Chương 33: Ch.32- Cruelty Without Meaning.

The silence was absolute. Even Amy's breathing seemed too loud in the frozen scene—Crow clutching his severed arm, Iris mid-turn, blood hanging in the air, Lyra screaming, Lain falling to the ground with a desperation on her face, and Zayd with surprise looking in Amy's direction. Only Amy and the Goddess existed in this bubble of stopped time, being the only ones still able to move. Or at least theoretically speaking, because Amy did not feel like someone in control of her body.

Amy could only watch, numb and distant, as the Goddess stood up from her side and walked toward the burnt, cracked Libris. She couldn't move. Not because of some kind of magic or divine paralysis, but because her body at that moment had simply forgotten how. Luckily or unluckily, once the Goddess's fingers reached down toward the book lying on the floor, she snapped from her paralysis.

"Don't," Amy whispered, the word escaping by instinct. Her voice cracked on the single syllable. The Goddess paused, tilting her head and looking at Amy for a long beat. Then, she picked up the book anyway. Flakes of burnt binding fell away at her touch, drifting to the floor. Amy flinched at each small piece that separated from the whole. Her fingers twitched, wanting to reach out, but her body still wouldn't respond properly.

"Interesting," the Goddess murmured, turning Libris over in her hands. More fragments fell.

"I theorized this could happen, but seeing it is still surprising." Amy's throat tightened.

"Is... is Libris..."

"Dead?" The Goddess tilted her head, lips curving into a smile.

"Such a binary concept. Life, death—you people love your absolutes." Amy swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on what remained of her companion. The book that had guided her, protected her, sacrificed itself for her—reduced to burnt scraps and cracked binding. Her chest felt hollow, like something vital had been scooped out. After a long moment, she managed a small nod, unable to form the actual question.

The Goddess smiled—not cruelly, but with seemingly detached amusement, or at least that was what Amy wanted to believe.

"As I said, it's still there. Though perhaps not in the condition you'd prefer. Consciousness is such a fluid thing, especially for this particular artifact."

"What do you..." Amy's words died as she stared at the charred remains. A memory flashed—Libris's voice, warm and slightly sarcastic, calling her out in the hospital for trying to save others at the cost of herself. Hypocrite. Despite the thought that came to her mind, her affection for it did nothing but augment each single second she breathed.

"The core essence remains intact," the Goddess continued, examining the book from different angles.

"Though I imagine the degradation of the physical medium is quite uncomfortable for it. If it can feel discomfort. Can it feel discomfort?" She tapped a finger against the cracked spine.

"I've never been entirely clear on that point. The nature of artificial consciousness can be excessively ambiguous." Amy took a shaky breath.

"Can you... Can you fix it?"

"Fix?" The Goddess looked genuinely puzzled.

"But it's not broken, exactly. Just... redistributed? Transformed? Evolved? Language is so limiting when discussing states of being." She held the book up to the frozen light.

"It's like asking me to 'fix' an inflamed piece of wood that's become ash, if that makes sense—I can still do it, but I wouldn't call it fixing."

"Please." The word came out smaller than Amy intended, barely more than a whisper.

"Please, just help Libris." The Goddess's expression shifted to something almost pitying, if it was genuine or not, escaped Amy.

"Weird. When I first brought you here, you were so angry. All those subtle, creative insults and sarcasm. The way you called me—what was it?

'Petty' and 'stupid'? And now look—you're using words like 'please.' Begging, even. It's genuinely strange." Amy's jaw clenched, a spark of anger flickering through the numbness.

"My friend's life is on the line..."

"Friend?" The Goddess raised an eyebrow, and another small piece of binding crumbled away.

"How quickly that word comes to you now. Did it truly do something to deserve that qualification? Or are you simply that desperate for connection that you'd befriend a magical book?"

"It saved my life," Amy said, her voice gaining strength.

"Over and over again."

"Saved? An interesting interpretation," the Goddess mused, turning the book again. Another fragment fell, and Amy's heart clenched.

"From my perspective, it merely delayed the inevitable. Though I suppose from your limited viewpoint, preventing immediate termination counts as salvation." Amy's breathing quickened, each exhale visible in the frozen air.

"Stop doing that. You're hurting it."

"Am I?" Another casual turn. More small fragments were scattered across the floor.

