Everyone knows the story of Genesis.
It is spoken of as the dawn of meaning, the moment reality itself learned how to speak.
A sacred format, they say. The pattern from which all things followed.
A story crafted to prove that meaning can only descend from idols, that humanity is incapable of generating it alone.
Yet hidden within that tale is a far more devastating revelation, one rarely spoken aloud.
Humanity was born into imperfect worlds with imperfect minds.
Trapped inside flawed vessels that could never fully grasp the Good they were commanded to pursue.
Growth was framed as aspiration toward God.
Yet God could never be diminished, affected, or even conceived. An unreachable ideal, placed forever beyond comprehension.
The great plan of the idols governs all things.
Their will moves unseen through reality, and the Root exists only to carry that will forward.
Nothing occurs without their hand touching it first. And if that is true, then the conclusion is unavoidable.
Humanity must be truly vile.
We were permitted to plague creation with the knowledge of good and evil.
We were allowed to strive toward sin, to stain existence with choice and consequence.
The corruption was not an accident. It was a feature.
That is why demons emerge so easily.
Anything twisted, fractured, or incomplete can crawl upward from this world without resistance.
Angels, by contrast, cannot simply descend.
They must be refined, filtered, and forced into carefully crafted vessels, because this world is too impure to host them as they are.
Demons slip through cracks. Angels must be forged cages.
The Central World, as it was once called, was the origin of all dogma, the birthplace of narrative itself.
From it, all other worlds emerged, splintering outward like reflections in broken glass.
Those ancient stories, now dismissed as folklore, were never metaphors. They were memories.
All stories must be true, in some form, otherwise they could never exist at all.
Judgment was always promised. Everyone knew it would come.
A day when Heaven would be dragged down to Earth, when all things would be erased and remade into a divine model of perfection.
A world sculpted as close to the idols as possible.
Humanity was to be remade in their image.
And like everything else we touched, we tarnished even that.
It is widely known, though rarely discussed, that this planet has changed before.
The scars remain buried beneath myth and omission.
A war so catastrophic that everything above chose to erase it from history, not to protect humanity.
But to spare themselves from acknowledging an even greater evil.
Knowing all of this, Griffin devised his solution.
He understood that this world was irredeemable. That humanity could not be corrected, only erased.
So he chose slaughter as mercy. An ending disguised as salvation.
He would destroy us all and rebuild the world anew.
We would be born again through blood and fire, cleansed not of sin, but of memory.
And as this occurred, he would cast us into the great beyond.
That was the promise.
That was paradise.
That was Heaven.
What Griffin wished to do, what he intended to do, was painfully simple. He planned to free us.
To tear open the structure of this world and release humanity from the weight of law, fate, and consequence alike.
To unchain us from suffering by removing the frame that allowed suffering to exist in the first place.
And that freedom… for a moment, I almost wanted it.
For a fleeting, treacherous instant, I let myself consider it.
Why should I refuse this? Why should I reject it, when everything in this world is broken anyway?
Then I realized something that chilled me to my core.
This could not be His plan.
Would God ever concede that the only way to save humanity was to destroy it?
Would He look upon His creation and decide that annihilation was mercy?
Or was salvation always meant to be healing, however slow, however painful?
He had already answered that question once.
He had healed the world not by erasing it, but by entering it.
Sending His one and only Son, the Son, to suffer within it rather than cast it aside.
Because of that, I had no choice.
I had to refuse. I had to refuse it all.
I had to reject the world Griffin wished to create, no matter how tempting it seemed, no matter how weary I was of resisting.
I clenched my fists, grounding myself in the moment. "This is quite the plan he's formed," I said evenly.
"What do you all think?"
I already knew Rosen's answer. The man's convictions were ironclad, immovable as ever.
But the other two surprised me, because they spoke at the same time, their voices overlapping in agreement.
"It's terrible."
I laughed, the sound brittle, tears threatening to spill despite my effort to hold them back.
"Alright." I said, forcing steadiness into my voice. "Then we agree. He must be stopped. Here and now, he must be opposed."
I turned to Rosen. "Are you able to act without the watch of Midir?"
Rosen frowned slightly. "It's not as though he would go and tell Griffin," he replied.
"I told you, Midir seeks knowledge, not allegiance. I would know."
I shook my head. "That's not what I asked. It doesn't matter why. I need a yes or a no."
He hesitated, concern flickering across his face, then let out a quiet sigh. "Yes. He does not keep his watch upon me unless I will it so."
Before I could respond, another voice cut in, sharp and measured.
"And what, exactly, do you plan to do with that freedom?"
I turned to Jacqueline.
She, arms crossed, eyes fixed on me with an intensity that made it clear
"You're asking us to move against Griffin," she continued.
"Against Heaven's design, whether you call it that or not. That's not something you do without a plan, Nicholas."
She leaned closer, her gaze unwavering.
"So tell me. Do you actually think you can win, or are you just refusing him because you're afraid of what freedom would cost?"
I met her eyes and exhaled slowly.
"I have a plan," I said. "Not a clean one. Not a kind one. But it doesn't end with humanity erased for its own good."
My grip tightened unconsciously around the hilt of my blade.
"Griffin believes the world must be remade from the top down," I said quietly. "I intend to prove that it can still be changed from within."
"I find that answer pleasing," Malachi said, a small chuckle escaping him despite himself.
The humor faded quickly.
His expression hardened, eyes sharpening with a realism earned through experience.
"However, it will not be that simple. Griffin will not falter to mere blades and spells. You know that better than anyone."
I leaned back, letting my gaze wander across the scenery before us.
It was beautiful in a way that almost felt mocking, as though the world were daring us to save it.
"I do," I said. "That's why I don't intend to fight him as I am."
I exhaled slowly. "I wish to become the greatest me. The greatest fool there is."
[Nicholas knew his failures. He knew his weakness. And yet he still wished to continue. He still wished to love this world.]
I straightened and looked back at them.
My vision hummed softly, the white at its edges growing brighter, more insistent, until it threatened to consume everything else.
"To tell you the truth," I said, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my chest.
"I'm afraid of myself. I'm afraid that I won't be able to accomplish what I'm reaching for."
I swallowed, forcing the words out anyway.
"But it's that fear that drives me. If I ever stop being afraid, then I'll know I've already failed."
[Nicholas had finally reached the fifth wall. Such an enlightenment was only possible once this truth was laid bare.]
I let out a quiet, almost self-conscious laugh. "I know it's foolish to say this, but I wish to save this world."