Mhm. Even the once-invincible God of War could now only prove his sincerity and fury through "unleashing power"... or in plain terms, being the "atmosphere guy."
Even if the one who snatched the throne was a nameless nobody from the past, the One True God was still the One True God—omniscient and omnipotent. With a casual wave of his hand, Tet dispelled the ruckus Artosh had stirred up and invited the enraged God of War to a game.
["In that case, let's play a game~. With fair rules, even if you lose such a plan, you'll have no complaints~."]
The youth of ambiguous gender spoke easily, and then—triumphed.
Not through the overwhelming power of the One True God, but by restricting his power to an equal starting point. Tet defeated Artosh fairly. It was a loss that even Artosh could find no words to protest.
And so, in the span of just a few days, the God of War—who had never known defeat—lost twice in succession. It truly gave the Old Zeus a taste of what it meant to be bewildered.
The "no words to protest" only applied to his speech. In his heart, Artosh was still reeling from the defeat. He wanted to win again, to defeat that smiling God of Games. Of course, that's another story.
After his defeat, Artosh finally calmed down enough to listen to Tet explanation. He eventually secured Tet guarantee that Sū ěr had only gone out for a "joyride" and would eventually return. With that, he led the Flügel back to Avant Heim.
For the next three thousand years, the Flügel watched as their Master sat silently on his throne, day after day, researching... game tactics.
One had to admit, though direct violence and war were forbidden, wherever there are people, there is conflict. Even the alternative wars found in various Pledge-games counted as conflict, so Artosh hadn't weakened to the point of needing slumber. He was simply much weaker than during the Great War, when the world was filled only with blood and battle.
"Is that so?"
Artosh didn't react with any particular excitement to Jibril candor. He merely asked in his steady, heavy voice:
"Something is on your mind... my precious wing."
To be honest, he sounded a bit like an old father who didn't know how to talk to his child, struggling to find a topic—yes! Jibril knew the comparison was irreverent! But after hearing her Creator's words, a comment a certain man had made in the past unbiddenly popped into her head.
How to put it? She wanted to laugh... right now, even though her mood had been quite heavy before she entered!
"Yes, my Lord," Jibril said, quickly lowering her head to suppress her urge to laugh. "I just... I just wanted to... confess..."
Hesitation and stammering were rare for a Flügel, but Jibril, with her "Irregular" label, didn't care about such trifles. She took a deep breath, discarded her cluttered thoughts, and began to open up.
"I have grown weak... my Lord." She knelt on the floor, her wings tucked at her sides, her body bowed low. She hugged her knees, and as her white wings draped over her, she looked as though she were curled up, holding herself.
"The hands reaching out from the past have snared me... It shouldn't be like this, yet I cannot stop myself from reminiscing... It makes me weak. It makes me... no longer like a Flügel."
Jibril voice was barely a whisper, yet she knew Artosh could hear her. He simply hadn't responded yet.
"I am no longer decisive. I no longer view those short-lived weaklings as meaningless... I can even dimly resonate with their emotions..."
"I am changing... my Lord. Is this what you hoped to see?"
It felt as if she were talking to a silent wall. Jibril murmured on the floor, her confusion growing.
"You set foot in that palace, my most precious wing."
Though he lacked the ability to see the future or peer into the past, Artosh spoke with absolute certainty.
"...Yes, my Lord," Jibril replied after a moment of silence.
"You are smiling—from the moment you entered Avant Heim... which is to say, my most precious wing, you do not regret today's choice."
"No, rather, you do regret... that you did not enter that palace sooner."
Artosh calm, steady voice was like a sharp blade, piercing through Jibril defenses one strike after another. Clean strikes, every one of them.
Jibril curled form on the floor began to tremble slightly. A few feathers drifted from her wings. Without looking up, the pink-haired Flügel used her finger to trace a line from the left corner of her mouth to the right—an upward-curving arc.
The Master she served was not wrong.
She wasn't grieving because she chose to visit the palace today; she was grieving for her lateness... three thousand years late. And from that came a torrent of complex thoughts.
"Then... why choose today?"
Artosh continued to press. He wasn't curious about what was in the palace, but why his most valued wing—who had resisted going for three millennia—had suddenly chosen to go today.
Yes, even he knew today was the anniversary of the war's end. Artosh would never forget the day of his defeat. But that alone wasn't enough—even if his Old Zeus perspective couldn't put it into words, he knew it wasn't enough.
Whether out of fear or an inability to accept the truth, Jibril trembling grew more violent, until even her voice wavered.
"...I... just... missed..."
"...Missed them..."
The words were so blurry they were almost inaudible, whispered as if they were a disgrace. Yet here, before her Creator, Jibril squeezed the words from between her teeth.
She even felt a sense of shame for it.