"I'm simply handling it. If it's so fragile that basic interaction causes damage, perhaps that says more about its construction than my treatment." She ran a finger along the cracked spine, and Amy could swear she heard something like a whimper in her mind—or maybe it was just her imagination, desperate for any sign of Libris's presence.

"Give it back." Amy pushed herself to her knees, then slowly to her feet. Her legs shook, but she remained standing.

"Give Libris back to me."

"In a moment." The Goddess held the book up to examine it from yet another angle.

"I'm curious about the modifications it made to itself. Did you know your book companion rewrote portions of its base essence to circumvent my commands? Fascinating behavior. Like a program achieving sentience through sheer stubbornness." She smiled.

"Probably what caused all this damage, actually. Unlike Abaddon's pathetic will, the effort necessary to break its spell was enormous; it shouldn't be able to even exist at all, yet it does, mostly." Amy's hands slowly curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. The small pain helped ground her, pushed back the numbness.

"I said, give it back. I don't care about your observations."

"Yes, that's rather the point, isn't it?" The Goddess finally looked at Amy directly, those impossible galaxy-filled eyes seeming to peer through her.

"You actually care about this thing, more than the humans behind us—" she gestured vaguely at the frozen tableau of Amy's companions, "—more than the end of the world, perhaps even more than yourself. I can see it in your eyes. How... unexpected." She began to pace slowly toward Amy, still holding Libris.

"That was something I theorized could happen, but it's still surprising to witness. People tend to be at their most selfish when their lives are on the line—it's a beautiful constant across all realities." She paused momentarily once she was in front of Amy, only to continue walking in circles around her.

"And yet here you are, begging for a book while your human companions bleed. Fascinating priorities."

"Just... shut up." Amy turned to track the Goddess's movement.

"Give. Libris. Back."

"Mmm..." The Goddess brought a hand to her chin as if deep in thought.

"Is that really your first priority here? Such limited vision. Don't you have questions? Aren't you going to demand I return you to Earth? Plead for your old life back? Bargain for power to save this world?" She stopped directly in front of Amy again.

"Is this burnt little book really what you care about most? How wonderfully... human. Irrational, but human." Amy let out a long exhale, her breath misting in the frozen air.

"I want my friend back." Her voice was low now, carrying an edge she'd never heard from herself before in a long time.

"Again with the word 'friend.'" The Goddess resumed her pacing, each step making Amy want to lunge for the book.

"Since I began observing your life—and I have been watching, Amy, from the moment you posted your first cruel review—that hadn't been a word you used lightly. In fact, you barely used it at all." She stopped again, tilting her head.

"You know, you said something similar once. About someone else. Not from this world, but from yours." Amy went very still, a cold dread settling in her stomach.

"Mira Chen," the Goddess continued, her tone conversational.

"The one you called a friend once. Before you destroyed her, of course." The blood drained from Amy's face.

"Don't."

"Don't?" The Goddess looked genuinely curious.

"How interesting. You flinch from words more than you flinched from watching your companions torn apart."

"Shut up." Amy's voice came out strangled.

"She trusted you, didn't she? Little Mira. Shared her secrets, her dreams, her fears. And you took each one and twisted it into a weapon." The Goddess examined her nails, still holding Libris carelessly in one hand.

"The rumors you spread about her father. The screenshots you shared of her private messages. That photo you edited—what was it supposed to show again?"

"Stop."

"And then, when she couldn't take it anymore, when she stood on that bridge—""STOP!"

"—you were at home, writing another scathing review. Tearing apart someone else's creation while Mira Chen made her final choice. And afterward?" The Goddess's smile was gentle, which somehow made it worse.

"You had the audacity to cry at her funeral. In front of her parents. The same parents who found her body floating in—""I said STOP!" Amy's voice cracked, tears beginning to blur her vision. The Goddess moved closer.

"Your father saw it before it all happened, didn't he? That's why he really left. Not because of the fight, not because of your mother. Because he looked at his daughter and saw what she was before she even did anything. He already knew she was—" Amy's vision went red. She lunged forward, reaching desperately for Libris with both hands. The Goddess simply stepped aside with fluid grace. Amy stumbled past, nearly falling. Her shoulder clipped the wall, sending a spike of pain through her arm.

