The agonizing screams of the tormented, the voices of his friends, and Casca's soul-rending shriek-they finally began to recede. Not truly fading, but rather Guts's own mind, overwhelmed, simply ceased to register them.
All that remained was the chilling, uncontrolled, maddening laughter bubbling from his own throat, a horrifying testament to his shattered sanity.
He laughed and laughed, slamming his head against the unyielding, sandy bottom beneath the shallow water, seeking oblivion, seeking an end to the unbearable torment, a way to die when death refused him.
Then, the laughter faltered.
A small, grey silhouette of a child materialized silently before him.
It was an unidentified figure, neither boy nor girl, no taller than Guts's knee, yet its presence was unsettling.
It felt neither close nor far, a point in space that defied distance, simultaneously microscopic and vast.
This diminutive form radiated an ancient, profound weariness that settled on the air like dust.
Guts, still wracked by his hysterical convulsions, looked up, his eyes wide and unfocused.
A voice, deeper and older than time itself, rumbled through the void.
It wasn't loud, but it resonated through every particle of the desolate space, shaking the very air and sending ripples across the ever-still, ankle-deep water as if a stone had finally disturbed its endless placid surface.
This voice was a paradox itself, a chorus woven from every kind of voice: high, low, elderly, young, boys, girls-all speaking as one, yet none distinct.
"Are you satisfied?"
The Tired God murmured, their voice laden with a sorrow that dwarfed Guts's own. The words cut through Guts's madness, forcing a momentary, jarring clarity.
"Are you still unaware? You are not truly breathing; your heart is not truly pumping your blood. And the wounds on your body will always heal."
The God's gaze, though unseen, felt heavy and burdened.
For an eternity, both God and Guts sat face to face in the profound, aching silence of the void. Time, which held no meaning here, stretched endlessly between them, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic lapping of the ankle-deep water.
Guts, though his laughter had subsided, remained adrift in a quiet, simmering madness, his eyes fixed on the small, enigmatic silhouette. The God, meanwhile, exuded an ancient, unwavering patience, their presence neither close nor far, yet filling the desolate space.
Then, after a span that could have been moments or millennia, Guts's ragged voice broke the stillness, thin and raw with desperation.
"Let me leave."
The chorus of voices that formed the God's reply resonated, quiet but absolute.
"No."
A fresh surge of frustration, fueled by his shattered sanity, twisted in Guts. He lunged forward, hands clenching, the shallow water churning around his knees.
"LET ME LEAVE!"
He roared, the futile sound swallowed by the vast emptiness, leaving only a faint echo in his own ears.
Again, the ancient, weary voice responded, unchanging.
"No."
The exchange became a tormenting loop, playing out for what felt like endless ages. Guts screamed, he pleaded, he raged, he begged.
His voice became a desperate, broken thing, a raw wound in the silence, constantly demanding release. And each time, the multifaceted voice of the God, a patient, sorrowful choir, would reply with that same, definitive, unyielding word: "No."
It was a maddening ritual, Guts consumed by the futility of his fight, the God by the endlessness of their resolve.
Until, once more, a profound stillness settled between them. Guts finally fell silent, his body slumped, his spirit a frayed thread. The God remained unmoving, their quiet sorrow a tangible weight.
Then, with an almost childlike, disarming simplicity, the small silhouette lowered a hand to the water.
A delicate finger dipped into the murky surface, and with a gentle, rhythmic motion, the God began to splash. Tiny droplets flew from the surface, catching the eternal dusk-light.
But these weren't ordinary drops. As they rose, they began to float, suspended in the air. Slowly, impossibly, they expanded, each growing from a mere bead into a shimmering, translucent sphere, some becoming as large as Guts's head.
And within each of these iridescent bubbles, flickering images played out silently.
They weren't mere pictures; they were fragments of Guts's own past, vivid, living memories.
Scenes flashed before him, not just major events he recalled, but moments long forgotten, tiny details from his earliest childhood, faces he'd never consciously remembered, whispers and fleeting joys and insignificant pains from a life he thought he knew.
It was a deluge of existence, memories so deep and buried that even Guts, with his iron will and tormented mind, found it impossible to remember them himself.
Amidst the swirling constellation of universal memories, Guts's gaze locked onto a single, iridescent bubble that slowly drifted closer to him and the diminutive silhouette of the God.
