The sky no longer felt real.
It was as if gravity itself had begun to falter, as if the air were doubting its purpose.
Reiji stood upon a hill stained with smoke and despair, watching as the Artificial God walked among rebuilt ruins and deformed lives.
It did not speak. It did not judge.
It simply moved forward—
as though the very concept of existence guided it.
"That light…" Reiji murmured, narrowing his eyes. "It's not human. It's not mortal. It's what humanity has sought for centuries… and never should have found."
Donyoku, his arms still bandaged, glared at him with restrained fury.
"You knew something, didn't you?"
Reiji closed his eyes. Not out of guilt—
but exhaustion.
"Many years ago, I read classified files… discarded theories… about entities beyond the soul. Some called them Gray Beings. Others, Gods of the Void. They weren't real.
Or so I thought."
"And you never thought of stopping this?" Donyoku raised his voice.
Reiji didn't answer right away.
The others watched him.
Even Seimei, barely able to move, remained silent.
"It wasn't about stopping it," Reiji finally said. "No one can stop what lies buried as deep as human faith."
Aika lowered her gaze—not out of anger, not even sorrow.
It was something deeper. As if her very soul were cracking.
"So… this was always inevitable?"
Reiji hesitated. His answer was a resigned whisper.
"Maybe not. Maybe yes. But even if I had known… I couldn't have done anything. Projects like that aren't stopped by soldiers. They're exposed by despair."
"Then why was there no guard?" Aika asked, her tone sharper now. "Why did that lab look abandoned, as if no one had ever cared to protect it?"
"You knew about it?" Reiji asked, looking around. "Heard rumors? News? Warnings?"
Silence.
"Sainokuni didn't want to hide it. They were waiting.
Faith is strongest when it's built over ashes.
War was their foundation. Chaos, their mold.
And that—" he pointed toward the distant figure "—was their new god."
Chisiki looked away. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Even if we had known…
we couldn't have stopped it."
Seita lowered his head.
"We're not heroes…"
"Nor Black Entities," Aika added, her eyes glistening.
Reiji clenched his teeth.
"We're human.
And that… is what condemns us."
---
Shinsei trembled.
His divine sword still gleamed, but his hand—
his hand no longer felt like his own.
The finger the God had touched still burned. Not physically.
It was his soul that had begun to melt.
His Shinkon pulsed as though it were a living organ.
Every breath brought a different sensation:
hatred, faith, ecstasy, hunger, despair, redemption, death.
"What… am I?" he whispered.
A twisted hum began to envelop his mind.
The sky split before his eyes—not from battle,
but from perception itself breaking apart.
Suddenly, everything turned white.
And when he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the capital.
He stood inside an abandoned church, stained glass shattered, the pulpit crusted with dried blood.
There, seated in the last pew, he saw him.
A child.
Dressed in royal rags, a crooked toy crown on his head.
It was him.
"What are you doing here?" Shinsei asked.
The child said nothing. He only stared back—pity in his eyes.
The scene shifted.
Now his body lay atop a pile of corpses, as if he himself were an offering on a sacrificial altar.
A crowd surrounded him—not to worship.
They applauded him like a fool.
"Our god!"
"Our monster!"
"Our false martyr!"
The laughter echoed like broken bells.
Shinsei screamed, but no sound came out.
He looked at his hands—they were transparent.
A third vision.
A mirror.
He faced himself… but faceless.
A white silhouette.
No eyes.
No soul.
Like the God.
"Was this what you wanted, Shinsei?
To become something you can't even comprehend?"
His Shinkon screamed within him—
not as a guide, not as a power,
but as a soul condemned to the same fate.
Shinsei fell to his knees.
And when he returned to the real world, the city felt distant.
Smaller.
Meaningless.
He had been touched by a god without consciousness.
And now, something within him was unraveling.
"Who… am I now?" he whispered—
and his tears did not fall from his eyes,
but from his fractured, solitary soul.
---
The sky was a crack.
The Artificial God walked as though the world carried no weight.
With each step, the laws of reality splintered like glass under its formless will.
In the distance, new seas rose—
then vanished, as if they had never been.
Entire cities turned to white dust… then reformed, twisted, empty, without history or life.
Forests withered.
Flowers bloomed over still-warm corpses.
Roots climbed bones like they were new temples.
That being did not attack.
Did not speak.
Did not laugh or cry.
It simply rewrote.
Humanity stood in stunned silence.
When the armies of the continent arrived, there was no battle cry.
No command.
Only silence… and the faint murmur of inevitability.
Upon seeing the divinity, many lieutenants, captains—even generals—
dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.
Some prayed.
Some wept.
Others laughed like madmen, tearing the insignias from their chests,
as though they wished to be invisible before a god that did not recognize them.
And then—
Just meters away, Narikami's division arrived.
His soldiers halted at the sight of that figure.
They had crossed mountains, deserts, ruins—
fought beasts, men, hunger.
Yet what they now saw had no name.