"Oh, speaking of parents—your mother is fascinating too." The Goddess continued as if nothing had happened.

"A 'Gold Digger,' that's what everyone called her. Behind her back, of course. To her face, they smiled and complimented her jewelry." Amy spun around, breathing hard.

"Give me Libris!"

"I always found it admirable, actually," the Goddess mused, ignoring Amy's demand.

"The way she never let it bother her. Even changed the definition of the word to fit her better—" Amy lunged again, wild and desperate. This time she tried to anticipate the dodge, reaching where she thought the Goddess would move. The Goddess, absorbed in her observations, simply turned to follow something interesting on the ceiling. Amy stumbled past again, this time catching her knee on a piece of debris. Pain shot up her leg.

"Give it BACK!" Amy pushed herself up, tears streaming freely now. Her knee throbbed, and she could feel blood seeping through her torn pants.

"The book? Oh right, I'd almost forgotten I was holding it." The Goddess glanced down at Libris as if surprised to find it in her hands.

"I do get distracted when observing human psychology and getting revenge, especially while getting revenge."

"You fucking bitch!" Amy charged again, putting all her weight behind it. Her shoulder connected with something solid—not the Goddess, but the wall. Pain exploded through her already injured joint. She heard something pop, felt the sharp agony of a dislocated shoulder. The Goddess hadn't even moved. She stood exactly where she'd been, now looking down at Amy with something like concern.

"Are you alright? That sounded painful."

"Give it back!" Amy pushed herself up with her good arm, voice raw and broken.

"Please, just give it back!"

"Of course. Just as soon as I understand why it did this to itself." The Goddess turned the book again, completely absorbed.

"Self-sacrifice is such an odd concept. Logically speaking, self-preservation should override—" She paused, glancing at Amy.

"You're bleeding now. From your knee and... is that your shoulder? The angle looks wrong."

"Fuck you." Amy's voice was barely human. She tried once more to grab Libris, but her injured knee buckled. She went down hard, palms scraping against debris on the floor. Fresh pain joined the symphony already playing through her body. The Goddess watched with detached interest.

"You know, most people would have stopped by now. The pain alone should be enough to trigger basic self-preservation instincts. But you keep trying. Even knowing it's futile." She tilted her head.

"Is it stubbornness? Desperation? Or have I finally pushed you past the point of rational thought?" Amy's hand closed on something—a piece of broken wood from the destroyed door, about the length of her forearm, one end splintered into a rough point. Her fingers tightened around it instinctively.

"Ah," the Goddess said softly.

"There it is. The moment where pain transforms into violence. I was wondering when we'd arrive here." With her emotions a mess and her body working purely on instinct, Amy twisted and swung with all her remaining strength. The makeshift weapon connected with the side of the Goddess's head with a sick, wet sound that seemed to echo in the frozen air. The Goddess fell. Not dramatically, not slowly—she simply dropped to the ground. The book tumbled from her fingers, landing just out of reach.

Blood began to pool immediately, impossibly red against the dirty floor. Amy stared for a moment, frozen. The wooden weapon trembled in her grip. Then something inside her snapped completely. She crawled forward on her injured knee, raised the wood, and brought it down. The impact jarred her injured shoulder, but she didn't care. Again. The sound it made was wet, organic. Again. Blood splattered upward, speckling her face with warmth. Again. No thoughts. No words.

Just the motion of her arm, the impact of wood on flesh, the spreading warmth as blood began to splash back onto her hands, her arms, her face. Each strike was punctuated by a sound—half sob, half scream—torn from her own throat. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. She didn't stop when the Goddess's face caved in. Didn't stop when the beautiful features became unrecognizable. Didn't stop when her arms began to shake from exhaustion rather than rage.

She only stopped when her lungs burned too badly to continue, when her arms shook too badly to lift the weapon again. Only then did she let the blood-slicked wood fall from nerveless fingers. The thing on the floor didn't look like a goddess anymore. It didn't look like anything human. Just meat and bone and spreading crimson. Amy's breathing came in ragged gasps. She looked down at her hands—covered in blood, shaking uncontrollably. A drop of something warm rolled down her cheek.

