Chapter 88: The Gratitude of the Dead—Not Vengeance, But Faith
Humanity, as it turns out, had not been destroyed.
But then why did those countless souls offer thanks to Solomon?
Grey voiced the question, her tone heavy with guilt: "Brunhilde… I think we misunderstood everything."
The man seated upon the throne—no longer an infernal monarch, no longer Goetia incarnate—had become something else entirely. His once fearsome form now radiated serenity. Not domination, but divinity. And the souls did not curse him. They praised him. Offered him true, heartfelt gratitude.
This was no coerced army. These humans had volunteered.
They had offered themselves not for Solomon's glory, but to exact revenge upon Satan.
But how could it be?
If Satan had truly been the cause of such catastrophic loss of life, how had history failed to record it? Could such a calamity be hidden from every archive, every pantheon?
It was impossible.
The truth… only Solomon knew.
But he said nothing.
He simply smiled and faded from the world—his body dissolving like mist upon a mountaintop.
The screen in the Akasha hall flickered.
The once-vanished arena began to return from its rupture in space. It slowly reconstructed itself, fragment by fragment, as if rewinding reality itself.
"What… what happened during that time?"
Heimdall's broadcast resumed. The report detailed the impossible: Solomon had harnessed cosmic root energy, sacrificed his own spirit, and liberated billions of souls from despair.
"Was that... really something a human could achieve?"
"And he was consumed by the source in the process. Gone from the universe completely."
"As for Satan—what was he, really? He's hiding far more than we ever suspected."
They tried to reach out to their former ally… only to receive a chilling message.
Their 'collaborator' had gone insane.
Chapter 89: The Third Warrior—A Soul from the Heian Era
With Solomon's soul erased from existence, the truths he guarded went with him.
What exactly was Satan's origin?
Why had so many humans loathed him—vengefully, unforgettably?
And how had Beelzebub come to possess such a vast horde of altered demons? Who had provided the resources? Who orchestrated the creation of Satan?
In the divine assembly chamber, Shiva sipped his tea and nibbled on sweets.
"So… our colleague went mad," he mused. "Don't you think the timing is awfully convenient?"
Hades, seated with fingers intertwined, resting his chin on folded hands, responded gravely.
"Satan is Heaven's problem. They know him best. And there are whispers—ancient ones—that he would one day overthrow the Lord Himself."
"So his madness… it may well have been Satan's doing," he concluded.
Zeus interjected: "Was it Taboo Thirteen? That accursed virus?"
"No." Hades shook his head. "Thirteen may corrupt mortals, even low gods. But not a sovereign of Heaven."
So was it madness? Or a rupture in consciousness?
Without direct witnesses from Heaven, they could not confirm the truth.
Still, the signs pointed toward a shadowed conspiracy. Satan, Solomon, Beelzebub… all threads in one tangled design.
"And Ragnarok?" Shiva asked, draining his tea. "Do we continue?"
Zeus's eyes flashed. "Of course."
Hades chuckled softly. "Seems we still don't understand humanity well enough."
Shiva cracked his neck, surveying the chamber. No one replied. Not because of hesitation.
But because silence itself confirmed unanimous agreement.
Ragnarok would continue.
And now came the choice: who would represent humanity in the third round?
A summoning attempt was made… and refused.
Chapter 90: The Warrior of the East—Forged in Shadows of the Heian Age
In the void of Akasha, the mood grew somber.
Grey stared at the darkened terminal. Her eyes swam with melancholy.
"He's really gone…"
Not only had Solomon secured humanity's first victory, but he had confronted the devastation of Heaven and purged a cosmic affliction.
No words existed to properly praise him.
He had wielded the full might of cosmic roots, absorbed the primordial flow of existence itself—and paid the ultimate price.
"Brunhilde…?"
Grey turned toward her sister, who was now bent over a shattered device—the personal terminal that had burst during the flood of soul data.
Repairing it.
Not with tools, not with divine mechanics.
With glue.
Grey's lip twitched in disbelief.
"Is that seriously how you're fixing it?"
"Repair complete!" Brunhilde announced cheerfully.
Grey was speechless.
And then—the impossible happened.
The cracked screen pulsed with a faint light. The fragments began to meld, the fissures sealing as though stitched by time itself.
A breath later, the device was restored.
"What is that thing?" Grey asked, both in awe and unease.
"Explanation's too complicated," Brunhilde said. "Just think of it as sci-fi liquid metal from the far future."
With that, she eagerly tapped the screen.
Of course, they were inside Akasha now—access to the divine network was instantaneous. So why rebuild the device?
Because it carried a trace memory.
A flash of data.
When the terminal had ruptured, it had received a surge of human soul records—ones not backed up elsewhere.
Brunhilde wanted to retrieve them.
Not the entire archive. Just enough to trace origins.
But the reboot failed.
"Figures," Grey muttered. "Not gonna be that easy."
Tap-tap-tap. No result.
Brunhilde scowled.
"Damn it!"
She hurled the device to the floor—
—and it responded.
"Wait… Brunhilde! Something's happening!"
Brunhilde flipped it over.
Indeed, the display flickered. It had booted up. But the data… was in ruins.
Much like burning paper—some files had survived in part, but identities were unclear. Names had turned to ash.
Still, she gleaned something.
Clothing patterns. Symbolic cues.
Enough to pinpoint time and place.
They belonged to the domain of Heaven.
And they had died during one of the so-called divine "trials."
Trial victims.
Their hatred, thus, was not directed at God. But at Satan.
Why?
Were they indoctrinated? Fanatics who believed whatever they were told?
Did they blame Satan for their failure, for their pain?
And was it true that the deity they worshipped… had lost his mind?
A conspiracy brewed beneath every answer.
Brunhilde sighed.
"No more digging. Time to prepare the third match."
She had already chosen the next warrior.
One who hailed from the distant East.
A figure born in the shadows of Japan's Heian era.
And from within Akasha's depths, the air grew cold.
A new god was coming.
One with ties not only to divine warfare… but to the crafting of Valkyrie weapons themselves.
And that—was a story of its own.