One of them sobbed as he breathed.
Another let his spear fall.
And among them…
one figure stood firm, though her legs trembled.
Sumire Hanazuki.
Wounded, her Shinkon flickering like a flower on the verge of death,
she stood her ground.
The God turned to her.
Not by will—
but by a new impulse.
One it could not name.
Curiosity. Recognition. Instinct.
It would never know.
And it walked.
Sumire's heart raced, yet she did not move.
Her flowers bloomed—not to attack, but to protect.
Petals spread like whispers of defiance.
"No…" Narikami breathed.
And then he understood.
He didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
He simply ran.
His body moved faster than his mind.
His soul outran fear.
And when the God's hand rose—
Narikami received it in his chest.
A breath.
A heartbeat.
And the world stopped.
Narikami did not scream.
He did not fall.
He simply began to fade.
His soul did not burn.
Did not bleed.
Did not break.
It was disintegrating.
Sumire screamed.
Her Shinkon blossomed from pure instinct, weaving a barrier of thorns, petals, and tears.
But it was useless.
Reiji, from afar, felt the wound.
Chisiki froze mid-step.
Donyoku felt something sacred—extinguish.
And amid that unreal silence,
Narikami, the boy who wished to be a hero,
the killer who still clung to hope—
was becoming nothing.
---
The world watched.
Soldiers.
Leaders.
Children.
Even the dead gods of the past.
All saw it.
One of the most feared generals was vanishing—
his body dissolving beneath divine pressure.
But then—
Narikami Goe's will roared.
He refused to yield.
Not to a nation.
Not to an army.
Not even to a god.
His eyes blazed with a light not of this world.
And for the first time,
the God stopped.
An impossible force burst from Narikami's soul—
a strength born not of power, but of will.
His memories struck like lightning:
a childhood scarred by pain,
dreams of heroism,
sins as a weapon of the kingdom,
a promise—to not die a murderer.
He drew his sword.
"NARIKAMI, NO!" Kenshiro Gai screamed from the hill, desperate.
Too late.
A single slash split the air.
The God fell.
It lasted less than a second.
The divine body was cut in two.
And yet—
before the impact—
the divinity absorbed the strike.
And released it.
A blinding flash, a devastating wave.
Narikami dodged, blood streaming down his temple—
but his eyes did not waver.
"If a human created it…
then who the hell but a human will destroy it?!"
His voice tore the heavens.
The soldiers, stunned, didn't know whether to flee or kneel.
The God advanced.
And so did Narikami.
His Shinkon trembled at its limit—
but still burned.
He still had a body.
A soul.
But something had changed.
Reiji, from afar, understood.
"That bastard…
he's not a Blessed Bearer…
He's creating his own divine essence!"
Not from faith.
Not from science.
Not from birth.
But by pushing his body past inhuman limits.
Narikami had lost something—
his fear.
And because of that…
he no longer feared God.
Their clashes were collapsing stars.
Impossible speed.
Swords tearing through the air.
Two forces defying all logic.
The God bled.
So did Narikami.
Both with equal fury.
Equal purpose.
"If it bleeds… it can die!
And if it dies—then I win!"
He knew he could lose.
Yet he did not stop.
Then—something else happened.
Applause.
Simple.
Sincere.
As if the world itself acknowledged him.
One.
Then another.
Then more.
A thunder of hands echoed—
from soldiers,
from towns,
from those who had lost their faith…
but not their hope.
Narikami no longer knew what was happening to his body.
His energy tore at him.
His soul burned.
But his will surpassed all reason.
Because that day—
He did not fight as a general.
Nor as a warrior.
Nor even as a man.
That day, Narikami Goe fought as the Hero the world had forgotten.
And even if it were his final battle—
it would be against God.
---
Rumors crossed mountains, oceans, and kingdoms.
No longer whispers—
trumpets in the halls of power,
bells ringing through the war.
One phrase spread across the world:
"A human…
is fighting a god."
Not an army.
Not a nation.
Not a miracle.
A single man.
Narikami Goe.
The message reached the A.S.E.,
the floating fortresses of the Kanjo Empire,
the sacred chambers of Reimei,
the oases of Sabaku,
and the ruined temples of Sainokuni.
Genshin, the Red Tyrant, fell silent upon hearing it.
He removed his helmet.
And for a moment… he did not know whether to laugh or tremble.
The other leaders had no words.
They didn't know whether to admire or fear,
to praise Hokori or brace for its fire.
But one truth became undeniable:
"That man…
is no mere human.
He has risen to the level of a god."
And not for vengeance.
Nor for glory.
But for necessity.
A necessity every soul recognized deep within:
the need not to die as slaves to their own creation.
---
Children in distant villages began chanting his name.
"Narikami…
Narikami…
the one who split the sky!"
Old soldiers sketched his figure on tattered paper.
Generals whispered his name like a prophecy.
Priests did not know whether to damn him or pray to him.
And humans—
only humans—
clung to him.
