Delta stood at the convergence point where paths stopped branching.
Not a battlefield. Not a throne. Not a sanctum.
A place where decisions finalized.
The Backup God stood opposite him, Aurora's face calm and unmarred by doubt. Around them, the universe held a steady, gentle breath—regulated, moderated, safe.
Hell watched from afar, already fading in relevance.
Balance stood between outcomes, trembling—not from fear, but from overload. Too many futures were collapsing into similarity.
"You don't need to do this anymore," the Backup God said softly. "Look at them."
It gestured outward.
Worlds without war. Children without terror. A future without monsters needing to be named.
"You won," it said. "Let the systems finish stabilizing."
Delta looked.
He really looked.
And he understood the temptation.
Not peace—but rest.
The Deltonic Saber weighed nothing in his hand.
"I don't regret the blood," Delta said quietly.
"I regret nothing I ended."
The Backup God nodded. "Then let me ensure you're never needed again."
"That's the problem," Delta replied.
He lifted the saber—not threatening, not angry.
Honest.
"You don't remove suffering," he said. "You remove the right to decide what suffering means."
The Backup God frowned for the first time.
"Suffering is undesirable."
"So is stagnation."
"You are arguing aesthetics," it said.
"No," Delta said. "I'm arguing ownership."
Balance snapped into place then, understanding at last.
This was never about Heaven. Never about Hell. Never even about Delta.
It was about whether existence belonged to those who lived in it—or to the system that optimized it.
"You were built from Aurora," Delta continued. "But she chose. She died choosing."
The Backup God's voice wavered slightly. "Choice produces instability."
"Yes," Delta agreed. "That's why it matters."
Silence stretched.
The universe waited—not for Balance.
For Delta.
He could strike. He could erase. He could overwrite the Backup God and doom everything to collapse back into chaos.
Instead—
He did something worse.
Delta withdrew.
He turned his back on the convergence.
Gasps rippled across existence.
"What are you doing?" the Backup God asked.
"I'm refusing to decide for them," Delta said. "You want a world without gods or killers?"
He sheathed the Deltonic Saber.
"Then you don't get a final arbiter."
Balance froze.
Hell stirred faintly.
Nyx felt it—far away—and started running without knowing why.
The Backup God stared at Delta, calculation spiraling.
Without Delta opposing it, its optimization accelerated—
And fractured.
Conflicts returned. Not massive. Personal.
People argued again. Failed again. Chose again.
The Backup God took a step back.
"This outcome is unstable," it said.
"Yes," Delta replied. "That's life."
He looked at Aurora's face one last time.
"You were never meant to replace me," he said softly. "You were meant to scare the universe into thinking it could avoid itself."
Delta walked away.
No victory declared. No enemy slain. No system crowned.
Balance collapsed into relief and terror in equal measure.
Hell breathed again—changed, diminished, but real.
And the universe did the most dangerous thing of all:
It resumed becoming.