The Lich had seen many battlefields.

  He had watched kingdoms fall and dungeons collapse, armies of the living and dead crashing together like waves. He had seen cities burn, plains rot, oceans boil.

  The Colosseum, however, did not tremble from armies or spells.

  It trembled because one man in armor was standing still.

  White-fire heat rolled off the Duelist in waves. Even from the edge of the arena, the Lich could see stone warp around the phoenix-armor’s boots—flagstones darkening, blistering, then sagging like softened wax. The air inside the Dome was thinning, wrung dry of moisture like a cloth that had been over-twisted.

  Above, the Creation Goddess hung in the air, rings of golden runes orbiting her wrists and ankles. Not quite serious yet. Not quite playful either.

  Between them, the world shook.

  A sonic crack split the Dome as the Duelist swung again. The Lich watched the sound barrier break with idle fascination, fingers resting lightly on the spine of a well-worn summoning card.

  …Town-level, at least, he thought. Perhaps city, if he stopped holding back.

  He tilted his skull toward the stands.

  Students clung to their seats, ducking as shields of card-light shimmered overhead. Professors braced their card arrays, reinforcing the Dome. High above, the Royals—Dungeon-Kings and Queens in title if not in blood—leaned forward with clenched jaws.

  They were right to be afraid.

  Not of the Duelist.

  Not of the Goddess.

  Of the time limit.

  If this continues too long, the Lich thought, the Dome will break. And then the town goes with it.

  He did not particularly care about architecture.

  He did care about a promise.

  Ink-black memory flickered through his mind:

  You promised her. No deaths inside that Dome.

  He huffed soundlessly.

  “Annoying,” he murmured to himself. “I retire for one century, and everything explodes without me.”

  A fresh sonic boom rattled the air. The phoenix armor devoured the Goddess’s light again, white fire flaring, heat bleeding into the stone. The Duelist’s movement grew sharper, more violent. The Goddess’s runes spun faster, finally behaving like something taught in a combat lecture instead of a children’s performance.

  The Lich watched both.

  Watched their tempo.

  Watched the cracks.

  And then he felt it—that shifting, desperate intent from the stands:

  They were going to jump in.

  “…Of course you are,” he sighed.

  The Royals rose first.

  Queen Selvaris gripped the railing, her cloak of azure mana flickering with agitation.

  “If this continues, the Dome will fail,” she said. “We cannot sit and watch.”

  King Varros nodded sharply. “The Duelist and the Goddess are limiting themselves, but the structure is not. Ten minutes, at most.”

  Dungeon-Keepers murmured behind them.

  “We must intervene.” “At least stall the Duelist—” “Or support the Goddess—anything to preserve the academy!”

  On the arena floor, Lucien—Core Hero and Prism-talent—had already stepped forward. Cards floated around him in a disciplined halo, their edges gleaming with spectral light. The Principal ran beside him, a shield of layered wards unfolding across his arm.

  They moved as one toward the battlefield.

  The Lich exhaled.

  Very well, then.

  He stepped away from the pillar where he’d been quietly observing and appeared at the inner boundary of the Dome, bone feet lightly touching stone. No dramatic flash. No sinister wind. Just a shift—like a page in a book turning to the next section.

  Lucien and the Principal jolted to a stop.

  The skeletal figure in layered robes inclined his head politely, staff resting against his shoulder.

  “Well,” the Lich said mildly, empty sockets glinting with blue foxfire. “We can’t have that now, can we? You entering the fight.”

  Lucien’s hand tightened on his cards. “We’re not ‘entering’ for fun. The Duelist and the Goddess will destroy the Colosseum.”

  “Eventually,” the Lich agreed. “But if you walk into that radius, you will not live long enough to witness it.”

  The Principal scowled. “We are not helpless civilians, Lich.”

  Above them, the Royals began to descend from the stands, entourages forming behind them—Dungeon-Keepers, elite students, guard units. For the first time since the duel began, the stands thinned, people moving down toward the floor, toward the edge of the storm.

  The Lich did a quick calculation in his head.

  Number of people. Level of talent. Average reaction speed. Projected range of the Duelist’s next sonic swing.

  Result: ashes.

  He straightened his robes.

  “Very well,” he said quietly. “I will make this simple.”

  He lifted his staff and flicked a card into the air.

  White bone, black seal, a single emerald rune.

  “Summon: Dullahan.”

  The card shattered into ghost-light.