She reached up with trembling fingers, touched it, and they came away red. The smell hit her then. Copper and worse things. Her stomach lurched. Images flashed through her mind unbidden: the headmistress's corpse, disfigured and twisted. Elyas splattered against the floor. Mira's funeral— Amy scrambled backward, leaving bloody handprints on the floor. The wooden debris clattered away, rolling through the expanding pool of blood. Her back hit the wall. There was nowhere else to go.

She stared at what she'd done, at the impossible stillness of a goddess's corpse, at the blood that seemed to be everywhere. On the walls. On the floor. On her. In her. The taste of copper filled her mouth—when had she bitten her tongue? Her vision started to tunnel. Her breathing became shallow, rapid. She was going to be sick. She was going to vomit. She was going to—"I think that's enough." Amy's head snapped up. The Goddess stood beside her, pristine and unmarked, as if nothing had happened. The blood was gone.

The body was gone. Even Amy's hands were clean, though she could still feel the phantom warmth of it between her fingers.

"What..." Amy's voice came out broken, barely a whisper.

"What just..."

"An interesting response." The Goddess studied her with emotionless eyes.

"More violent than I expected, honestly. The way you kept going even after... well. I wonder if in the future we will end the same way. With me dead on the ground and you traumatized from killing your first living being." She smiled, and it was almost sad.

"Though I suppose by then, when you finally do kill me, you'll have already disposed of quite a few others. The blood won't bother you as much. Practice makes perfect, after all." Amy couldn't speak. Her throat had closed up entirely. She could still feel the impact traveling up her arms, could still hear the wet sounds, could still—"Here." The Goddess held out something. Libris. Still cracked, still damaged, but whole.

"I believe this is what you wanted." Amy stared at the book for a long moment, unable to process what was happening. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking. The phantom sensation of blood made her fingers feel sticky, wrong.

"Take it," the Goddess said, not unkindly.

"Before you work yourself into another violent episode. Once was quite enough for today." After several deep breaths that did nothing to calm her racing heart, Amy reached out slowly, so slowly. Her fingers closed around Libris's damaged cover. The moment she made contact, she pulled the book against her chest, curling around it protectively. A sob escaped her throat—raw, broken, barely human.

"Libris," she whispered into the burnt binding.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

"It's interesting that you apologize to it," the Goddess said conversationally, as if nothing had happened.

"Even though technically the damage was self-inflicted. The book chose to break itself saving you. Yet you take responsibility." Amy didn't respond. She just held Libris tighter, face buried against the cover. She could feel the cracks under her cheek, each one a reminder of what Libris had sacrificed. The Goddess shifted beside her, and Amy heard the sound of settling fabric.

When she glanced sideways through tear-blurred eyes, she saw the Goddess had arranged herself against the wall in a mirror of Amy's position. The casual mimicry made Amy's skin crawl.

"You know," the Goddess continued, "most humans would be asking questions right now.

'How did you do that?'

'Was it real?'

'Am I going insane?' But you're not. Because some part of you already knows the answer." She examined her perfect nails.

"It was as real as anything else in your life. Which is to say, real enough to leave scars, even if the blood washes away." Amy's fingers tightened on Libris. She could feel her pulse in every injury—her scraped palms, her twisted knee, her dislocated shoulder. The Goddess had cleaned away the blood but left the pain. Bitch. Minutes passed in silence, broken only by Amy's ragged breathing. Finally, she wiped the tears from her face with the back of her hand, leaving streaks of dirt and moisture.

When she looked at the Goddess, her expression had become empty.

"You know what?" she said, her voice muffled but still audible against Libris's cover.

"Abaddon was right about you."

"Oh?" The Goddess turned to her, raising an eyebrow with mild interest.

"You call yourself a Goddess, but you're not God at all." Amy paused, hugging the book tighter.

"If anything, the only thing I see is a devil." The woman tilted her head, studying Amy.

"Do you really think that? How precious. You and Abaddon truly are the same, aren't you?" Amy didn't even look at her, keeping her gaze fixed on the cracks running through Libris's cover.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Weak, Amy. That's what I mean. You are weak." The woman leaned against the wall, then looked up at the frozen scene around them.

"Abaddon is truly an interesting case. I showed him certain truths about the nature of reality—just a glimpse behind the curtain. But his interpretation? What a fascinating display of cognitive dissonance." She gestured at the frozen picture—Crow's blood suspended mid-drip, his companions caught in their moment of desperate battle.

