There was nothing but despair everywhere.
After enduring relentless, cruel exploitation, they had finally gained a glimmer of hope. It was a single sentence filled with compassion and salvation.
Those beautiful words were enough to keep them from yielding to hunger, poverty, and despair. Yet their rulers wanted to take even that away from them. That was no longer exploitation—it was practically murder.
So they rose up. More than dying in battle, they feared having their right to live taken from them.
The boy was among them as well—no one knew whether it was coincidence or an arrangement of divine will. Yet at some point, he had already become their leader.
There should have been neither defeat nor victory in this.
The moment they rose up, they became losers, yet at the same time, they became winners. They had no fists to raise, only enough strength left to stand. But the act of standing itself was what mattered most. To stand for what they believed in—that was the most crucial, most necessary act. The sacrifices would be kept to the bare minimum. Even if a few people, including himself, had to become sacrifices, the world could awaken from the brink of death.
That was how it should have been.
Even gods sometimes inflicted malice born from goodwill. The god-given miracle within the boy gave them a chance at a victory they should never have possessed.
But miracles were, after all, exceedingly rare. Even when every factor of heaven, earth, and humanity was in place, they were still accidental phenomena that entrusted everything to luck.
Unfortunately—the boy had seized victory.
Everyone became intoxicated by that victory. The boy who had won an unwinnable battle was hailed as a child of miracles, becoming an idol worshipped by all. Faced with the people's