  A headless knight strode out of a rift behind him, armor blackened and plated like a funeral procession, carrying its own burning skull under one arm. Ghostly flames licked its pauldrons, its empty neck, its sword.

  A second card spun.

  “Summon: Armored Undead.”

  This one emerged like a fortress given legs—towering plate, runes carved into each link, chains trailing from his wrists like anchored comets. Frost mist seeped from its joints, sinking into the ground.

  A third card flickered.

  “Summon: Headless Horseman.”

  Hooves struck the stone. A spectral warhorse charged from the rift, its rider headless, blade outstretched, cloak streaming like tattered shadow. Its whole body gleamed with dreadful momentum—the promise of speed and impact.

  Students screamed.

  “Weren’t we fighting his army earlier?!” “Then what were those skeletons?”

  The Lich turned his skull slightly, regarding the gathered forces with mild curiosity.

  “Decoys,” he said. “Did you truly believe I used my real summons on students?”

  Dungeon-Keepers bristled.

  “Summons are weaker than a contractor!” one snapped. “A skeleton is worth less than a single student!” another agreed.

  The Lich stared at them in silence.

  “You are describing normal summoners,” he replied.

  His tone dropped, cold echo spreading across the stone.

  “I,” he said, “am not one.”

  The Royals landed at the edge of the inner field, cards flaring around them. Lucien raised his hand, Prism-talent catching elemental threads. Dungeon-Keepers spread out, laying foundation cards—terrain edits, defense zones, buff fields.

  The Lich watched them prepare.

  They’re competent, he thought. Good. It would be boring otherwise.

  He snapped his fingers once.

  “Formation.”

  His three commanders moved.

  The Armored Undead stepped forward first, planting its massive foot with a crunch. Frost rippled outward from its boots—thin, glittering veins of ice threading across the stone, creeping toward the incoming defenders.

  Cold.

  Not lethal. Not yet.

  “Armor Protocol: Winter Tempo,” the Lich murmured, flipping a support card.

  Frost aura expanded like a slow exhale. Everyone stepping into the radius felt the drag—breath catching, muscles tightening, thoughts sluggish at the edges.

  Kaelen, staff-user and dungeon delver, pushed into the aura and shuddered.

  “…Cold,” he muttered.

  “Slowing field,” Thara of the Grave Road said, teeth clenched. “He’s stealing our tempo.”

  Good girl, the Lich thought absently. At least one of you can name it correctly.

  The Dullahan moved next.

  “Fire Protocol: Soul Corrosion,” the Lich said, sliding a card into the knight’s domain.

  The skull in Dullahan’s hand flared brighter; its flames lost their comfortable orange and shifted toward a hungry, corrosive red. When it swung its sword, fire trailed in a slow arc, clinging to any ward it touched—not burning flesh, but eating away at vitality and stamina.

  A Dungeon-Keeper raised a radiant shield card in front of her.

  Dullahan’s blade slid across it with a hiss. Her barrier held—

  —and her knees buckled.

  “What—?!” She gasped, feeling her strength drain. “My body—”

  “Vitality decrement,” the Lich observed. “Don’t worry. It won’t kill you. It will simply make certain you cannot dash foolishly into the center.”

  He flicked another card.

  Above them, skeletal casters crawled out of thin air—lesser summons, ribcage sigils glowing, fingers already weaving spells.

  “Bone Wall,” he ordered.

  Pale walls slammed up in front of the Royals, forcing them into narrower paths.

  “Necrotic Weakening. Target their endurance.”

  Sickly green light spread across the field, clinging to the fit and healthy like dust.

  “Taunt: Noise of the Grave.”

  Ghostly whispers rose, distracting thought, snagging focus.

  He didn’t aim to break their wills.

  He aimed to keep them busy.

  The Headless Horseman moved last.

  It blurred.

  One moment it stood at the Lich’s side.

  The next, it was behind a vanguard student, sword resting lightly on the young man’s shoulder before the boy could blink.

  Spectral fire hissed along the blade.

  Then the Horseman flicked the flat of the sword into the student’s ribs and kicked him away in a single, heavy strike—sending him tumbling out of the approach path, wards flashing crimson.

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  Lucien darted into the gap.

  “Prism Drive!” he shouted, flipping a card. Multiple attribute-threads spun around his wrist—light, earth, wind.