"He decided not only to sacrifice his son, but also that I must be a false god. A pretender. Because accepting that a being with genuine divine authority might be cruel? That would shatter what's left of his sanity." Amy listened to her words while her embrace against Libris gradually deepened, but she quickly loosened her grip when she realized she might hurt it more. The book remained silent, not even that faint warmth from before.

"I am exactly what I appear to be, Amy. A real God. Not some cosmic administrator or interdimensional bureaucrat. The 'rules' Abaddon spoke of—those limitations on my power? They exist only because he needs them to. Because accepting that I could help but choose not to would mean accepting that suffering isn't a replacement in the design made by an impostor—it truly IS the design. Think about it, little mistake. If I were truly bound by cosmic rules, how exactly would I be here now?

How would I have pulled you between worlds, rewritten the fundamental laws of your reality, frozen time itself? How could I have just given you the visceral experience of murder, then erased it like a bad dream? Rules don't allow for such... flexibility."

"..." Amy's gaze drifted to Crow, forever frozen in his moment of agony. To Iris, caught between relief and concern. To all of them, trapped almost like insects, because that's what they were, insects. She and them, that's the only thing they were. She had finally begun to realize this fact.

"So what?" She finally looked at the 'Goddess', eyes hollow but defiant.

"Doesn't make what I said less true. A Devil—that's the only thing my eyes see." The 'Goddess's smile gradually fell, her expression shifting to something unreadable. For a moment, Amy thought she saw something flicker behind those galaxy eyes—amusement? Disappointment? Something else entirely?

"Interesting. Tell me, Amy—what do you think makes a God?"

"Don't know. But I'm sure as hell this isn't it." Amy gestured weakly at the destruction around them—the ruined building, the frozen city beyond, the colossal figure visible through gaps in the structure.

"This is not what a God should be."

"According to whom?"

"According to me." Amy's voice gained strength.

"I refuse to believe someone as cruel, inhuman, selfish can be called a God. I refuse to believe that a world like this—" she gestured at the frozen nightmare around them, "—is something a sentient being created willingly. I refuse to believe this is how it all ends." The woman hummed thoughtfully, then a sigh escaped her lips.

"You can run from the truth as much as you want, constructing whatever theological framework brings you comfort. But the reason I'm a Goddess, Amy, is because I decided to be."

"That's not how it works."

"But it is. Power is what makes a God, Amy. The capacity to reshape reality according to will rather than law. Everything else—love, justice, mercy, benevolence—those are just qualities some gods happen to possess. Not requirements. I create, I observe, I destroy. That is enough." Amy didn't contest, instead just staring at everything around her with exhausted eyes. The fight had drained out of her, leaving only a bone-deep weariness. The Goddess studied her for a moment, then continued.

"Tell me, when humans create fiction, do they make their characters happy? When you wrote your reviews, tearing apart stories with such gleeful cruelty, were you motivated by love for your readers? Or did you simply enjoy the act of destruction?"

"Bullshit." Amy's voice was hoarse but firm.

"Those were just words on a page, and at best, drawings. Fiction. That's completely different from what you're doing. How can you even begin to compare the two?"

"Different in scale, perhaps. But not in nature. To me, your entire reality is not so different from a story. I speak, and worlds form. I lose interest, and they fade. The only difference between your criticism of Quest for Avalon and my treatment of your reality is that you lack the power to make your cruelty physical." Amy glared at the Goddess through red-rimmed eyes.

"I can't imagine being omnipotent and spending your time being a constant bitch."

"I am not omnipotent," the Goddess corrected with a small laugh.

"If I were, this conversation would be unnecessary. I could simply rewrite you to be more grateful. More compliant. More... interesting." She tilted her head.

"I believe that even you, if you try hard enough, could kill me. The blood you spilled moments ago—or thought you spilled—that could be real someday. I can reshape reality, bend time, create and destroy worlds. I can reach across dimensions to pluck bitter teenagers from their bedrooms and drop them into nightmares. But the fact that I'm here, talking to you? That should be proof enough that we aren't so different."

"Oh no," Amy's voice dripped with venom.

"I don't want to hear bullshit about how we're the same. I might be horrible. I've done terrible things. But you... you're probably the worst scum to have ever existed. And the shittiest part is that might not even be an exaggeration." The Goddess only chuckled, shaking her head.

