Darkness surrounded him.
Not empty.
Not silent.
Something existed within it.
Close enough to feel.
Far enough to not be touched.
The boy stood still.
Barefoot. Thin. A body worn down into survival. His black hair fell unevenly, uncared for. His eyes—
Dull.
Not lifeless.
Just… done expecting anything from the world.
Pain lingered in his body.
But it no longer demanded attention.
It had become background.
This—
was different.
Something moved toward him.
Not through space.
Through presence.
A figure unfolded—slow, unstable. As if reality itself struggled to remember what it was supposed to be.
"…Are you a god?" the boy asked.
The question came without hesitation.
Without fear.
Silence followed.
Not absence.
Consideration.
Then—
A quiet chuckle.
Low. Worn.
Amused… but tired.
"God."
A breath of laughter followed.
"You mean the saviors… the protectors…?"
The boy didn't blink.
"If you are," he said, voice dry, unused, "then answer something."
The presence leaned closer.
Interest—faint, but real.
"Oh?"
A brief pause.
Then—
"Why am I alive?"
The figure stopped.
Completely.
Then—
A soft hum.
"That's your first question?"
A breath of laughter escaped it.
Not mocking.
Not kind.
Just… honest.
"Alive," it repeated. "You say that like it means something."
The space tightened—not physically, but undeniably.
"You were born without being asked. Starved without reason. Broken without purpose."
Silence pressed in.
"Which part of that feels meaningful to you?"
The boy said nothing.
There was nothing to defend.
"You want a reason," the figure continued.
"Yes."
"Something fair."
"…Yes."
The figure steadied—just slightly.
"But fairness is a human invention."
Silence.
The boy didn't reject it.
But he didn't accept it either.
"Then why does it exist?" he asked.
This time, his voice sharpened.
The figure reacted.
Subtly.
"Now that…" it murmured, "…is a better question."
Its form stabilized for a moment.
Humanoid.
Half a face—perfect. Calm. Almost divine.
The other half—
Gone.
Not damaged.
Not hidden.
Removed.
As if existence itself had rejected it.
Its eyes—
They didn't shine.
They observed.
Endlessly.
"Suffering exists," it said, "because it is entertaining."
The boy's fingers twitched.
Once.
"…No."
The word slipped out.
Quiet.
Unplanned.
The presence paused.
Then—
The figure leaned closer.
"You believe you were meant to be happy?"
A pause.
"No."
"You were made to suffer."
The darkness tightened.
"The strong stand above. The weak crawl beneath."
Its voice thinned into something hollow.
"And when they're given even a fragment of hope…"
A tired laugh.
"They worship the one who handed it to them and call it salvation."
Silence.
"Tell me," it whispered, "isn't that entertaining?"
The boy didn't answer.
"So everything that happened…"
"Was seen."
"Every suffering… was watched?"
"Yes."
The boy understood the answer.
That didn't make it acceptable.
It didn't need to be.
"…Enjoyed?"
The answer came without hesitation.
"Very much."
Something in his chest tightened.
Not pain.
Not anger.
Just… resistance.
Brief.
Then gone.
The silence that followed felt heavier than anything before it.
Then—
Light.
It didn't arrive.
It imposed itself.
The darkness split.
Not burned. Not pushed back.
Rewritten.
A second presence stepped forward.
Whole.
Perfect.
Unquestionable.
Its form didn't flicker.
The boy knew that face.
He had seen it before.
On walls.
In prayers.
In bowed heads.
"…God of Life… Vermilion."
Calm.
Untouched.
The boy stared.
Vermilion didn't look at him.
Its gaze rested only on the broken figure.
"So this is where you crawled to… Azael."
Its voice carried no weight.
Because it didn't need to.
It was absolute.
Azael's form flickered violently.
"You shouldn't be here."
"And yet," Vermilion replied, "I am."
"You were already erased," Vermilion continued. "This is merely what refused to disappear."
Azael laughed.
Weak.
"…And yet you came yourself."
Azael didn't move.
Couldn't.
"You turned suffering into spectacle." Vermilion said.
A pause.
"You disrupted balance."
Silence.
Azael laughed.
Weak.
But real.
"You should be grateful," Vermilion said calmly. "That I am correcting it."
Its hand rose.
Slowly.
Inevitably.
Azael's form began to collapse.
Not violently.
Precisely.
The visible half disappeared first.
The erased half—
lingered.
For a fraction longer.
Then—
nothing.
Gone.
No presence.
No trace.
Silence.
True silence.
Vermilion lowered its hand.
Then—
finally—
looked at the boy.
Directly.
"You will live."
A pause.
"That is more than most deserve."
The words settled like law.
"You were influenced by that fragment."
Another pause.
"But that is over."
The boy said nothing.
"You should be grateful."
A faint smile formed.
Perfect.
Controlled.
"From now on…"
A step closer.
"Direct your faith properly."
Another.
"Worship me."
Then—
Vermilion was gone.
As if he had never been there.
Silence returned.
The boy stood alone.
"…Safe."
The word felt hollow.
The darkness settled back in.
But his thoughts didn't.
All of his though ended up in the same question.
If that wasn't a dream—
if gods truly exist…
and if they hold that kind of power—
then suffering has already been judged.
Allowed.
Justified.
So the real question isn't why it exists.
It's—
what gives anything the right to continue?
END OF CHAPTER 3