  He rushed forward, cards orbiting, blade of mana forming in his hand. The Headless Horseman met him head-on, spectral steel clashing against concentrated Prism.

  For an instant, Lucien almost broke through.

  For an instant, the Lich considered letting him.

  …No, he thought. Too close. Too hot in there.

  He lifted a single card between skeletal fingers.

  “Command Override: Rider’s Line.”

  The Horseman pivoted at an impossible angle, ghost-steed twisting mid-air, using Lucien’s own momentum to flip him sideways into a waiting Bone Wall. His impact shattered the construct—but the path closed, rubble and wards forcing others to detour.

  Lucien crashed, rolled, and caught himself on one knee, gasping.

  “…Monsters,” he muttered.

  The Lich’s eye flames dimmed in amusement.

  “You are correct,” he said. “And yet, I am still being kinder than circumstances permit.”

  Because if I let you enter, you will die. And if you die, any one of you could have been a future pillar the system needs.

  He had broken too many futures in his long, undead life.

  He did not intend to add any more by accident.

  The Royals adapted quickly.

  Queen Selvaris dropped a card—“Glacial Bulwark”—to counter the frost aura, ice walls clashing with the Armored Undead’s cold field, creating pockets of neutral ground.

  King Varros unleashed a barrage of precision impact spells, blasting through Bone Walls, trying to create a corridor.

  Dungeon-Keepers switched tactics from pure attack to neutralization—binding chains, debuff cleanses, emergency teleport points.

  They were not incompetent.

  They were simply outmatched by someone who had spent a century fighting dungeons designed to kill entire countries.

  “Why are you even doing this?” one Keeper shouted over the clash, barely dodging a soul-corroding flame from Dullahan. “You’re a summoner! If enough of us push, we’ll break your field eventually!”

  The Lich’s sockets flickered, then steadied.

  “Yes,” he said. “You will. After enough of you are injured enough not to stand.”

  He spread his hands slightly, card patterns glittering behind him like a halo.

  “I am not preventing the battle because I fear the Duelist,” he said quietly. “Or the Goddess. I am preventing you from adding your corpses to their story.”

  He did not raise his voice.

  But the words traveled, sinking into ears.

  Some flinched.

  Most scowled.

  None stopped.

  He didn’t blame them.

  It was the correct emotional reaction.

  He gave a silent, internal sigh.

  All right. Time to tighten the net.

  “Dullahan,” he called. “Shift to soul-burn level two. Do not exceed forty percent.”

  The headless knight inclined slightly and obeyed, flames intensifying. Those who attempted to rush past it found their limbs heavy, their reaction time dulled—not enough to break them, but enough to stall.

  “Armored Undead. Lock their rhythm.”

  Chains rattled. The massive undead launched its bindings, not to bind throats or wrists, but to wrap around weapons and shields—dragging speedsters back to its tempo, forcing fast-fighters to fight slow.

  “Horseman. Harass only. No fatal lines.”

  The spectral rider laughed silently and carved glowing arcs through the air, always just close enough to knock someone down, never close enough to kill.

  Bone Walls shifted.

  Necrotic Weakenings stacked.

  Taunt-echoes rose.

  The field became a maze under his fingers.

  The Lich’s mind flowed with it—lines of attack, defense, tempo, recovery. He had done this for so long that it felt like breathing.

  Everything could be won with the right formation.

  Anything could be held with the right call.

  Anything except—

  The air shuddered.

  It started as a change in light.

  Not brightness, exactly.

  Weight.

  The Lich’s attention snapped back to the center.

  The Duelist had stopped moving.

  The Goddess had as well.

  Between them, a sword of golden concept hung, half-embedded in invisible law.

  Excalibur.

  It had fallen earlier back into Velatria’s safekeeping after the staged ascent—but now, it was no longer just a prop.

  Velatria dropped out of the air, landing lightly on melted stone that should have burned her feet.

  Her expression had shifted.

  Less playful.

  Less wounded pride.

  More… tired.

  “I’m done,” she said flatly.

  The Duelist tilted his head slightly inside the flaming armor. “You started this duel.”

  “Yes,” she said. “And now I’m ending it.”

  She reached for Excalibur.

  The Lich inhaled without lungs.

  Oh.

  He knew that sword.

  Not the steel. Not the edge.

  The symbol.

  Excalibur was not just a blade.

  It was a contract.

  Light flared as her fingers closed around the hilt. The sword recognized its wielder, drinking her divinity, answering not her power, but her role.