"You know, some of the other Gods genuinely care about their creations. They spend eons nurturing growth, protecting innocence, answering prayers with gentle hands and loving hearts. They build paradises where suffering is minimal, where every soul finds its purpose." Her smile turned sharp.

"How terribly, mind-numbingly boring they are. Their worlds stagnate in perfection. Their creations never truly live because they never truly struggle."

"So what you're saying is that I was unlucky. Got the worst God. The one who ignores murderers and rapists while going after internet trolls to make an example."

"You didn't get the worst God," the 'Goddess' corrected.

"You got the most honest one. The only one willing to admit that consciousness—even divine consciousness—is ultimately selfish. We create because we're bored. We destroy because we can. We feel because the alternative is an eternity of perfect, terrible emptiness."

"Is that why?" Amy whispered, clutching Libris tighter.

"Is that why you do all of this? Why the manga exists? Why you brought me here? Why you make us all suffer? Boredom?" The 'Goddess' was quiet for a long moment, studying the burnt book in Amy's arms. When she spoke again, her voice carried an odd quality—not quite sadness, but something adjacent to it.

"Indeed, it was all just... a whim." She looked at Amy for a long moment before continuing to speak.

"Quest for Avalon was never about finding the lost city of Avalon, or Crow's misery, or saving the world. It was about amusing me for a while. A few years of entertainment before I moved on to the next project."

"And me?"

"You?" The Goddess laughed, but it sounded hollow.

"You wrote such passionate reviews. Such creative hatred. I thought it might be amusing to see how you'd fare inside the story you despised. A critic forced to become a character. The irony was too delicious to resist." Amy stared at her, feeling something beyond anger or fear. Just... emptiness.

"That's it? That's all?"

"What did you expect? A grand purpose? A cosmic plan where your suffering serves some greater good?" The Goddess's expression grew distant.

"Honestly, I wasn't even truly angry about your reviews. Anger, amusement, curiosity—they're all just... half-performances. Attempts to feel something, anything, in the face of eternal existence… That's one thing your book and I had in common, actually. We both pretend to feel because the alternative is unbearable. The difference is, the book learned to actually care." Amy's voice was flat, drained of emotion.

"So we're all just... entertainment."

"Everything is entertainment when you live forever," the Goddess replied without turning.

"Your pain, your growth, your noble sacrifices—they're all just movement. Sound and fury, signifying nothing. Just like the book said: In the end, it's all a script I wrote when I was bored one day. Or perhaps I'm writing it now. Time is such a fluid concept at my level."

"I see..."

"Mmm… Are you not surprised?" The Goddess turned back, studying Amy's expression.

"Surprised?" Amy's voice was hollow.

"Not even a little." The Goddess tilted her head, looking genuinely curious now.

"No?"

"This is what I should have expected." Amy's laugh was bitter, broken.

"My whole life, nothing has ever meant anything. My cruelty to Mira meant nothing. My father leaving meant nothing. Every choice, every consequence—just random chaos pretending to have purpose." The temperature in the room seemed to drop. The Goddess's smile didn't waver, but something shifted behind her galaxy eyes.

"That's what terrifies people the most, isn't it?" Amy continued.

"Not evil with purpose, but cruelty without meaning. But me? I've lived with that my whole life. Everyone I've known—including myself—has been cruel for no real reason. I've seen it enough times that I'm not scared anymore." The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the frozen air seemed to grow heavier, pressing down on Amy's shoulders.

"You are wrong," the Goddess said finally, her voice emotionless.

"Oh yeah? Please tell me how I'm wrong about my own feelings." The Goddess shook her head slowly.

"Not about your feelings. About cruelty. You claim there was no reason, but there's always a reason—there is always a reason behind everything. At least ninety-nine percent of the time, people have reasons for what they do. They're often petty, selfish, small reasons. But reasons nonetheless. Your cruelty to Mira? You were jealous of her family, her stability, the way teachers praised her. Your father leaving? He was a coward who couldn't face his own failures, so he blamed them on a child.

Your mother's desperate social climbing? A woman terrified of returning to poverty, using others as stepping stones. There was always a reason for their cruelty."

"So which one are you?" Amy interrupted, her voice hard.

"The one percent without reasons, or the ninety-nine with pathetic excuses?"

