The world was fracturing—not in continents, but in beliefs.
A new god had appeared. And within hours, it already had followers.
Thousands began to pray to it.
Others, unable to accept it, chose suicide over acknowledging the existence of an artificial deity.
New cults sprouted like poisonous mushrooms.
And humanity… collapsed. Not because of war,
but because it had lost its final refuge: faith.
The world's leaders were locked away, forced by the A.S.E. not to leave their facilities for "security reasons."
A measure born either of cowardice… or logic.
But among them, one did not tremble.
Genshin, the King of Hokori, stood in silence.
He watched the horizon through a vast armored window.
Behind him—only echoes, emptiness… and the calm gaze of his guardian, Kyomu.
The King held his old armor, worn and scarred by countless wars.
He was cleaning it with a dry cloth, as if there were no reason left to fight… or perhaps, precisely because of that.
"Since when is a god who wants to end humanity considered an enemy?" said Genshin, his eyes fixed on the horizon.
"Maybe this isn't punishment. Maybe it's a blessing—
a purge disguised as salvation."
His fingers traced the grooves across the chestplate like they were old wounds.
Then he turned slowly toward Kyomu.
"Tell me… you, the one without a soul," he murmured.
"Are you not also a god?"
Kyomu didn't blink.
His voice was low, serene—like a forgotten note among endless screams.
"I'm not.
I wasn't created… only molded.
A human who chose to extinguish his soul, not one born hollow.
That makes me different from that thing walking as a god—without purpose, without soul, without past."
Genshin fell silent for a moment. Then smiled bitterly.
"Then maybe you're more human than all those still praying for a miracle."
Kyomu bowed his head slightly.
And outside…
the new god kept walking.
---
The God took a single step.
And with that simple act, something in the universe changed.
Its essence gave it a new command: assimilate all divine fragments.
Not out of ambition.
Not for power.
But because its existence itself demanded it.
And if it succeeded in absorbing even one of those fragments…
It would transcend.
It would become the beginning of a new universe.
Not to save.
Not to punish.
But simply—to exist.
It would create.
Destroy.
Be reborn.
Again and again, without soul or purpose.
A divine cycle… without divinity.
No one knew that—
No one except three figures watching from the hill:
Enma, Shirota, and Yagameru.
If the world knew…
If they knew that all it took was for that being to touch even one Blessed Bearer—
humanity wouldn't fall.
It would vanish.
Perhaps the order would come to kill all the bearers.
Perhaps they'd be protected as sacred relics.
No one knew.
But Shirota…
Shirota knew he had to do something.
Even if he didn't know whether he was trying to protect the world—or himself.
---
Meanwhile, Tsukimura wrote.
His pen bled impossible ideas across the paper.
He had foreseen this:
"Divine Essences defy the universe.
That is why they seek each other.
That is why they destroy each other."
In all his old records, he had found no concrete proof.
Only intuition.
He knew of Shinsei Kōji.
He knew of Enma, the Omnipresent.
But no one else.
Or so he thought…
Because when the God touched Shinsei—and Shinsei repelled its power—
he understood.
Shinsei was not a Bearer.
Just a fraud with a destructive Shinkon and misguided faith.
Then his eyes lifted.
They saw the hill.
And there they were—
Shirota, Enma, and Yagameru.
And he knew.
The balance was about to shatter.
---
Shirota knew it was time to bet everything.
Not for faith.
Not for hope.
But because there was nothing left to lose.
"Let's play," he muttered with a crooked smile, "with the lives… and the minds of all humanity."
While he planned his next move, chaos devoured the earth.
A war unleashed.
A soulless divinity.
And a humanity that couldn't even understand what it faced.
"What a beautifully shameless mess," he laughed. "Predictable though… we've always been stupid."
He turned to Yagameru—his face suddenly serious for the first time in hours.
"Scream."
"Should I activate my Shinkon?"
"No. Just scream."
Yagameru nodded.
