"Such a fragile world barrier... I've never seen one so weak before," Muria remarked, gazing at the faintly glowing boundary below him amidst the endless, desolate void. His tone carried a mix of curiosity and concern.
"This is a world being corrupted by a heretic god. It's not unusual for it to look like this," Mikaela replied calmly. Despite her composed demeanor, Muria could tell that she was just as astonished as he was, though she was making an effort to conceal it.
"Sure, it's 'normal.' But let's be honest—you've never seen anything like this before either, have you?" Muria glanced at Mikaela and pointed toward the deteriorating world barrier below them.
The barrier, meant to protect the world's inhabitants from external threats, was not only small—reflecting the world's limited strength—but it was also in an appalling state.
The dim light emitted by the barrier was nowhere near as radiant as that of a healthy world. Worse, dark gray spots marred its surface, radiating an aura of decay, destruction, and despair. It was a distressing sight, one that stirred an instinctive unease in the heart of any who beheld it.
"This is what happens when a heretic god's corruption takes hold," Mikaela explained, frowning slightly as she examined the barrier. "When the corruption reaches a certain level, the barrier collapses, and the world's destruction becomes inevitable."
"Indeed, this world is nearing its end. Without intervention, its annihilation is just a matter of time," Muria observed, using a secret technique to listen to the faint, sorrowful cries emanating from the world. These "whimpers" were the world's desperate plea for help, a cry for salvation from its impending doom.
Normally, such pleas went unanswered. However, this world had been somewhat fortunate—its cries had reached a passing Titan. But its luck ended there. The Titan, deeming the world too insignificant to merit their direct intervention, had instead noted its plight and passed the coordinates along to another Titan, intending it to serve as a testing ground for a younger generation.
"What's your plan now?" Mikaela asked.
"What else can I do? Since the heretic god's true form isn't here, we'll start by wiping out its minions," Muria said matter-of-factly. This was the most effective and straightforward way to draw out the heretic god itself.
"Are you planning to use the Heaven-Demon Art again?" Mikaela inquired, her eyes fixed on the corrupted world below as her frown deepened.
"The world hasn't collapsed yet. If we want to enter without accelerating its destruction, using the Heaven-Demon Art is still the best option," Muria explained. Given the small size of this world, it wouldn't tolerate beings of their power entering directly.
"But this world is probably more dangerous than Erathia itself. Its corruption means it's likely crawling with the heretic god's minions," Mikaela noted, her voice tinged with concern.
"That's not a problem. Even if my incarnated body is destroyed, I can reveal my true form and escape. This world has deteriorated to the point where it poses no threat to us," Muria reassured her.
"What if we entered directly, using our true forms?" Mikaela suggested, though she shook her head and dismissed the idea even before Muria could respond. "No, that would only accelerate the world's collapse. Fine, let's use the Heaven-Demon Art."
…
In a dim, dilapidated factory, a woman's strained, anguished cries echoed through the air. Several other women bustled in and out of the room, their faces etched with anxiety and hope.
Meanwhile, outside the factory, a group of men in tattered clothing had formed a protective perimeter. Armed with old but functional firearms, they scanned their surroundings vigilantly, their eyes a mix of wariness and unease, but also a faint glimmer of hope.
"Let's hope the baby being born this time has the gift. If so, we won't have to keep wandering like this," a young boy muttered, clutching a gun nearly as tall as himself as he occasionally glanced toward the factory. For him, every newborn represented a slim chance to change their fate. After all, he too had once been such a newborn—but he had failed to meet expectations, born without the "gift."
"Kid, don't get your hopes up too much," an unshaven middle-aged man said, patting the boy on the shoulder with a bitter smile. "The chances of someone being born with the ability to use the god machines are one in ten thousand, if that."
"Don't crush his hope. It's hope that gives us the strength to keep going," an elderly man interjected from atop a battered but sturdy truck, his gaze fixed on the horizon as he kept watch for any signs of danger.
"Hope, huh?" someone muttered under their breath, letting out a low chuckle.
Suddenly, the sharp cry of a newborn pierced the air. The sound was followed moments later by the excited cheers of the women inside the factory.
"The detector reacted! This baby has the gift!"
"This cursed life might finally be over. We can move into a city!"
The jubilant mood spread quickly, enveloping the entire group. For them, the birth of a gifted child wasn't just cause for celebration—it was a lifeline, a promise of escape from their grim, nomadic existence.
"Don't let your guard down! This isn't the city—it's the wild. Beasts could appear at any moment," the group's leader barked, snapping his companions back to reality. His voice was sharp and commanding; keeping his people alive in this unforgiving world was his responsibility.
"Understood, boss!" the group chorused.
…
Roar!
The monstrous bellow shattered the night's silence, sending chills down the spines of those who heard it. But fear didn't take hold, for these were men and women who had faced death countless times.
Rat-a-tat-tat!
Gunfire erupted as the men holding the rear unleashed everything they had on the approaching beast. The creature moved relentlessly forward, shrugging off the bullets that ricocheted off its armored hide, sparking futilely.
"Dammit, where did a beast of this level come from?" one of the men growled, his voice strained.
"It's because of Fenrir, that baby. His gift will make him a god-eater one day. The monsters must sense the threat he poses," another replied.
"Who cares why? My legs are shaking!" one man admitted with a wry laugh, though his grip on his weapon remained steady.
"Too late to back out now. You said you wanted to die heroically, didn't you?" another teased.
"Yeah, well, this isn't exactly what I had in mind."
"Focus!" their leader barked. "Stall the beast as long as you can. The longer we hold it here, the safer the caravan will be."
Boom!
A deafening explosion ripped through the air, toppling several decrepit buildings in its wake. As the dust settled, a mangled body fell to the ground with a sickening thud, blood pooling beneath it.
"That damned beast again! How did it catch up to us so fast?" someone muttered, his voice trembling.
…
Inside a speeding caravan, the mood was heavy. A group of weary survivors sat in tense silence, their gazes often drifting toward a woman holding a swaddled infant. The baby, "Fenrir," slept peacefully, oblivious to the chaos surrounding him.
"This kid... Ever since he was born, the monsters have been attacking us more often and with greater force. It's all his fault," someone grumbled.
"And what do you propose we do? Leave him behind?" an old man snapped, his voice cutting through the silence like a whip.
The complainers fell silent, avoiding the elder's steely gaze.
"Listen up," the old man continued. "Whatever your grievances, keep them to yourselves. If anyone so much as lays a finger on Fenrir, I'll deal with you personally. This child is our ticket to the city. No matter how many lives it costs, he's worth it."
As if sensing the tension, Fenrir stirred briefly in his sleep, then settled again. His tiny movement silenced the caravan completely, no one daring to speak for fear of waking him.
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