Chapter 26: Sin
On a beautiful afternoon, the Deity walked in the direction where the sunlight fell.
At first, he had no destination; just as with every incarnation he had taken to descend to the mortal realm, he simply walked through this world he himself had created.
A starling landed on his hand and chirped affectionately. The Deity gazed out at the world, the warm afternoon breeze fluttering against his robes.
Fallen leaves and withered wood stood motionless; damp moss crept across the moist earth; and lapwings occasionally darted through the tangled undergrowth. This world was not entirely beautiful, yet originally, everything within it had possessed a vitality that was perfectly balanced.
Now, however, things were different.
It was no longer as pristine as it once had been; gray spiritual energy drifted everywhere through the air—the lingering spirits of the creations lost during the war. The Deity gazed upon them, and involuntarily reached out to touch a single particle of light-spirit that had once belonged to an angel.
Yet, having endured the ravages of war, it could no longer withstand a divine touch. It brushed gently against the Deity's finger, and—carrying with it one last trace of lingering attachment—dissipated into the air.
Like a bubble, leaving not a single trace behind.
His golden eyes narrowed slightly; his heart—usually as still as an ancient well—seemed to stir for a fleeting instant. He gazed intently at that gray zone—woven from the interplay of light and shadow, and invisible to the mortal eye—as if he had been frozen in time for all eternity.
The drifting gray particles gradually converged upon the Deity, centering around him like a soft, misty rain; meanwhile, a faint, ethereal holy light shimmered around him like a translucent veil.
Amidst the dimming daylight, the Deity shone with a radiant glow, while in his ears echoed a silent elegy.
As if awakening from a dream, the smoke and haze dissipated; the Deity stepped forth from their midst, crushing the chaotic illusions beneath his feet.
The surroundings remained the familiar forest, yet the sky was no longer beautiful; instead, it hung heavy and overcast, shrouded in thick clouds.
The gray spirits remained; they drifted neither too close nor too far away—just as they had from the very beginning.
But the Deity knew: he could neither draw close to them nor cast them aside. For each of those seemingly insignificant spirit-particles was brimming with emotions of sorrow and hatred—as if crying out to the Deity, recounting the wounds they had suffered during the war. The lingering aftermath of disaster is ceaseless; it forever hovers in wait, and in that very waiting, despair is born.
"Sin and Transgression," the Deity murmured softly, articulating their true essence.
As these transgressions were acknowledged by the Divine, the World Tree—standing within the Great Cathedral—suddenly surged upward as if having absorbed a massive influx of nutrients; then, upon one of its branches, a new bud slowly began to sprout.
When the Deity first created the three great races—Angels, Demons, and Elves—the World Tree had sprouted three buds; yet, never since had it undergone any further change, even after the creation of countless other species.
Now, however, a new bud had emerged—born of sin itself. The Deity gazed toward the direction of Heaven, His golden eyes betraying not the slightest shift in expression.
Wherever those golden eyes fell, no gathering of dark clouds could offer obstruction; thus, the gloom shrouding the mortal realm dissipated. The sun, previously hidden behind the clouds, re-emerged, casting down a gentle, golden radiance.
'The Holy Son, Messiah, shall be born alongside Original Sin.'
Responding to the stirring of the Divine Will, the *Book of Genesis* spontaneously turned its pages, recording this very decree.
Yet, the true nature of "Original Sin"—and indeed, of the "Messiah"—remained a mystery known to no one save the Deity Himself.
The Deity withdrew His gaze from the Cathedral and walked slowly toward an area shrouded in a veil of tangible smoke. Crossing a wooden bridge spanning a nearby river, He arrived at an open clearing—a site strewn with massive stones, serving as the Angels' quarry.
Within this spacious compound stood a colossal stone edifice; from the cylindrical chimney atop its roof, plumes of grey-black smoke billowed ceaselessly.
It was here that the Gnomes forged weapons for the Angels. Stepping past the blazing charcoal furnaces and into the stone structure, one could see that the stone walls on either side glowed a fiery red from the intense heat. A spiral staircase descended into a vast, high-temperature subterranean hall; as the Deity descended the steps, the crisp, rhythmic clang of metal rang out—for here, deep beneath the quarry grounds, thousands of Gnomes toiled in crowded unison.