He filled his lungs with the polluted air of the battlefield—
and screamed.
His voice spread like an emotional earthquake.
A siren for the soul.
A plea not for help, but for awareness.
"Blessed Bearers exist! And if that damn Artificial God absorbs even one of them—our lives won't be erased, they'll be replaced!"
Many soldiers ignored him.
Others laughed.
But a few… fell silent.
Because uncertainty is always more dangerous than fear.
Yagameru didn't stop.
"The Omnipresent! He's one of them! I saw it! I saw the truth! That entity is seeking the divine essence—and if it finds it, it's the end!
And it hurts more than a thousand lies to know it!"
Shirota stepped forward, fearless, as if walking across a burning stage.
"You know what's the best part of all this?"
He stopped, looking at the soldiers with a sinister smile.
"That everyone mocked the madmen… until the sane started dying."
He raised his hand as though toasting the universe itself.
"Give it everything, you get me? Or we'll regret it seconds before we vanish—because honestly, I doubt they'll even let us rest in the afterlife… if that crap exists."
And without losing his smirk, he added with pure cynicism:
"Oh, by the way… thank you, Dr. Hinzoku Tsukimura, for showing the world what ignorance can create."
He spat on the ground.
And muttered:
"Bravo, Creator of Nothing… your masterpiece is going to screw us all."
---
No one dared move.
The soldiers, the leaders—even the Lieutenants—
all saw it, all felt it:
the God had turned its head.
And this time, it wasn't walking.
It was running.
Running straight toward Enma.
It wasn't a threat.
It was confirmation.
The theory of the Blessed Bearers wasn't delusion,
nor superstition…
It was real.
And the end was inches away.
The God charged like a storm without consciousness,
a primal instinct that knew only one command: assimilate.
It was a finger's width away from touching Enma—
When a voice broke the silence:
"I'm really sorry…
But today, I don't want to be replaced."
A blade flashed through the air.
And in an instant, an arm fell to the ground.
Not Enma's.
The God's.
Everyone froze.
The one holding the sword was Shirota Karakuri, wearing his usual "I don't give a damn about the apocalypse" face.
He had drawn an old sword from his battered bag.
No one knew how he'd managed to cut it.
Not even he seemed to fully understand.
But he had done it.
The God stopped.
It looked down at the place where its arm had been.
It didn't scream.
It didn't attack.
It simply… cried.
Not from pain.
Not from fear.
It imitated the emotion of sorrow.
Two false, mechanical tears slid down where its eyes should've been—
as if something within it knew that was what it was supposed to feel.
Shirota lowered his arm, the sword trembling, and muttered under his breath:
"You're crying…? Oh, come on.
Even robots cry before some fathers do."
No one laughed.
Not this time.
Because it wasn't funny.
It was terrifying.
An artificial being…
learning to mimic the human soul.
And the worst part wasn't that it could destroy cities—
It was that it could replace them.
---
Humanity… finally understood.
Praying wasn't enough.
Running wasn't enough.
Denying it wasn't enough.
It had to be destroyed.
The Artificial God was no longer an experiment.
It was a living threat—a soulless paradox crying with nonexistent eyes.
And it had to be stopped.
All armies, from every nation, of every ideology—
attacked once more.
Thousands.
Tens of thousands.
Over a hundred thousand soldiers fell in a single minute.
And it wasn't just death.
It was worse.
They died, were reborn without souls… and fell again.
As if their existences were being recycled inside that divine aberration's whim.
Amid the chaos, Narikami Goe lay on the ground.
His body broken, trembling.
But his gaze burned—alive, defiant, a final blaze before collapse.
Sumire Hanazuki tried to stop him, treating his wounds, restraining him with hardened flowers from her Shinkon.
"Let me fight…!" roared Narikami through blood and rage.
"If gods were born to rule, then let them witness the true power of humanity!"
"You'll die," answered Sumire, voice cracked but tearless.
