil ever has, drawing closer to what they should have been. One discarded it entirely, becoming a true ‘devil.’”

“I’ve only recently begun to understand this… Sins are sins…”

Then the human raised the rib above his head, gripping it with both hands.

Serafall smiled.

The image and likeness of God… yet flawed and alone… solitary…

Spreading her arms forward, she declared:

"He lacked companionship, and with the rib he tore from himself, he chose to take a life instead of creating one."

The human brought his arms down toward the creature’s head.

[…]

The first strike tore through the scales.

Of everything that had happened, this might have been the scene that impacted Kazuma the most. It simply didn’t make sense—and yet, somehow, he could still follow the logic behind it.

He needed a weapon. That was the thought on his mind. So he got one—just like that…

Part of Kazuma wanted to shout, to ask why the human didn’t use the Ice Blade or any other item inside the Voidbag. Why mutilate himself even further? Why not let the dragon die on its own and go heal? Why was there no expression on his face as he tore into his own flesh?

But Kazuma chose silence. He didn’t trust his own voice at that moment. It would come out weak and hollow. And besides, alone in his room, there was no one who could answer him anyway.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard someone crying, but he didn’t recognize the voice.

It was raining.

He wasn’t using the stream’s addon.

[…]

The second strike cracked bone.

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore—a needlessly long name, some would say. Perhaps because of his greatness. Perhaps because of his weariness. Perhaps because of whatever his parents had been drinking when they decided to name him.

Dumbledore himself would not have had an answer.

At that moment, he wasn’t even sure he could speak.

Seated in his Headmaster’s Office—a wide, circular, silent room, surrounded by portraits of former headmasters pretending to sleep and silver instruments spinning lazily atop thin-legged tables—he had been about to go to bed.

He was no longer the same in his old age, and working late tired him greatly.

Watching the human, his sleep had vanished.

"Devas, my friend, your disregard for your own safety and your actions often remind me of Tom," the old man’s voice came out as a fragile whisper.

He didn’t take his eyes off the human.

"I only wish he had been more like you… the world would have been a better place…"

[…]

The third strike killed the beast.

Saya had no idea how long she had been crying since all of this began.

She no longer knew who else was in the room with her, in her house on the island. She didn’t know what to expect anymore; her mind—one she would call brilliant—had stopped trying to understand what was happening and simply followed the events in a near-lethargic state, like someone watching a car crash unfold.

Clutching a strange cockroach plush named Milton, she watched, almost catatonic, tears blurring her vision, as the human’s head dropped forward.

She could feel what he felt—her senses were linked to his.

She could feel the cold of death and the inevitable exhaustion of simply giving up.

There was no breath; his lungs were punctured.

There was no heartbeat in his chest.

It was cold…

So tired… Move, Devas, come on! A part of her still reacted. God, whoever, anyone, please, don’t—

The movement of the human’s body brought her a flicker of relief.

When he lay back against the snout of the dead dragon, her panic surged again. If the human had no heartbeat, hers made up for it, pounding far beyond what it should, as if trying to beat for both of them.

The rain fell.

In silence, the human stared at the sky.

The orange light, slowly and inevitably, beg— “No!”

A laugh—pure relief and disbelief, joyful, unhinged, and wondrous—escaped Saya’s lips as the human, somehow, denied his own death.

"Not yet…"

She laughed, her tears turning into something almost happy.

She laughed as the orange light in the darkness of the void continued to guide the way.

[…]

The understanding of what a [Blasphemy Card] was went over many people’s heads.

The fact that they were witnessing something impossible, however, did not go unnoticed by anyone.

A mother, lying in bed, unaware of her son’s awakening demigod powers, watched as thick black smoke rose, spiraling upward and taking the shape of a crude cloak made of Nightmares around the human’s body.

An old man, in a body that was not his own, leaning on his cane, watched the human raise his right arm, opening and closing the fingers of the black hand from the Bone Helm that replaced what had been severed, refusing to waste vitality to regenerate flesh.

A nine-tailed fox woman, resting after a long day, watched as purple Shadowflame erupted, cooling the entire environment that, with a single breath, had been ignited hot enough to melt as if struck by the sun itself.

A witch, ruler of a fairy realm that should not exist, seated upon her throne, watched as the scarlet sphere of blood unraveled—its mass collapsing violently into the crater, flooding the impact zone where the fallen dragon lay and forming a vast lake of blood.

A white-haired ninja with long, spiked hair, in the midst of an infiltration mission, watched as the crimson symbols, markings, and veins of the Echo Humanitatis pulsed and writhed across the human’s pale skin, while the sun-shaped Demon Slayer Mark glowed gold upon his forehead.

A princess who lived in a bamboo forest watched as vibrant orange light leaked from the human’s right eye socket, fracturing into fine, rune-like golden particles.

Blood dripped from his bare feet, and behind his unmoving body, the reflection of the great Full Moon shone—almost entirely obscured by his silhouette, like an eclipse.

All of them—from different worlds, ages, genders, ethnicities, beliefs, and species—everyone watching the stream, everyone who witnessed that brief moment, came to understand something:

To kill that human, anything they could ever dare imagine would still not be enough.

And it was that inevitable conclusion that took shape in each of their minds at that moment:

"This won’t be enough."

[...]---[...]

And with that, we wrap up these reactions. As I always say in these cases: the characters’ thoughts and lines don’t necessarily reflect reality or a true understanding of Devas’s actions.

Especially in the case of Serafall and Jeanne.

That said, it’s late—4:40, actually. I’m going to sleep now.

Ah, right—I’ll take tomorrow to reply to all the comments I couldn’t get to. The past couple of days have been pretty hectic. I’ve read everything, just didn’t have the time to respond.

Anyway, as always, good night and enjoy the read!

PS: Devas's image can be found within the story itself and in the comments on Webnovel. On Scribble Hub, it can be found in the glossary.

Edit: I couldn't upload the image to Scribble Hub. It's available on Webnovel, and I'll see if I can upload it tomorrow. I need to host it on an image hosting site first, and I'm kind of melting over here, so I apologize for that.