The air smelled of incense and despair.
Shinsei Kōji stood before the remaining sacred soldiers.
There were no speeches.
No honor.
Only orders.
"Pray louder," he demanded in a voice like a blade.
"God does not hear whispers—only pleas!
Scream your faith, or die like the weak who already fell!"
The soldiers, battered and broken, could barely stand.
Yet they lifted their prayers amid tears, blood, and shattered knees.
Shinsei didn't look at them.
He stood with his back to them, gazing at a large map spread over a war table.
Red lines…
Lost zones…
Crossed-out provinces.
The kingdom was slipping through his fingers.
"It doesn't matter," he murmured with a crooked smile.
"They haven't yet seen what my faith hides."
---
Central Laboratory, Level 0.
Dr. Hinzoku Tsukimura turned the fragile pages of ancient, yellowed scrolls.
His eyes were sunken, red.
He hadn't slept in days.
"You should relax, old man," said Rikuto from a corner.
"One of the experiments escaped… But if we're lucky, it'll slow down Hokori's army."
Tsukimura didn't even look at him.
He muttered something under his breath—
a word in a language no longer taught.
And one of the seals in the back… cracked.
"What did you do!?" Rikuto shouted, stepping back.
A capsule began to tremble.
The glass fractured.
And from within, no monster emerged.
A figure did.
Humanoid.
Completely white.
No eyes.
No mouth.
No expression.
Only existence.
"It has no face…" whispered Rikuto, fascinated.
"It doesn't need one," Tsukimura growled.
"We made it without memory.
Without pain.
Without a soul."
"Does that make it stronger?"
"It makes it perfect."
The being took a single step—
and the lab trembled.
Slightly.
As if the universe itself were unsettled by its presence.
Rikuto swallowed hard.
Then smiled.
"Maybe… this will help Shinsei awaken his true Shinkon."
Tsukimura closed the book in his hands.
"We're not creating it for him to worship," he said.
"We're creating it to replace him."
And thus was born a god who asked for no prayers—
because it didn't even know what forgiveness was.
---
Level 7 of the Central Laboratory did not smell of blood.
It smelled of failure.
Tsukimura descended in silence, his lab coat brushing the floor strewn with burnt reports, rusted plates, and loose cables like torn nerves.
He passed by a shattered capsule.
Cracked glass.
Dried blood.
And a number carved into the metal:
#3
His "best attempt"… was gone.
Before him stood active capsules.
And others… filled with deformed bodies.
Some breathed without knowing they lived.
Others no longer resembled humans.
He stopped, arms crossed.
"To create a god… we must not seek souls," he murmured to himself.
"We must create something that doesn't understand what it means to have one."
Something without morality.
Without compassion.
Without conscience.
Only action.
Rikuto appeared from a side hatch, carrying papers stained with red ink.
He still smelled of chemicals.
"You shouldn't forget why we started this," he said tensely.
"The chaos, the war, the abandonment. We wanted a savior… not an executioner."
Tsukimura looked at him in silence.
His eyes seemed older than his body.
He took a sip from his cup of coffee, like a reversed form of holy water.
"You still see it as an ideal, Rikuto…
I see it as a tool."
He walked between broken tubes and stopped before an empty capsule.
"We're about to create a god.
Why hand it over to a mere human?
Don't you see the irony?
Replacing a divine being… is the most divine act a mortal can commit."
Rikuto clenched his fists.
He knelt to gather the scattered reports.
"What if we use it wrong?
What if it becomes unstable?
Isn't it worse to play god than to believe in one?"
Tsukimura didn't answer immediately.
He only breathed.
"We don't need to believe in them," he finally said, his calm more painful than anger.
"We only need to use them.
As symbols.
Of hope.
Of fear.
Of power."
He walked through the remains of failures.
"Shinsei seeks something else.
He wants to merge with a god.
But if he does…
he won't become one.
Just a fanatic with mystical steroids."
"And the Blessed Bearers?" Rikuto interrupted.
"Those with powers that defy logic—aren't they divine too?"
Tsukimura's face twisted into something close to a sad smile.
"Having power doesn't make you a god.
Only an exception."
He approached one of the active capsules.
Inside, a form stirred.
No eyes.
No face.
Only shape—
a figure made to be adored or feared.
"Do you know what a god is, Rikuto?"
The young assistant shook his head.
"It's something humans will never understand.
Never see.
Never touch.
And yet… they pray."
A pause.
"Not out of faith.
Out of despair.
They pray, hoping the heavens will listen.
But the heavens… are cursed."
He turned.
"Because their prayers no longer sound like hope.
They're strangled screams.
Empty demands.
The pleas of children who don't know they're speaking to the dark."
Rikuto lowered his gaze.
"What if what we create… answers us?"
Tsukimura walked toward the door.
Without looking back.
"Then we'll be the first humans
to hear the sound of judgment… from something that never had a soul."