  King.

  A King was not gendered. Not divine by default. It was a promise: I will protect my land and my people. I will keep them from starvation, from plague, from slaughter. I will not run.

  The moment Velatria tore Excalibur free, the world shuddered.

  The Duelist stopped without argument. Phoenix armor flared, then slowly sank, flames withdrawing, temperature habits tightening itself under his control.

  Outside, the Lich felt the Royals hesitate, heads turning toward the blade’s new radiance.

  He did not stop them from staring.

  This part, they needed to see.

  Velatria lifted Excalibur, its golden edge reflecting a thousand stories of kings and victories that did not belong to this world, yet had been invoked in its making.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Her jaw clenched.

  “This duel,” she said, voice carrying across the Dome, “is over.”

  The Duelist nodded once.

  “…Understood.”

  It was not obedience to divinity.

  It was recognition of narrative.

  Excalibur had entered play.

  The role of King had been chosen.

  The Lich smiled slightly.

  “Checkmate,” he murmured.

  Above them, the sky inside the Dome blotched.

  Ink—thick, black, impossible ink—splashed across blue. Letters formed and dissolved in the air, as if someone had spilled a god’s inkwell over reality.

  A familiar, exhausted voice resonated from the stains.

  Akashic Record: “Congratulations, Velatria. You have just accepted far more responsibility than you wanted.”

  The Goddess’s eye twitched.

  Goddess: “You TRICKED me!”

  The inkspots pulsed with amusement.

  Akashic Record: “Of course I did.”

  The Lich watched the ink descend, curling around Excalibur’s light, around Ember’s unseen future, around the Phoenix Armor’s residual heat, around the Sentinel barrier far above.

  He knew what came next would not be for mortal ears.

  Sure enough, divine pressure shifted.

  The Duelist’s armor dimmed.

  The Goddess’s grip tightened.

  Reality… blurred.

  The Lich felt the domain of Heaven open like a quiet trapdoor above the script, catching gods and records and symbolism in its teeth.

  “Good,” he said softly, as the Royals pressed uselessly against his wall of undead and wards, unaware of the true conversation leaving their world.

  “They finally went upstairs to argue where they can’t break anything.”

  The moment Velatria arrived in Heaven, she slammed Excalibur onto the marble table so hard that several ink-bottles jumped for their lives.

  Goddess: “You TRICKED me!”

  The Akashic Record didn’t even look offended.

  Record: “Correct.”

  Velatria pointed accusingly at the sword.

  Goddess: “You made me pick this up on purpose!”

  Record folded her spectral hands, looking far too calm.

  Record: “You avoid responsibility the way mortals avoid debt collectors. I needed you to take responsibility. So I used the one thing you never argue with.”

  Goddess: “My generosity?”

  Record: “Your own system.”

  Velatria blinked.

  Goddess: “…My what?”

  Record gestured lazily.

  Cards appeared around them—floating spectral replicas of the Duelist’s, the Lich’s, the Dragon’s, the faculty’s. Symbols glowed on their faces, flickering like constellations trying to decide on a shape.

  Record: “You built the card system on symbolism. Every item mortals sacrifice has meaning. They write a description to express what they see in it. The system reads that combination—item and description—and turns it into a card.”

  Velatria frowned.

  Goddess: “Yes, yes, I know that part.”

  Record: “Then you should also know that symbolism dictates more than the effect. It dictates the card’s rules. Its weight. Its narrative consequences.”

  She tapped Excalibur’s hilt.

  Record: “This is not just a sharp stick. It is the Sword of Kings. Symbolism: the ruler who protects their land and people. Meaning: the promise of victory in service of that duty. Weight: the obligation not to run.”

  Velatria slowly lowered her accusing finger.

  Goddess: “…So because I used it—”

  Record: “You accepted the role.”

  Goddess: “—I’m now responsible for fixing the world.”

  Record: “Correct.”

  Goddess covered her face.

  Goddess: “I hate my own system.”

  Record: “You say that every era.”

  Velatria jabbed a finger at the floating cards.

  Goddess: “Fine. Then show me. Don’t just lecture—EXAMPLES.”

  Record obliged.

  Three decks rose between them.

  Record: “Nolan’s Phoenix Armor. Created from items soaked in resentment and unfinished duty.”

  Scenes flickered in the ink-light: cracked armor from fallen defenders, letters that never got sent, half-finished ledgers, charms clutched by people who died saying ‘I still have things to do.’