As molten metal surged into the molds, their hammers rose high into the air, only to descend with crushing force.
The Deity's arrival went unnoticed by the Gnomes; their faces—hardened by the twin fires of extreme heat and ceaseless sweat—remained fixed upon the forging furnaces, their gazes locked in absolute, unwavering concentration. m.X520xs.Com
"Sorry!" Carrying a large sack of coal ash on his back, Painom charged forward blindly. Suddenly spotting a pair of feet clad in silvery-white boots, he couldn't help but frown; this was not the attire typical of a dwarf.
"Excuse me, I need to get through!"
He shouted out; his booming voice was loud enough not to be drowned out by the surrounding din of hammering iron. The silvery-white boots shifted in response, and Painom squeezed past them to reach the storage area.
"You really shouldn't be here, Your Grace," he said. He set down his sack, watched another dwarf haul it inside, and only then turned to address the visitor.
It was not out of any sense of inferiority born of the grime or the surroundings—dwarves had always taken pride in their work and their innate talents. Their rigorous craftsman's spirit made them resent having their private domain intruded upon.
He cast a reproachful look at the uninvited guest.
"Go back!" he urged, his eyes nearly forced shut by the stinging heat and steam.
"You'll only get in our way here," he stated bluntly, giving no thought—nor having the time to give any—to whether such directness was polite.
"Painom!" A dwarf called out his name from the other side of the hall.
"Coming!" he shouted back. Then, turning to the visitor, he added, "We'll deliver the finished armor and weapons to the tents ourselves."
Having said his piece, he dashed off in that direction. God watched the short, sturdy figure nimbly weaving through the dim hall; He slowed His pace slightly, and after a few moments of contemplation, decided to follow.
For He had heard the name of the Arch-Seraph—the dwarves were currently forging a brand-new suit of armor for Lucifer.
Yet, at this very moment, it seemed something had gone wrong.
Dwarves—mutated spirits born from the fusion of the elements of Earth and Fire. Although God had never formally summoned them to His presence, He was no stranger to the habits of their race. Thus, He took no offense at Painom's brusque manner; on the contrary, He felt a spark of interest in observing their work.
After all, as spirits born of the Earth-Fire mutation, most of them were hot-tempered and impatient by nature. And indeed, those very "impatient souls"—as God had once wryly dubbed them—were currently bustling in a tight circle around a peculiar furnace. Inside the furnace lay a suit of armor being forged—a project that had been underway for three days now. Given the dwarves' usual efficiency—churning out several weapons in a single night—this armor, having consumed three full days of labor, could truly be considered their most earnest and heartfelt creation.
Perhaps it served as a testament to the old adage that the more one cares about a task, the more prone one is to making mistakes; the armor, which should have been ready to be drawn from the furnace hours ago, remained stubbornly inert.
"The deadline has passed—why hasn't it taken shape yet? This is the armor the Clan Chief personally commissioned to be gifted to the Arch-Seraphim; it has to be delivered today!" Painom pounded furiously on the massive iron furnace. His thick palms sizzled and hissed against the scorching heat, yet he seemed utterly oblivious to the pain; instead, he clung to the furnace opening, craning his neck to peer inside—looking as if he wished he could shove his entire head in just to get a better look.
"Even if it *did* take shape, it wouldn't work. The 'fission phase' for the Black Gold has already passed; if we keep smelting it, it's just going to turn out black. And would an angel really wear black armor?" The dwarf assigned to tend the furnace—who hadn't slept in three days—spoke with a weary, listless air. Clearly, compared to the tedious task of furnace-watching, the dwarves much preferred the vigorous, sweat-drenched process of hammering iron.
"Black armor can be pretty cool, though."
"Exactly! Just like that suit of Dark Iron armor we forged for Lord Marbas—he was absolutely delighted with it back then." The dwarves began chattering amongst themselves, their conversation drifting further and further off-topic—fortunately, a more level-headed dwarf managed to steer the discussion back on track.
"That won't work. Angels revere white; shouldn't we be forging a suit of pure white armor?"
"That's exactly why I said we should have used Platinum from the start! It would have been so simple!"