---
The air was heavy.
Near the capital of Sainokuni—
where temples had no bells, where prayers were screams, where the stones were still warm from war—
they stopped.
Reiji, Donyoku, Aika, Chisiki, Seita, Seimei, and Iwamaru.
Seven figures.
Seven pasts.
Seven condemned souls walking toward the end.
They found an abandoned house.
Roof half gone.
Walls stained with dry blood.
But enough to rest.
Inside, the silence was sacred.
Seita flipped through a book with more curiosity than understanding.
His fingers traced the kanji as if they were magical reliefs.
"What does this say?" he asked.
"'Wind,'" Chisiki replied patiently, guiding the stroke with his finger.
"Now you."
Seita tried to repeat it—failed—and laughed softly.
Chisiki didn't.
And perhaps that was why he kept teaching.
---
On the side, Aika ate dry bread.
Not out of hunger.
But out of anxiety.
Since they'd crossed the ruined villages, she hadn't slept well.
She saw corpses where there were shadows.
And when she didn't see them… she imagined them.
She chewed without taste.
Her eyes were open, but her soul…
didn't know if it wanted to keep seeing.
---
Reiji leaned against the wall, observing.
Everything.
His students.
The broken roof.
The scars on his own hands.
And in his mind, a thought:
"From the moment I chose them… from the moment I decided to be their teacher…
I knew I was damning myself. And them."
"But someone had to break the cycle.
Someone had to bear the sin."
---
Meanwhile, Donyoku and Seimei scouted the perimeter.
They were close.
They could feel it.
The markings on the ground, the hum in the air, the spiritual pressure—
all pointed below.
And then…
A voice.
Calm.
Dry.
Cold.
"Are you lost?"
They turned.
There he was.
Shinsei Kōji.
The self-proclaimed "Chosen by God."
He wore tattered golden robes.
His hands were stained with ink, blood, and broken promises.
He smiled.
But his eyes—
were two graves filled with rage, impotence, and a faith that had rotted him from within.
"Or perhaps…" he whispered, venomously,
"you came to defile the faith of Sainokuni."
Seimei stepped forward, his stance subtle and graceful—
a dance of blades.
Donyoku drew his daggers.
No words.
Only instinct.
Shinsei looked at them.
And inside, he bled—
not from wounds,
but from all he had sacrificed in the name of something that still refused to answer.
"So many deaths…
So much devotion…
And still, you do not awaken."
He unsheathed a slender black sword glowing with sacred symbols from another world.
"This is my Shinkon," he declared firmly.
"The Mark of the Broken Heaven."
A radiant cross ignited on his chest.
Everything that sword touched—
was marked.
And everything marked—
could be erased from existence.
---
The ground trembled.
Not from power.
But from meaning.
They were not about to fight a fanatic…
But a man who had given everything,
and was still willing to destroy everything for an answer.
---
Shinsei moved first.
Like an arrow loosed from divine judgment.
His blade shot straight for Seimei's chest.
Seimei barely dodged.
His body turned with surgical precision.
The sword struck a pillar.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then the pillar… disappeared.
It didn't fall.
It didn't explode.
It simply ceased to exist.
"Thank you, body of mine," Seimei whispered between ragged breaths.
"Never doubt yourself."
Donyoku shouted his name and lunged.
But before his dagger could cut the air,
Shinsei's sacred blade was already at his throat.
A sentence.
Seimei moved on instinct—
rolled, pushed Donyoku aside, saving him from a death without memory.
Shinsei's strikes weren't brutal.
They were precise.
Perfect.
Divine.
Each movement was a prayer.
Each cut—a blasphemy shaped as steel.
"Damn impostor!" Seimei roared, dodging by inches.
Outwardly, he smiled.
Inwardly…
fear tore him apart.
"If he touches me—I vanish.
Not wounded.
Not dead.
Nothing."
Shinsei slashed three times at his chest.
Seimei spun aside, touched the ground, and countered.
Knowing he was slower, Donyoku threw his daggers to him.
"Use both! Break him!"
Seimei caught them midair.
Twisted.
Crossed.
Attacked.
For the first time, Shinsei stepped back.
Seimei's strikes were fluid—
art between dance and sentence.
And for a moment,
faith trembled.
"The Chosen of God," Seimei sneered,
"is nothing but a madman clinging to a myth."
Shinsei said nothing.
Then—
a thrust.
A flicker of light.
A mistake.
A cut.
Shinsei's blade grazed Seimei's right hand.
The world stopped.
Seimei knew.
One second—maybe less.
Donyoku opened his mouth—no sound came.
Then—
CRACK!
Seimei used the other dagger—
and cut off his own hand.
The scream was of the soul, not the throat.
He fell.
He cried.
But he didn't stop.
The severed hand faded—
as if it had never existed.
For the first time, Shinsei froze.
Confused.
