Take, for instance, the skull of that Dragonia—massive, and even in death, retaining an aura of indomitable majesty. It rested against the wall of Jibril house, her most prized trophy from before the war ended, a prize so legendary that her elder sisters would often challenge her just for the right to claim it.
Those were glorious years... but since the Great War concluded, no Flügel had added a single new piece to their collection. Jibril often heard her sisters grumbling about the stagnant state of their displays.
While individuals of almost every other race—and in some cases, entire nations—were rejoicing that the endless slaughter had finally ceased, the Flügel were, quite literally, in a state of racial mourning.
For the Imanity and other flesh-and-blood races, this was perhaps the greatest of eras; they no longer spent their days and nights in terror, wondering how to scrape by for another hour. But for the Flügel, who lived for war, slaughter, and the collection of rare heads, and for the God of War—who was the very concept of conflict personified and grew infinitely more powerful within it—this was the worst of times.
The Flügel themselves were manageable; though they were lifeforms created by the God of War, their individual existence was not tied to the concept of conflict. When the war stopped, the only things affected were their mindsets and moods during peacetime; the disappearance of war did not directly impact their strength, nor did it threaten their survival.
But for the God of War, it was different.
Gazing past her most precious trophy, Jibril eyes drifted toward the highest point of Avant Heim. There, in the golden palace, the Master of all Flügel lay in a deep slumber.
It was a palace of gold, yet it held none of the gaudy vulgarity of worldly wealth. Standing beside those thick, towering pillars, the only thing one could feel was a spontaneous sense of sublime awe and reverence.
A completely different world from a certain someone's palace, isn't it?
Recalling that other palace—built of countless petals, grand and romantic on the outside, yet filled with a plain, off-white interior—Jibril couldn't help but let out a sudden laugh.
It was the very definition of "gold and jade on the outside, rot and decay on the within." At least, walking through that other palace, one saw nothing related to the petals outside; it failed to inspire even a shred of awe. It was far too ordinary.
Thinking back to how she had spent the last three thousand years imagining what kind of grand palace that man would build, Jibril offered a silent moment of mourning for her own wasted fantasies... and then she wanted to laugh even more.
That fellow really didn't act like a god at all... Tsk, he could even discard power that even a Old Zeus would covet beyond measure.
Jibril didn't hate the interior of that palace. At the very least, when she finally stepped into it three thousand years late, pushing open those doors with her own hands, she hadn't felt the slightest bit of the alienation she had expected.
Mhm, the fact that she hadn't seen any shameful traces left behind by that man and that Weed was also a plus.
"...Hah~"
Jibril shook her head with a wry smile at her own drifting thoughts. The next second, she saw the burly figure on the high throne, his wings of light tucked away, open his eyes.
"...What brings a smile to your face... my most precious wing..."
Yes, "most precious wing"—a term of endearment that not even Azril, the first Flügel created and the eldest of them all, had ever received.
On the day the Great War ended three thousand years ago, Jibril had been granted this title, one that drove her doting sisters to the brink of genuine jealousy... looking at you, Azril, who has spent the last few millennia wailing and weeping whenever the subject comes up.
"Because... I thought of something... related to that man."
Half-kneeling on the floor, Jibril hesitated for a moment before choosing to be candid.
Strange as it was, she found it hard to judge who cared more about that man's affairs in this world: herself, or the Master she served.
When that man vanished from Disboard three thousand years ago, the one who found it most unacceptable—and the one most enraged—wasn't Jibril, but Artosh, the God of War. Upon discovering that an unknown entity had been born and become the One True God, the towering Old Zeus had flared his wings of light in a fury that nearly destroyed the world, charging toward that Palace of Flowers.
"Nearly," because after the prohibition of war and violence, no matter how enraged Artosh was, he looked more like he was just setting the mood with special effects. He hadn't even harmed the grass on the ground.
Surrounded by his guarding Flügel, Artosh had done something they never could have imagined: he had berated Tet.
It was hard to picture that deep, war-hungry Old Zeus—usually as silent as a volcano suppressing its eruption—using such fierce language. He denounced Tet as a shameless thief who had snatched the victor's fruit from nowhere, and then indignantly launched an attack that seemed to tear the very heavens asunder.
Of course, it was only a seeming attack. The very act of attacking only occurred because Tet, in that situation, had specifically allowed the God of War to vent in such a way to calm himself down. Naturally, it was impossible to cause any harm to the One True God.
Artosh was searching for Sū ěr trail. He could not accept that the existence who had transcended the limits of power—the one who had defeated him as a weak mortal and snatched victory from his hands—had simply vanished from this world.
He could never forget that gaze he saw when he looked up. It was branded into his mind like a searing iron.
As the God of War, he had finally experienced the feeling his precious wing had spoken of: the feeling of knowing one is the weaker side yet insisting on fighting nonetheless. He had tasted the joy of wanting to grow stronger, of wanting to chase a superior—but the target he wanted to chase had vanished.
In his place stood a nameless nobody with no deeds to his name.
This was a desecration!
This was a shameful theft!!!
This was a battle unlike his clash with the Dragon King or any of the countless battles he had endured. It was the first time since his birth that he had unleashed his power out of pure rage, and for once, he was no longer lost.