Not as a hero.
But as proof.
That they could still defy their monsters.
Still bleed.
Still fight.
And never yield—
not even before God.
---
A human. A sword.
And a will greater than the universe.
That was his name now.
Narikami Goe.
The name that became a storm.
---
The Artificial God did not understand why it fought.
It felt no hatred.
No duty.
No feeling at all.
It merely acted.
For its existence—the divine essence forged by human hands—
demanded it identify threats and adapt.
Every second, its body learned faster.
Each slash from Narikami was mirrored.
Each motion, imitated.
Each spark of will, reflected back—
as if the universe itself were a sharpened mirror.
Narikami bled, gasped, trembled—
and still, he fought.
---
From a nearby hill, Shirota Karakuri clapped with delight.
He turned slightly,
and there he saw him—
a man,
no… a human—
becoming divine,
only to destroy divinity.
"What a spectacle, ladies and degenerates!" he shouted, laughing. "I thought they were clapping for me, but—ha! Turns out we've got a god trying to kill another god!"
Shirota swallowed hard.
Not from fear.
From fascination.
---
A few meters away, Shinsei Kōji lay on the ground.
His body trembled, his fingers clawing at the dirt like a lost child.
He couldn't understand.
Why not him?
Why Narikami?
The chosen of God,
the messiah of a fallen nation—
could only weep.
"How pathetic…" Shirota muttered with a mocking grin. "In the end, just a fraud with a borrowed crown."
---
Suddenly, a deafening laugh sliced through the tension.
Yodaku.
The Executioner leapt into the battlefield, guillotine-scythe in hand, eyes blazing like embers.
Shirota activated his Shinkon, clearing the way as if welcoming a legend.
"THEN LET'S CUT GOD INTO PIECES!" Yodaku roared as he charged.
Narikami glanced at him—
this time, without resentment.
This time… with gratitude.
"Thank you, damned Executioner," he whispered with a broken smile. "For taking our side."
"I'm not doing it for you, idiot," Yodaku growled. "I'm doing it for the glory."
---
The two monsters of Hokori attacked the God in perfect sync.
Their strikes tore through the air like lightning.
And for the first time, the God bled—
even if that blood was illusionary,
even if it felt it without understanding.
It mimicked pain.
It faked suffering.
It smiled… as if it enjoyed it.
---
And yet, it endured.
The Artificial God kept replicating.
But now…
now the reflection was beginning to crack.
---
Shirota walked forward, stepping over corpses, laughter, and chaos. He turned to Enma with his usual crooked grin and asked,
"Tell me… what's the truth behind all these soldiers?"
Enma looked at him with empty eyes and replied,
"I'm not sure your soul could bear it."
"My soul?" Shirota laughed. "At this point, all I've got left is my liver and sarcasm, Master. Go on, hit me."
Enma sighed and extended his hand.
And then, Shirota's world opened.
Thousands of colossal eyes stared down at him—some from the sky, some from the ground, others from the minds of the soldiers themselves. Each one carried a story: betrayal, fear, hunger, hatred, hope, merciful lies, necessary atrocities. Truths. Thousands of truths, heavy with guilt, misery, and blood.
Shirota didn't flinch. He met their gaze with a smirk and murmured,
"Beautiful. They're rotten."
He turned toward Yagameru.
"Your turn, divine throat. Gargle with hell."
Yagameru nodded. He crouched beside a puddle of filthy, greenish water and began gargling like a madman.
"AAAGHGHAHHGRRGHHHH!" —he vomited sounds that were no longer human.
His Shinkon, the Absolute Voice, had been unleashed.
Soldiers from every kingdom—Kaigen, Sabaku, Enketsu, even the lesser realms that had barely arrived—froze in place. They all heard one voice… not a command, but a decree. A spiritual reprogramming.
"You don't fight for flags. You fight because you're broken. Because the battlefield is the only place left for you in this world. So… obey."
Pupils widened. Muscles locked. Throats screamed for war.
That was when Shirota activated his Shinkon. His body flared with spectral light, the invisible threads of Existential Manipulation swirling through the air. He didn't need to touch anyone. Every soldier… became his puppet.
Those who had once only watched from the sidelines stopped being mere spectators. Something stronger than faith—or fear—took hold of them. It wasn't devotion. It wasn't terror.
It was control.
Thousands of bodies moved in unison.
No fear.
No doubt.
Only rhythm—
the rhythm of a lunatic symphony.
And as they all charged toward the Artificial God, Shirota looked up at the heavens, raised his arms like a conductor, and shouted:
"Humanity begins to fight! And unfortunately for this world… Hokori holds the best cards!"
In that instant, one truth became undeniable:
Hokori had no heroes.
It had beasts.
It had disasters wearing human skin.
---
When the world fell into despair… it wasn't the gods who answered.
It was the monsters.
Thank you for delving into this second arc, where war is not only fought with swords, but with wounds of the past, choices beyond return… and souls still uncertain which side they belong to.