And in that instant, Seimei spun—
his left leg struck Shinsei's ribs with brutal force.
Shinsei hit the wall, gasping.
And before silence could fall—
Seimei was already fleeing.
Donyoku caught his shoulder, lifted him,
and together they vanished into the ruins.
Seimei's blood left a trail—
but not regret.
---
The door of the abandoned house burst open.
Seimei stumbled in, drenched in blood, face pale, his right arm ending in a stump.
"Seimei!!" Aika screamed, running to him.
Donyoku held him up, panting.
"He didn't touch him… He cut, but he didn't touch."
Seimei laughed weakly.
"Faith… burns hotter than steel."
Aika laid him down on torn cushions.
Her hands trembled as she tried to stop the bleeding.
"I need water! Towels! Anything!"
Chisiki rose silently, preparing barriers around the house.
He said nothing—
but he knew what was coming.
Reiji drew his katana, peering out the window.
The skies were still.
Too still.
"They'll find us in minutes," he said.
"That attack wasn't punishment. It was a warning."
Then—
a voice.
Monotone.
Sharp.
As if the world itself didn't deserve sound.
"Would you all shut up?"
Everyone turned.
Iwamaru Nagi sat in a broken chair,
three of his Shinigami playing around him—
one flipping Aika's dagger,
another climbing the walls,
the last sniffing the air, tasting danger.
"What did you say?" Donyoku snarled.
Iwamaru yawned.
"I said, if you keep crying and talking,
you'll waste the only chance you have of reaching the lab alive."
Reiji narrowed his eyes.
"You have information?"
"My Shinigami," Iwamaru gestured lazily to the shadows,
"found the entrance.
Right where no one dares to look:
beneath a burned temple."
Chisiki nodded slowly.
"Perfect… a hell beneath the ruins of a rotten faith."
Iwamaru stood.
He didn't look hurried.
But he didn't look human either.
"If you don't move now,
you'll waste the time Seimei bought you with a piece of himself."
Aika glared.
"He's hurt! We can't just—"
"Of course you can," Iwamaru interrupted.
"The world is dying, girl.
Do you think war cares about pain?"
Reiji breathed deeply.
"Let's go."
They all turned to him.
"Are you sure?" Donyoku asked.
Reiji nodded.
"Seimei didn't lose that hand for us to sit here watching the earth rot beneath us."
They lifted Seimei.
Chisiki wove a faint camouflage illusion.
Aika breathed in and held her fear.
Seita lowered his gaze—
but his steps didn't falter.
Iwamaru smiled faintly.
His Shinigami moved northward.
The hunt for God had begun.
---
The Empire of Enketsu burned without flame.
The streets were filled with rumors.
Markets closed without warning.
Temples were looted by their own faithful.
And the empire's banners…
began to burn.
The reason was one:
Genshin, King of Hokori, had invaded—
without warning, without diplomacy, without mercy.
No envoys.
No drums.
He crossed the border like a storm
and razed three provinces in four days.
---
At the heart of the imperial palace,
Zanka studied his maps while sipping his ninth cup of sake.
"A war… finally.
But this—" he frowned, tracing the red-marked cities—
"this wasn't part of my plan."
He paced back and forth.
His robes were stained with blood and wine.
But his gaze—sharp.
Too sharp.
Beside him, elegant and silent as a shadow,
Kagenami handed him a scroll.
"This is everything I gathered in Hokori. Military clans, logistics routes, divisions, generals' names."
Zanka unrolled it.
Read.
Nodded.
Then tossed it into the fire.
"Useless."
Kagenami didn't flinch.
"Why?"
Zanka looked at him with disdain, though he knew it wasn't his fault.
"Because you didn't know who we'd be fighting."
"Genshin…"
"Exactly!" Zanka roared, hurling his cup to the floor.
"The damn King of Hokori himself decided to fight!
And not only that…"
He approached the imperial map.
"He brought his clans."
"The royal clans?" Kagenami whispered.
Zanka nodded.
For the first time in years, fear glinted in his eyes.
"The Tokitsune Clan…
The Mikazuki Clan…
Even the cursed ones of ancient blood… they're here."
A pause.
"He didn't send soldiers.
He sent ideology.
Spiritual power.
Fanaticism.
And blessed blood."
Kagenami lowered his gaze.
"We didn't foresee this…"
Zanka laughed—a hollow, drunken, broken laugh.
"Of course not.
Who expects a god to descend from his throne to fight with his own hands?"
Silence.
Zanka poured himself another cup.
"But if Genshin wants to play god…" he muttered, smiling darkly,
"then I'll play the demon who burns the heavens."
---
While some pray for the world not to end,
others are becoming the ones who will destroy it.
For in this war,
neither God answers…
nor does Hell sleep.
Thank you for delving into this second arc, where war is not only waged with swords, but with wounds of the past, decisions beyond return… and souls that have yet to choose which side they stand upon.