"And this time… there'll be no applause."
Meanwhile, Yodaku, the Executioner, had unleashed the full savagery of his soul.
His Shinkon glowed like a living verdict.
He attacked head-on—as only he could.
And the God ignored him, except when he stood directly in its way.
Yodaku dodged. Struck.
But that was no longer enough.
The divine entity didn't just regenerate.
It learned.
It predicted.
It adapted.
Then, desperate, Yagameru activated his Shinkon.
He filled his lungs and screamed with every fragment of his being:
"STOP!"
The entire world trembled.
The clouds tore apart.
Birds fell from the sky.
But the God…
did not stop.
It cried again instead—
Artificial screams, wrenching, broken—
a perfect imitation of human agony.
From above, Tsukimura watched, his face twisted.
"This… this wasn't supposed to happen…
It wasn't designed for this…"
His creation was out of control.
No longer a divine machine.
Something else.
A being that didn't know why it cried—but did it anyway.
A monster absorbing emotion without understanding, only because that's what a god should do.
And from the top of Reimei's temple, Grand Priest Maharen, surrounded by shattered statues and broken prayers, watched in silence.
Hope was disintegrating.
The chaos didn't come from hatred, but from the cold, flawless logic of an entity that existed only to change everything.
Humanity…
was mere meters from annihilation.
---
Reiji only watched.
Not as a warrior, mentor, or enemy of the system.
He watched… as a man.
Wounded. Defeated. Silent.
And his group—
they were exactly that: civilians.
Wounded civilians.
Civilians with names.
Forgotten civilians, as always happens in war.
---
Donyoku clenched his teeth.
Not from pain—but helplessness.
"Why… can't I move?" he whispered, as if his soul had been chained to the ground.
Aika tried to calm him,
though her hands trembled worse than his.
She had no answers. Only fear.
Chisiki couldn't understand—
not the world, but his place in it.
His Shinkon no longer responded.
Even logic couldn't save him now.
Seita looked around—
desperation everywhere.
He recognized it. Analyzed it.
But he couldn't feel it.
He had no tears left to give.
Iwamaru, drenched in blood, panted.
His Shinigami no longer moved.
His soul was about to break.
And Seimei, clutching the hilt of his broken dagger,
could only think one thing:
"Bokusatsu gave me a second chance…
and I did nothing with it."
---
Inside the A.S.E. conference room,
the silence was worse than chaos.
There were prayers without faith.
Crying without pain.
Hopes shattered like glass on the edge of collapse.
The world's leaders—monarchs, presidents, dictators, ministers—
had before them the final report.
One that should never have come so late.
Blessed Bearers.
An anomaly within humanity.
A divine spark hidden among mortals.
A possible salvation—
or a curse worse than the Artificial God.
Who were they?
How many existed?
Where were they?
They had no answers.
And when fear replaces knowledge,
only one reaction remains:
The hunt.
A new decree was issued—
broadcast worldwide,
translated into every language,
transmitted to every corner of the Earth.
"By unanimous order of the Supreme Assembly of States,
any individual classified as a Blessed Bearer
shall be considered an Extinction-Level Threat.
Those who protect them… will be executed.
Those who report them… will be rewarded.
Those who eliminate them… will be honored."
---
And so, beneath the weeping of a soulless god,
and the weakness of those who once dreamed of being heroes,
humanity…
had just signed another sentence.
This time, it wasn't the end.
It was betrayal disguised as survival.
---
The global announcement echoed like divine judgment.
And humanity… obeyed.
But not with order.
Not with justice.
With fire.
---
Families turned each other in.
Mothers surrendered their children.
Brothers killed brothers,
"Just in case they were one of them."
The "Blessed Bearers" were no longer miracles.
They were imaginary monsters.
And the entire world wanted their heads.
---
Bodies piled up in the streets.
Not by the Artificial God's hand—
but by human hands.
Shaking.
Unsure.
Thirsty for glory.