  Record: **“Symbolism: ‘I refuse to die yet.’ ‘I have to finish this.’ ‘My duty is not done.’

  So the armor keeps its wearer fighting. It refuses to let him rest until his role is finished. Not because it loves him. Because hundreds of regrets are screaming ‘not yet’ through it.”**

  Velatria shivered.

  Goddess: “…That’s awful.”

  Record: “That’s humanity.”

  Another image rose: the great barrier that had once encased the Academy, runes spread like latticework across the sky.

  Record: “The Lich’s card—Sentinel of Knowing—was forged from centuries of curated knowledge. Destroyed archives. Sealed grimoires. Memory stones salvaged from fallen mages. Years of obsession.”

  Record: **“Symbolism: ‘I must see everything.’ ‘I cannot defend what I do not understand.’ ‘Information is survival.’

  So the barrier gives him battlefield omniscience. He can read every card and every motion within his domain.”**

  Velatria’s lips twisted.

  Goddess: “…He built himself a giant eyeball out of anxiety.”

  Record: “Yes. A very efficient giant eyeball.”

  The third deck flared with deep crimson and gold.

  Record: “Vaelreth’s deck is pure draconic pride. Not cheap arrogance—true, ancient self-definition.”

  Flames shaped themselves into cards, each one bearing stylized wings, fangs, claws, crowns of fire.

  Record: **“Symbolism: ‘I am flame.’ ‘I am strength.’ ‘I bow to no one.’

  So her cards enforce her nature. Her spells reshape the battlefield around the idea that a dragon does not yield.”**

  Velatria sighed.

  Goddess: “…Fine. Symbolism matters. I get it.”

  Velatria brightened suddenly.

  Goddess: “Wait. Then I’ll just hand Excalibur to the next Hero! Or one of the teachers! There, responsibility gone.”

  Record stared.

  Record: “…Absolutely not.”

  Goddess: “Why not?!”

  Record materialized three more cards in front of her: Hero’s Journey, Glory Road, and Hero Returns.

  Record: “Because even Nolan—the second most worthy person on the continent—needed these three to even approach Excalibur’s symbolism.”

  She tapped each one.

  Record: “Hero’s Journey: codifies his narrative progression. Glory Road: anchors his fate to critical events. Hero Returns: built using a Chaos Page—a literal world-bending artifact—just to manage the weight.”

  Velatria grimaced.

  Goddess: “…So?”

  Record: “So your faculty cannot simply ‘make a hero deck’ tomorrow and hold Excalibur. They lack the resources. They lack the deckcraft. They lack the symbolic gravity.”

  Goddess crossed her arms, sulking.

  Goddess: “You’re saying I’m stuck with it.”

  Record: “At present, yes.”

  Velatria muttered:

  Goddess: “…Why are those three so absurdly good at this?”

  Record held up three fingers.

  Record: “First: Nolan. He spent his mortal life dealing with systems—software, data structures, financial rules, games. He understands rule frameworks better than most gods do. Give him a new system, and he tries to break it just to learn it.”

  Second finger.

  Record: “Second: Vaelreth. She mastered magic AND sorcery in her own world. Those are not ‘point and shoot’ disciplines. They are structured like advanced sciences. So when we forced her into a card system, she adapted quickly—she just lacks Nolan’s game-meta obsession.”

  Third finger.

  Record: “Third: The Lich. Genius of his era. Centuries of experience. And more importantly—more money than most nations.”

  Velatria blinked.

  Goddess: “…Money?”

  Record nodded.

  Record: “Summoners in your world are considered weak because they are poor. They cannot afford diverse contracts, rare items, or iterative deck revisions.”

  A faint smile tugged at her mouth.

  Record: “The Lich is not poor. He has looted more dungeons than your Academy has catalogued. Each summon in his deck is a custom, high-investment contract. Any one of his three commanders is strong enough to anchor an entire raid party.”

  Velatria winced.

  Goddess: “…So the teachers can’t copy them.”

  Record: “They cannot even accurately analyze them, much less reproduce them. Your villains are not just strong. They are smart. They are the 1% of intellect and resources in this world.”

  Goddess: “You sound proud of that.”

  Record: “I am proud of my paperwork.”

  Velatria looked at Excalibur again, forlorn.

  Goddess: “…So I really can’t dump this on someone else?”

