Antares's laughter echoed through the Throne Room, sharp and mirthless, cutting through the tension like a blade.
"Did you all forget," he said slowly, eyes gleaming beneath his helm, "who destroyed Yggdrasil?"
Silence followed.
Not the heavy, suffocating silence from before—but something sharper. Uneasy.
Antares spread his arms slightly, as if presenting an obvious truth to children who had failed a lesson.
"Do you truly believe," he continued, "that someone capable of erasing an entire cosmological system—one designed to reset itself endlessly—would ever grow bored of power?"
His gaze swept across the table. Albedo. Angrboda. Esdeath. Rory. Aura. Mare. Even the Pleiades standing at attention felt the weight of his words.
"Power does not bore Ancient-sama," Antares said firmly. "Stagnation does."
Aurora's fingers tightened against the armrest of her chair.
Antares then turned his head slightly, the grin widening.
"But explanations were never my strong suit," he admitted casually. "Demiurge."
Every head turned.
Demiurge had been silent the entire time, hands folded neatly on the table, tail still, glasses reflecting the ambient light of the Throne Room. He adjusted them now with a soft tap.
"You flatter me," Demiurge replied politely. "But since the misunderstanding has reached a critical level, clarification is… necessary."
He stood.
The simple action drew everyone's attention instantly.
"What you are witnessing," Demiurge began, his voice calm and measured, "is not rebellion. Nor is it negligence. And it is certainly not a succession war born of boredom."
He raised one finger.
"This is the final act of a plan that Ancient-sama began over a million years ago."
The words landed like a super-tier spell.
Aurora's breath caught.
Albedo's pupils shrank.
Esdeath leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp.
"A million… years?" Rory whispered.
"Yes," Demiurge confirmed. "I believe from the moment when Ancient-sama spared this world. Actually, more than a millennium prior, I didn't know why Ancient-sama decided to resurrect humans and give them a second after the Great War. And why, even when primordial gods were born from chaos, did Ancient-sama tell us not to interfere? When I asked my doubt about 'why,' He coined the term 'butterfly effect.'"
Demiurge then looked at Guardians.
"For those who couldn't understand what a butterfly effect means, in simple words, the butterfly effect is the idea that tiny changes in a complex system can lead to massive, unpredictable change overall."
"Massive, unpredictable change overall? From what?" Albedo asked. Then it suddenly clicked. Demiurge's words confirmed it.
"In the architecture of the plan, that is Ancient-sama's conjecture."
He turned his gaze toward Albedo first.
"You fear that Ancient-sama is sparing traitors because he intends to step down," Demiurge said. "That assumption is incorrect."
Then to Aurora.
"You fear that this is the prelude to his death," he continued. "That assumption is also incorrect."
He paused deliberately.
"What Ancient-sama is doing… is far crueler. And far more absolute."
A faint smile curved Demiurge's lips.
"He is an engineering illusion of choice."
The Guardians stiffened.
"In all recorded histories," Demiurge continued, pacing slowly, "the downfall of gods follows one of three patterns: rebellion, replacement, or erosion. Ancient-sama rejected all three; no, "rejecting" is not the right word. Nazarick, with its original denizen, is unable to do any three."
He stopped behind Aurora's chair.
"So instead," he said softly, "he chose a fourth path."
He snapped his fingers.
Illusory light bloomed above the table, forming images—vast, shifting scenes of worlds, civilizations, and battles. Some were familiar. Some were not.
"A closed system inevitably decays," Demiurge explained. "Even perfection. Especially perfection. Nazarick, left unchanged, would eventually collapse inward—not from weakness, but from certainty. Our people thrive on bloodshed and chaos. That is especially true for lower members; they don't have the ability to hold back."
His gaze hardened.
"Thus, Ancient-sama created variables. Children with free will. Imperfect loyalty. The capacity to betray."
Angrboda's jaw tightened.
"You're saying," she said slowly, "that the traitors were… intended?"
"Permitted," Demiurge corrected. "Not guided. Not commanded. But allowed."
Albedo clenched her fists.
"They stole his artifact."
"Yes," Demiurge agreed calmly. "A semi-world-class item. Specifically designed to be stolen."
Shock rippled through the room.
"That artifact," Demiurge continued, "was not a loss. It was a signal."
He gestured, and the illusion shifted—showing threads of fate branching, intersecting, and collapsing.
"Ancient-sama is not observing this from ignorance," Demiurge said. "He is observing outcomes. Every betrayal. Every hesitation. Every moment where a creation chooses ambition over devotion."
Rory swallowed.
"And the punishment?" she asked. "Throximus? The others?"
"Calibration," Demiurge answered. "If he annihilated them immediately, the system would revert to obedience. Predictable. Meaningless."
Aurora slowly rose from her seat.
"…Then what is this final act? And what's the endgame?" she asked quietly.
Demiurge turned to her, eyes sharp behind his glasses.
"I don't know. I only know that it's something grand."
"How can you say that with certainty?" Aurora said.
"Have you heard yourself talking, Aurora? What you are seeing right now is the million-year plan in motion. We are some of the best minds in this world, but we couldn't even see what the Ancient One was thinking. Do you think someone like the Ancient One goes to a school to play a lullaby for some hairless monkey? No. Absolutely not. And even if he wants to, then he could go to a normal school, not the one where the sister of two devil kings is studying. Do you think all of this is a coincidence?"
"A month ago, the flying castle of Greed was stolen. But the day before that, Ancient contacted me and ordered me to lower its defense. And then I conducted a small investigation to understand why Ancient One gave me such an order. I found that the one who stole the castle was subordinate to a fallen angel called Kokabiel, and do you know who Kokabiel follows? Your children. So there is no need to worry about anything; all of what is happening is within My Lord's foresight."
~~~