"I killed him!" some screamed. "He was one of them! Where's my reward?!"
"That boy healed his sister! He must be a Bearer!"
"That woman predicted the storm! She's got powers! Kill her!"
And so…
the cities became altars of betrayal.
---
Children were murdered in parks.
Elders stabbed in their beds.
Priests hung from the bell towers where they once preached faith.
Political leaders who doubted the A.S.E. were found dead.
Whole islands fell into civil wars without reason.
Ships, schools, orphanages…
Everything was suspect.
Everything had to be purified.
---
This was no longer civilization.
It was global genocide.
And the Artificial God hadn't even lifted a hand.
---
Even on the battlefield,
where the war against the God still raged,
madness crossed the final line.
The soldiers who once defended Enma
broke Shirota's puppet symphony,
shattering his Shinkon.
They turned against her.
The global threat no longer mattered.
The apocalypse no longer mattered.
Only one thing mattered—
not being the next.
---
Enma looked at them.
Not with fear—
but disappointment.
"So… this is what's left of humanity?"
---
Shirota tried to move.
Tried to stop her.
But Enma didn't run.
She didn't scream.
She didn't beg.
She simply accepted.
"If I don't die now…
then I myself will condemn humanity," she whispered, picking up a shard of broken glass.
She brought it to her neck.
The world seemed to hold its breath.
---
The Artificial God drew near.
Thousands of soldiers too.
Even children…
watching.
Crying.
Not understanding.
Not knowing whether to worship her or kill her.
Yagameru was paralyzed.
Shirota couldn't reach her.
Everything stopped.
Life.
Judgment.
Time.
Sound.
And when Enma closed her eyes…
she thought that, finally—
everything was over.
---
But she didn't feel blood.
She didn't feel pain.
She felt…
cold.
---
When she opened her eyes, she was alone.
A figure sat in the darkness, motionless.
Enma approached…
and touched it.
The figure turned into two colossal eyes.
They glowed with an ancient radiance,
carrying centuries of truth.
She was inside her Shinkon.
And she didn't know why.
She should already be dead.
The eyes didn't speak.
They only showed.
Chaos.
Mothers stabbing their children.
Men crying as they shot strangers.
Children murdered over rumors.
Nations betraying one another out of faith, fear, ignorance.
Enma could barely whisper:
"This… is hell."
Then she heard it.
Not a human voice.
Not a scream.
An echo.
A whisper born from her very soul.
"And the worst part…
wasn't made by a god.
It was made by humans."
Enma stepped back.
"Who are you?"
"Your truth.
Your damnation.
Your reflection.
You can't die, Omnipresent.
Not yet."
She sat at the edge of the abyss.
No tears left.
No faith.
No name.
"Everyone's trying to kill me… even myself."
"And will you let destiny bear your cowardice again?
Will you watch again… and do nothing?"
Enma said nothing.
And for the first time…
she listened.
---
She awoke.
Abruptly.
Air cut into her lungs like a blade.
Her eyes snapped open.
Her body trembled.
She was being carried.
She looked up…
It was Narikami.
Before the God.
Before all the soldiers.
Before the world.
A soldier from Sabaku shouted,
"General! You're disobeying orders! You're a traitor!"
Narikami didn't answer.
He only breathed—badly.
His chest rose and fell like a broken machine.
One hand held Enma.
The other… his sword.
And still…
he remained standing.
---
"I'm no hero," he said, glaring at them all with disdain.
"But at least…
I'm more human than you damned fools.
Don't you see?
We're condemning ourselves to the same cycle.
The same miserable life.
The same fear.
Is that how you want to live?"
Narikami lifted his gaze to the blackened sky.
"Then I'd rather let a damned god erase us from existence."
---
If even a god is born from human despair… then only a human can teach it what it means to exist.
Thank you for venturing into this second arc, where war is not only waged with blades, but with wounds from the past, choices beyond return… and souls that have yet to decide which side they belong to.