Deep within Pangaea Castle, heavy curtains shut out everything beyond the Room of Authority.
But they could not shut out the uproar outside the doors.
"This is blasphemy against the descendants of gods!"
"Nothing like this has happened in eight hundred years!"
"That peasant must die!"
"Is the Shepherd Family's child supposed to have died for nothing?!"
Protests rose one after another through the tightly closed doors, shrill, furious, hysterical.
Those voices brimmed with an arrogance that took everything for granted, and the rage of having been offended.
Saint Nusjuro leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, his fingers unconsciously stroking the First Generation Kitetsu in his arms.
His brow was tightly furrowed.
Not because of those protests.
But because-he suddenly felt a weariness that sank deep into his bones.
Eight hundred years...
He thought to himself.
Whether we're really descendants of gods-can we no longer tell?
He opened his eyes and swept his gaze across the four seated there-Saint Mars, Saint Warcury, Saint Shepherd Ju Peter, and Saint Garling, who had just returned from outside.
Those so-called "kinsmen" beyond the doors were still clamoring.
He suddenly found it ridiculous.
Or have they truly come to think of themselves as gods?
When they're clearly nothing but...
He did not pursue the thought.
Some things could not be said aloud. Not even to himself.
But he knew perfectly well-those so-called "descendants of gods" were merely targets kept penned up to shoulder a share of the "evil of the world."
Their privileges, their arrogance, their freedom to do whatever they pleased-all of it had been carefully designed. To focus the entire world's hatred on them.
And the real...
He drew his thoughts back and looked at Saint Garling.
"Go out and announce it."
Saint Garling nodded, pushed open the doors, and left.