"Platinum is too soft! Do you want the Arch-Seraphim to get run through like a shish kebab the moment a demon stabs him?"
"So what are we supposed to do?" The dwarves fell silent, exchanging bewildered glances. Realizing they couldn't come up with a viable solution, their flat, round faces began to contort with mounting frustration.
"Why don't we just tell them it's impossible to forge white armor?"
"What in the blazes do you think you're doing?" Painom gave the furnace another forceful rap, glaring furiously at his companions—whose conversation was spiraling into utter absurdity. "Because of our ugliness, even our own kin—the elves—refuse to acknowledge us! It was Lord Lucifer who took us in; we simply *must* forge him the most perfect suit of armor as a gift!"
"Black is absolutely out of the question!"
"Well then, Pynom, what do *you* suggest we do?" the gnomes below shouted up at him.
"I... how am *I* supposed to know what to do?!" Pynom hopped down from the furnace in frustration. "We can solve the forging speed issue by cranking up the furnace temperature, but you bunch of idiots can never seem to get the timing right! If you hadn't botched the critical phase every single time, we would have finished a suit of golden armor ages ago!"
"That's just unfair! Fine, Pynom—*you* do it yourself!"
"Yeah! You do it! You're the one who promised the Clan Chief that we could pull this off!"
"You lot! Are you trying to start a mutiny?!" Pynom fumed, snatching the bellows right out of the furnace-keeper's hands.
"Fine, I'll do it myself! Just watch and learn!"
Despite his bold words, Pynom had absolutely no idea how to salvage the situation; his current materials and limited knowledge base offered no solution to the daunting problem before him.
Even if he were to search for new materials, the process of reforging would take time.
*If only I had the right kind of supplementary material... ideally, something I could just toss in to instantly transform this black armor into a gleaming white one.* The gnome's wildly imaginative mind gradually went blank, leaving him to merely pump the bellows in a mechanical trance.
"How about this?"
The gnome, his mind now completely blank, lifted his large, bewildered eyes toward the source of the voice. Standing a short distance away was an 'angel' clad in flowing silver-white robes.
*What are you still doing here?*—the words were on the tip of his tongue, but before he could utter them, the figure opened a palm to reveal a crystal shard glowing with a soft white light.
Pynom leaped into action, bounding across the floor in three quick strides until he stood right before the divine being—so eager was he that he nearly scrambled right up the robes themselves. He gazed at the material with eyes sparkling with delight, much like a land-dwelling dragon spotting a hoard of treasure.
"What *is* this material?!"
The divine figure tossed the crystal shard into the gnome's furnace. The roaring flames gave a sudden, violent shudder; the blackened surface of the armor cracked open, revealing a pristine, gleaming silver-white core beneath. "Nine-sided Mystic Crystal"
A stone formed from holy light, somewhat similar to the heart core of an angel, let's consider it a gift for Lucifer.
The dwarves stared in disbelief at the scene before them, as if witnessing a miracle, and indeed it was.
The god had won the dwarves' favor with this precious material. They reluctantly saw him off from the stone quarry, and even as he left, Panom still gazed longingly at him.
"You must come again! Beautiful Your Excellency!"
This proud yet upright race, from disdain to adoration, only needed one hundred nine-sided mystic crystals.
Hearing the cheers behind him, a smile spread across the god's lips. Seeing that dusk was approaching, he left the dusty quarry and turned back towards the angel's camp.
The stream flowed gently beneath his feet. He stepped onto the stone bridge, and in the afterglow of the setting sun, his gaze met that of Asletus.
The Elf King paused, his emerald eyes fixed on the smiling, radiant beauty bathed in soft light. In that instant, he seemed to hear the sound of snow melting.
The news of a new Seraphim in the angelic ranks quickly spread throughout the allied forces. Angels and elves alike discussed it privately, and Asleides naturally heard of it as well. However, this wasn't the first time he'd heard the name Yahweh.
"I've heard Allen mention you. You must be Lord Yahweh," he said, a gentle smile rising in his eyes.
"Would you be so kind as to come to my humble abode for a chat?"
The god looked at Asleides silently, his eyes devoid of joy or sorrow, as if gazing upon a strange creation.
(You provide the author Danmu's [Hebrew Mythology]: The arduous journey of a world's creation.)