Starvation
Delta did not rage.
That was the problem.
He drifted.
Across systems that no longer screamed for correction, across civilizations that learned—clumsily, painfully—to stop stacking power into single points. Tyrants died young. Empires fractured before crystallizing. Collective memory remained sharp enough to prevent Heaven from being reborn.
Balance was working.
And with every passing era, Delta felt something twist tighter in his chest.
Not hunger for blood.
Hunger for necessity.
He intervened less, not out of restraint, but because intervention no longer fit. When he arrived now, conflicts bent away from him instinctively—leaders dissolving their authority, armies fragmenting rather than consolidating.
They denied him shape.
Nyx stayed close.
Closer than before.
She spoke to him constantly—not about war, not about balance, but about nothing. Small things. Places she wanted to show him. Mortal customs that amused her. Moments designed to anchor.
At first, he listened.
Then he began answering with silence.
"You're fading," Nyx said one day, standing with him on the edge of a quiet world where the stars shone without fear.
Delta didn't look at her. "I'm still here."
"That's not what I mean."
He finally turned.
His eyes were sharper now—but emptier. No berserk fire. No righteous fury.
Just compression.
"I don't belong in a functioning universe," Delta said calmly.
"I was designed to correct failure, not coexist with success."
Nyx swallowed. "People can learn to live after war."
"I'm not people."
That was the first time he said it outright.
Hell's Calculations
Hell adapted faster than Delta expected.
Suffering economies restructured. Punishment decoupled from authority. Even torment learned restraint, becoming consequence rather than spectacle. Hades presided less as monarch, more as archivist.
They were learning.
That scared them.
Because Delta remained.
Watching.
Silent.
Waiting.
Hell's Lords met again—this time without ceremony, without debate.
"He is not attacking," one said.
"He is not retreating," said another.
"He is accumulating," Hades finished.
Nyx felt their attention pivot toward her.
"She is the key," a lord murmured.
"The tether."
Hades did not deny it.
"If he loses her," Hades said quietly, "we lose the only variable slowing him."
Nyx felt cold spread through her chest.
"They're considering contingencies," she whispered later to Delta.
"I know," he replied.
"You're not angry?"
"No."
That scared her.
"Why not?" she asked.
Delta stared out into space.
"Because they're right."
The First Collapse
Delta's next berserk episode was silent.
No roar.
No strike.
Just a world that stopped existing correctly.
He arrived at a system balanced almost perfectly—no tyrant, no god, no single center of power. A model Balance would've approved.
And something inside him… rejected it.
He didn't destroy it.
He over-optimized.
Removed redundancies.
Streamlined governance.
Compressed choice into efficiency.
The world continued functioning—
—but without friction.
No dissent.
No struggle.
No creativity born from conflict.
Just smooth existence.
Nyx arrived too late.
"This isn't death," she whispered in horror. "It's worse."
Delta looked at the world without blinking.
"They'll never suffer again," he said.
"They'll never live again," Nyx snapped.
He finally looked at her.
And for the first time in centuries, she saw doubt crack his certainty.
"Then what am I supposed to do?" he asked quietly.
She had no answer.
Balance Returns
Balance did not appear dramatically.
It simply was, standing beside Delta as he watched the hollow world spin.
> "You see it now," Balance said.
"Violence was not the final form of imbalance."
Delta's fists clenched.
"I didn't kill them."
> "You erased unpredictability," Balance replied.
"Which is where meaning incubates."
Nyx stepped between them instinctively.
"Then fix it!" she demanded.
Balance looked at her.
> "I cannot fix him," it said.
"Only constrain, isolate… or let him learn through loss."
Delta turned slowly.
"Loss of what?" he asked.
Balance met his gaze.
> "Relevance."
"Connection."
"Her."
Nyx froze.
"No," she said.
Balance did not threaten.
It didn't need to.
> "If you remain attached," it told Delta,
"your correction impulses amplify."
"If you lose her… you diminish."
Delta stared at Nyx.
For the first time, his power recoiled from the thought.
"Leave," he said suddenly.
Nyx shook her head.
"Please," Delta whispered. "Before I decide for you."
Tears burned in her eyes.
"You wouldn't."
He said nothing.
Balance turned away.
> "The universe will not survive certainty without cost," it said.
"Decide what you are willing to pay."
Nyx stepped back slowly.
Not because she stopped loving him.
Because she loved him enough to believe him.
She vanished into shadow—fleeing farther than she ever had.
Delta remained alone.
And for the first time since Heaven fell—
He felt fear.
Not of death.
Of being unnecessary.