The answer came easily once the mistake was realized.
It wasn't the King, an instinct told them. Not the man they knew. In his lifetime, devoid of rights, there was no reason to gather them. No need to remake them. No necessity at all. With his power, he could simply create anew. Yet, they had believed that man could save every tragedy.
Nor was it that man stripped of his kingship, they thought with reluctant humiliation. Not because his only kingly asset was the ring. They couldn't fathom him forsaking freedom again. Having gained human rights, he wouldn't abandon them—or so they thought. Even if he did, he wouldn't use them in this manner. It was deeply unpleasant, but they understood it to be so.
The answer, then, was simple.
It was either this world's Solomon or ####. The former was tolerable, acceptable even if not forgivable. But the latter? The worst possible outcome.
—Unforgivable.
Unforgivable, unforgivable, unforgivable, unforgivable. No matter what, unforgivable. They would never bend to that will. They would defy that intent. The Seventy-Two Pillars of Solomon swore on their name to crush that ideology.
But the real issue lay elsewhere.
The true problem was: how much of their existence, from start to finish, was orchestrated by this mastermind?
Was it the incineration of the Bible? The rewriting of history? Was unifying with the Counter Force truly their idea? They calculated it feasible, but was that calculation correct? How much did the summoning of Heroic Spirits influence them? Did they unknowingly affect the Hero Faction? What was the true intent behind reviving the Evil Dragons? How many oversights and failures did they have? How could they recover? Could they even recognize a mistake as a mistake? Was the Lion King's intent involved? How much did that goddess know? Did Kingu notice? Did that clay puppet share their defects? Were the non-Biblical pantheons aware of this situation?
No, thatwasn'ttheissue. Something more fundamental was shaking.
Was their resolve to never forgive these monstrosities a fabrication? Their anger at the Devils who defiled their name, their sorrow for the Angels exploiting humans, their grief over the Fallen Angels' unjust Sacred Gear hunts—were those planted?
Was their desire to save someone a lie? Rescuing a girl betrayed by faith, restoring a human turned Devil, giving companions to a boy isolated by his Sacred Gear—was that someone's manipulation?
Was even the relief of having saved someone a mistake?
The "thank you" they received in this world, the confusion and joy those words brought—were those not from within them?
Should they not have tried to save people?
The Rating Game for young Devils in the Underworld drew dignitaries from various mythologies to a specially prepared VIP section, a rare gathering of such figures.
Azazel stood before a certain god, intending to confront him about a recent incident. But plans changed. He expected provocation, but the god showed no reaction.
A deep sigh escaped the god—Indra, the Heavenly Emperor, also known as the war god Shakra. Only after exhaling did he notice Azazel, his eyes briefly betraying surprise, not feigned but genuine.
"…Yo, Azazel."
"What's wrong with you, Indra?"
Gone was the usual faux-American bravado. Indra seemed listless, almost weary, scratching his head as he muttered, "Met someone… a friend? Someone I didn't want to see. Even with a different face, I knew it was him. Brought back bad memories."
"What? Ran into your son's reincarnation or something?"
Indra had many sons, but the most famous was Arjuna, a demigod hero of destiny. Indra and Arjuna had a falling-out after Indra meddled in Arjuna's duel with another great hero, though others, divine and mortal, had done the same.
"If only, something like that. Forget it."
Azazel considered pressing but stopped. The war god looked unsettling, almost pathetic. A bald, monk-like figure with a melancholic expression was just awkward.
"A rare trio."
"Don't talk to me, northern geezer."
Odin's curiosity was piqued, but he knew better than to provoke Indra. A god and a tyrant, Indra's volatile nature was trouble even for someone of Odin's stature. Best to leave him be unless his mood shifted.
"I won't pry then, But, Indra, I hear you're keen on training warriors. Got any brave heroes to introduce to Rossweisse?"
"What are you saying, Lord Odin!?"
"Don't waste your boss's concern, Sitting quiet won't attract men."
"That's not true! I—I was hit on just the other day!"
"Oh? Really?"
"…They just asked about my college thesis."
The raw frustration of "You got my hopes up!" on Rossweisse's face made Odin, Indra, and Azazel recoil slightly.
"Your thesis? You researched something special?"
"About 666, they were studying ways to kill immortal beings and asked if 666 could be used."
All three gave wry smiles.