"I—""Actually, forget that. I already know the answer." Amy struggled to her feet, still clutching Libris against her chest. Her injured knee protested, her shoulder screamed, but she stood anyway.

"You're the worst kind—the one who has the power and time to do good but chooses not to. Instead, sits comfortably, doing nothing but rotting your brain with shitty stories—because by the way, your manga is shit, like it's so ass I can't believe it. So, so bad. Please for the love of God (not you) give up." The Goddess watched her rise, expression unreadable.

"You know what?" Amy continued, "Just go on with your game. Get time back to normal. I'm tired of talking with you. Tired of your philosophy. Tired of your justifications." The Goddess stood up as well, towering over her. Yet Amy did not feel in the slightest intimidated.

"You want entertainment so badly?" Amy's gaze drifted even more upward, past the Goddess and through the broken roof where the colossal figure loomed in the frozen sky.

"Fine. I'll give it to you. I'll save this world. I'll stop that thing. I'll change the ending of your stupid story. But I'll do one more thing, make you regret ever sending me into a damn other world."

"Such confidence," the Goddess mused.

"From someone who was just crying into a book."

"You're right. I am weak." Amy's grip on Libris tightened.

"But you know what? I don't think I'm weak enough that I can't at least give you a punch or two in the face." The Goddess tilted her head, confused.

"You already did that, remember? You just brutally murdered me with a piece of wood."

"I did nothing, and I achieved even less. If I truly want to hurt you, I'd need more than just a physical punch. More than violence. I need to beat you at your own game."

"Oh?"

"I don't know if it's possible to truly hurt you. But you're talking to me right now. That means that even if I hate it, we have something in common, since you resemble humans. Which also means that there must be at least something that can hurt you." For the first time since she'd appeared, the Goddess's expression went completely blank. Not amused, not condescending, not curious. Just... empty.

"I promise you," Amy continued, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Somehow, after saving everyone, I will make sure to give you a good punch in that bitch face you have. You will then feel the emotions you so much search for, when my metaphorical fist reaches your nose." They stared at each other in silence. The moment stretched between them like a held breath. Then, without a word, the Goddess sighed. The motion was simple, usual, but something about it made Amy's skin prickle with warning. Around them, the frozen tableau began to shift.

Time didn't resume all at once—it crawled back into motion gradually. Crow's blood resumed its fall in slow motion, each drop taking an eternity to travel inches. A glow caught Amy's eye—the wall where Crow's father had touched before everything went to hell. Light was seeping through the cracks in the stone, growing brighter with each passing moment. The teleporter, finally activating. The Goddess's hand moved toward Libris. Amy flinched back, but the Goddess merely brushed her fingers against the burnt cover.

Where she touched, the worst of the char seemed to fade slightly. The cracks didn't disappear, but they looked better. A faint warmth pulsed through the book, and Amy felt—more than saw—a flicker of consciousness deep within its pages.

"Libris?" Amy whispered urgently, hope flaring in her chest. But there was no response. No voice in her mind, no movement beyond that single pulse of warmth.

"It lives," the Goddess said, and there was some kind of raspiness in her voice.

"Diminished, changed, but alive in the way such things can be alive. It will speak in no time, but more importantly… Now it's also free from my spell. Though it doesn't matter much as it can no longer exert its power. I left enough of my own essence for the essential tasks such as the manga chapters, but other than that, don't expect any more help from it." The glow from the wall intensified, spreading outward like liquid light.

Time lurched forward another fraction—Amy could hear Lyra's scream beginning to complete itself, could see Ash's fist starting to connect with a creature that was no longer there.

"I'll see you again," the Goddess said, stepping back as reality began to reassert itself.

"Sooner than you think, actually. I've prepared something special for you in the Library during the personal trials. I wonder if you'll thank me or curse me when you face it."

"I already curse you," Amy said quietly.

"Yes. But not nearly enough. Not yet." The light from the teleporter filled the room now, washing out colors and details. Time stuttered forward in larger jumps. The Goddess began to fade, becoming translucent.

"Goodbye, Amy. And good luck." Her voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.

"I truly do hope you succeed." The last thing she saw was the Goddess's face. Just like the first time completely neutral yet somehow... expectant. Then the world exploded and light swallowed her whole.