Even if the unstable factor of the Demon King is eliminated, the family is what the gods in the heaven who are the Lord wish.
But they are already doing it. What do you, an outsider, want to do by intervening at this time?
There are too many misunderstandings that can be caused, so there is no reason, Noa is really not easy to do anything about.
As for helping?
The Heaven Realm also needs Noa's help.
It's just a demon king. If these gods in the Heaven Realm are serious, any one of them can solve the problem.
Especially those who manage this planet—Eris.
This is her home ground. She has a huge number of believers on this planet. When the power of faith truly erupts, it is more than enough to erase something like the Demon King. It is not a question of capability, but of whether intervention is permitted.
The gods of the Konosuba World cannot take direct action.
The reason is simple: rules exist to preserve faith, and faith exists to preserve divine strength.
Distance creates reverence. And reverence is born from the unknown.
There are many sayings like this—some more poetic, others more pragmatic—but they all point to the same truth: sometimes, being too close is not a good thing.
This is especially true between gods and their believers.
The Great Tree Village and Orario in the Dungeon World were the clearest examples Noa had observed.
In Great Tree Village, where gods and humans lived under the same roof, familiarity had eroded reverence. The girls of the village interacted daily with Hestia and Hephaestus, treating them more like companions than divine beings. Respect still existed, but it was no longer rooted in awe.
Orario was slightly different, yet fundamentally similar. Adventurers still maintained formal respect toward the gods who descended to live among them, but true belief—pure, unwavering faith—had become increasingly rare. Proximity had softened divinity into companionship.
Because of this, the gods of the Konosuba world deliberately maintained distance from their believers. They rarely appeared directly, choosing instead to remain unseen observers.
Not out of coldness—but out of necessity.
To preserve awe.
To preserve faith.
Noa himself had applied a similar principle in the world of beheading girls. After acting, he rarely appeared a second time. Presence diluted mystery, and mystery was often what sustained authority.
There was also another important issue.
Gods were not caretakers.
If divine beings were too accessible, they would inevitably become the targets of endless prayers—requests, complaints, wishes, desperation. The moment one request was granted, ten more would follow. The line between devotion and dependency would blur.
Refuse, and faith might weaken.
Accept everything, and they would become nothing more than cosmic nannies, endlessly managing the affairs of their believers.
And that was unsustainable.
Not just emotionally, but structurally.
A system where all reliance flows upward eventually collapses the foundation beneath it. When an entire civilization becomes dependent on a higher existence to solve its problems, it loses the ability to grow, adapt, and survive independently.
In that sense, the gods' restraint was not neglect.
It was balance.
A carefully maintained distance that ensured both sides could continue to exist without consuming each other.
Noa understood this clearly.
And because of that understanding, he found himself in a difficult position—standing between systems, aware of problems that could be solved easily, yet constrained by rules that made direct action unnecessary or even harmful.
So for now, he remained an outsider observing carefully.
Not intervening.
Not disrupting.
Simply watching the boundaries that even gods were forced to respect.
...
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