"What's that about? The cost-benefit's absurd. 666's existence is dubious. If you're researching that, Great Red or Ophis would be better targets."
"I pointed that out, but they looked like they hadn't even considered it…"
Odd. Very odd. Odin seemed intrigued too.
"Who was this scholar, from which mythology?"
"Well… I'm sure they told me their name, but…"
"What, you forgot? Getting senile at your age?"
"That's rude! Don't lump me in with you!"
"Quiet down, the game's starting soon."
"You're the one who asked!"
"Hey, don't bully her too much, old man."
But Rossweisse's mystery scholar nagged at Azazel. A Valkyrie serving a chief god forgetting a name was strange. Memory manipulation wasn't impossible, but why? And why erase only the name, leaving the conversation?
(Overthinking it? I wondered if it was a Demon God Pillar, but even they couldn't infiltrate the Underworld's core without an insider…)
The Rating Game between Rias Gremory and Riser Phenex began. The outcome was obvious from the start.
Even if Rias Gremory's life as a "King" was at stake, even if her peerage fought with morale to cover for Hyoudou Issei's absence, even if her "Knight" Kiba Yuuto awakened his Balance Breaker, even if her peerage had faced Fallen Angel leaders, Demon God Pillars, and Old Satans, even if they'd trained relentlessly—
Rias Gremory's peerage had a critical flaw.
I created the world.
Thus, the world is mine.
Everything in it belongs to me.
Even if I didn't create it, if it exists in my world, it's mine.
Return your blessings. Abandon your wisdom. I'll take them. Your achievements belong to me. No, I'll make you return them. Even if another me granted them, even if you made them yourself, if they exist, they're mine. Everything in the world is mine.
Magecraft formulas, heavenly chains, the Beast of Comparison—all mine. If they're discarded, who needs permission to claim them? No, permission was never needed. Everything is mine. I'll take it. I'll use it. I'll wield it.
That man was useful. My tool. My servant. My slave. His suggestion that I could be destroyed was unpleasant, but since it became reality, I can't deny it. Save for betraying me at the end, he served well.
It doesn't matter if some goddess created it or if it slumbers at the world's edge. It's in my world, so it's mine. Even if I didn't make it, if it's in my creation, it's mine. It exists for me alone.
You must atone to me. You have a duty to redeem.
You bear the sin of trying to destroy the resource meant solelyforme—humans! You must atone! You owe me redemption!
Beast crafted by the King of Magecraft, you destroyed the world for three thousand years. Serve me. Become the cage that seals the Beast.
Abominable spawn of the goddess-pretender, you led monstrosities to deny human history. Unforgivable. Offer your life to me. Become the chain that binds the Beast again.
Beast sleeping in the tower at the world's end, your existence is a sin. Be consumed for me. Amass power and become my sacrifice.
To bury that accursed Beast forever. To revive my body, destroyed by Satan and Heavenly Dragons, you must die again.
Three thousand years ago.
A lone ship floated on a vast lake called the Pit of Babylon. Aboard stood a man holding a brass vessel. The vessel rattled, as if a beast were inside.
Then, a human-like voice echoed from it. The vessel was far too small to hold a person, yet words with clear intent spilled out—not one or two, but seventy-two voices of curses, screams, and pleas.
"You tricked us, foolish king!"
"Let us out! Please, let us out! I swear I won't defy you! Please, release us!"
"Ah, aaaaaaa!"
"Curse you, curse you, mere human! A mere human!"
"Please forgive us! No, no, no, please forgive!"
"A coward who could do nothing without God's blessings!"
"You incompetent fool!"
"Who do you think I am!? The Four Great Satan won't stay silent! There's still time! Release us, and I'll graciously forgive you!"
"You used us that way and now treat us like this!?"
"Are you listening, Solomo—"
"Whoops, my hand slipped."
The man let the vessel slip from his grasp. He clearly dropped it on purpose!
The lake was deep. No human could retrieve it. The vessel's unique nature and the lake's special properties made it impossible for mages, Devils, or gods to find. It would only resurface if washed ashore or caught in a fisherman's net—a distant future.
But for the man, tomorrow or a millennium hence didn't matter. He only needed the God in Heaven, the Satan seeking their kin, or the immobilized Fallen Angels to witness this moment and misunderstand.
The man's lips curled into a sly grin.
***
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