  Record paused.

  Then sighed.

  Record: “Not immediately.”

  Velatria perked up.

  Goddess: “…But?”

  Record: “There is one path. If one of your faculty—or a student—manages to clear two or three true dungeons… Proper clears. Boss defeated. Core stabilized or destroyed. Not just skimming the outer floors.”

  Record’s eyes softened just a little.

  Record: “Dungeon-clearing builds tremendous symbolic weight—leadership, survival, sacrifice, destiny. That kind of narrative pressure might make someone worthy of wielding Excalibur in the future.”

  Velatria’s eyes gleamed.

  Goddess: “…So there is a way out.”

  Record: “A distant, painful, unlikely way out. Yes.”

  Goddess hugged the sword like it weighed less.

  Goddess: “Good. That’s enough hope.”

  Record: “Until then, however—”

  Velatria stiffened.

  Record: “—you are the King who picked up the Sword of Kings. You do not get to run.”

  Goddess: “I hate this.”

  Record: “That is called growth.”

  Velatria glared down at the world below.

  Goddess: “Why can’t Nolan just carry this? He touched Excalibur first. Let him save the world. He’s already acting like a villain.”

  Record’s eyes sharpened.

  Record: “His job is to save the world. That is why I brought him. But he is a villain, not a weekly cleaning service.”

  Velatria squinted.

  Goddess: “…Explain.”

  Record waved her hand.

  Images appeared below—Nolan standing against the Goddess, the Lich pulling strings, the Dragon perched at the edge of a dungeon like a living disaster warning.

  Record: “Nolan, the Lich, and Vaelreth are all town-ending threats by mere existence. — The Lich can erase a settlement with summons if he stops holding back. — The Dragon can melt one off the map in an afternoon. — Nolan’s Phoenix Armor, at full heat, would burn a town just by standing there too long.”

  Velatria made a face.

  Goddess: “…Accurate.”

  Record: “If we send them out every time something goes wrong, they stop being villains. They become weekly natural disasters. And then no hero rises, because what is the point of effort if three walking catastrophes will ‘solve’ everything?”

  She flicked Nolan’s projected card.

  Record: “Nolan is meant to be used sparingly. As a wrench for stuck gears. Not a hammer for every squeaky bolt.”

  Velatria muttered:

  Goddess: “Overusing him makes him a nuisance, not a villain.”

  Record: “Exactly.”

  She folded her arms.

  Record: “Also, do not forget— Nolan is on my side. The Lich is on my side. The Dragon is on my side. They are not your little emergency squad. They are the opposition that forces your world to grow.”

  Velatria glared at Excalibur one last time.

  Goddess: “…So to summarize.”

  She pointed.

  Goddess: “You tricked me into using a sword whose symbolism forces me to act like a responsible king.”

  Record nodded.

  Record: “Yes.”

  Goddess pointed again.

  Goddess: “I cannot give it to anyone else right now because no one is symbolically, mentally, or financially prepared to wield it—even Nolan needed three nightmare cards and a Chaos Page.”

  Record: “Correct.”

  Goddess jabbed a third time.

  Goddess: “And the only way out is if someone below clears multiple dungeons and grows into the role naturally.”

  Record: “Correct again.”

  Velatria deflated.

  Goddess: “…I hate you.”

  Record smiled faintly.

  Record: “You created the system. I merely enforced it.”

  She nodded toward the world below, where the Duelist’s armor dimmed, the Lich’s summons held the Academy at bay, and the Dragon’s silhouette streaked lazily across the sky.

  Record: “Now go. Be the King your own story demands. You built a world of symbolism. It is time you lived by it.”

  Velatria stared down at the land she had shaped, at the cards, the dungeons, the mortals who kept nearly dying in increasingly creative ways.

  For once, she didn’t pout.

  She just tightened her grip on Excalibur.

  Goddess: “…Fine.”

  She turned away from the edge of Heaven.

  Goddess: “If I have to be responsible…”

  A small, wicked smile tugged at her lips.

  Goddess: “…I’m going to make the world very interesting while I do it.”

  Record pinched the bridge of her nose.

  Record: “…I regret everything already.”

  But her ink-sigils glowed with quiet satisfaction.

  The Sword of Kings had chosen a wielder.

  The Lich’s wall still held.

  The Duelist was still alive.

  And—for the first time in a very long time—the Goddess of Creation had no option but to actually do her job.