It shimmered with an unsettling luminescence, drawing his attention with a terrible, magnetic pull. As the bubble finally came into clear view, its flickering images coalesced into a scene of unimaginable horror.
"Why?"
Guts finally rasped, his voice raw, looking from the swirling memories back to the small, unreadable silhouette.
"Why are you showing me this?"
The God's collective voice, a chorus of deep sorrow, resonated through the void.
"Guts"
They began, the sound a gentle hum that nonetheless vibrated through his very bones.
"your existence brings me comfort. Your struggle, enduring against such impossible odds, fills me with hope for humanity again. Albeit a little. And for humanity to betray you as it has..."
A chill, colder than the stagnant water, touched Guts. He recognized that profound regret, that bitter understanding of betrayal. It mirrored his own.
"Who are you?"
Guts demanded, the question tearing from him.
The God offered no verbal reply.
Instead, the small silhouette returned to its quiet, almost playful act of splashing the water.
More droplets rose, floating and expanding, growing into new, iridescent spheres.
They multiplied rapidly, filling the entire space, until Guts was surrounded by an infinite constellation of shimmering bubbles.
But now, the flickering images within were no longer his own.
One bubble showed the memory of a single, tenacious sprout pushing through cracked earth in a barren, desolate land.
Another, the dull, resigned gaze of cows waiting patiently to be butchered, their innocence stark against their fate.
Nearby, a tender scene unfolded: two foxes snuggling for warmth and comfort amidst a world indifferent to their small lives.
As Guts stumbled through this boundless gallery, some bubbles caught his eye with a jolt of recognition.
They contained familiar memories of him and his companions: a shared laugh around a crackling fire, the grim determination on Schierke's face, Puck's desperate antics, Casca's rare, gentle smile.
But the further he moved, the more distant and alien the memories became.
More unknown, more ancient.
They were the silent echoes of humanity's forgotten past, of its triumphs and cruelties, its births and its destructions, moments lost to time, now displayed before him.
Guts found himself standing, walking in slow circles, his head swiveling, trying to take in every flicker, every glimpse of this bewildering, overwhelming tapestry of existence.
He searched, not knowing what he was looking for, lost in the collective unconsciousness of all that had ever been.
"Have you ever wondered, Guts?"
The God's voice resonated, now imbued with an unsettling tone of profound abandonment.
"Apostles are created by the God Hand, but then who created the God Hand, Guts? Let me show you."
As they spoke, one of the countless shimmering bubbles, larger than the rest, began to swell rapidly.
It pushed the surrounding flickering images of universal memories away, growing until it dominated the immediate space between Guts and the small, grey silhouette.
The light within it intensified, coalescing into a single, vivid scene.
It was the memory of a vibrant, beautiful woman with long, wheat-colored hair that shimmered like spun gold.
Her face was serene, radiating an otherworldly compassion.
Guts watched as the images unfolded: she moved among the poor, her hands easing the suffering of the sick and the starving, her gentle words preaching hope and solace to the masses.
She was a beacon of light in a world still rough and untamed.
"My daughter,"
The God murmured, their chorus of voices thick with an ancient, sorrowful pride that quickly morphed into a profound, aching despair.
"The very daughter I created with the outer side of my skin, filled with all my hope for humanity and my blessings for them."
The scenes of the vibrant, beautiful woman, the God's own daughter, helping the poor and preaching hope, began to curdle. The gentle smiles of the masses turned into sneers.
The outstretched hands seeking aid transformed into fists. The very people she sought to uplift, those for whom the God had held so much hope, began to abandon her.
They pelted her with filth and stones, each projectile a deliberate act of degradation.
Their faces, once filled with awe, now twisted into snarls, dehumanizing her with every jeer and insult.
Yet, despite their rejection and scorn, she continued to move among them, an unwavering beacon of compassion.
She knelt to tend to the sick, offered solace to the dying, and whispered words of hope to the despairing.
She sought tirelessly to fulfill the very purpose of humanity's existence-to care, to connect, to uplift-even as they spat upon her. She did not waver, even as their contempt grew.
But then, the true horror arrived.
Guts felt his gut clench, a wave of nausea, cold and acidic, rising in him.
He gagged, vomiting into the nothingness, the non-existent bile burning his throat.
The sight before him, even as a mere flickering image, was too much.
"STOP!"
Guts roared, his voice raw with a fresh, desperate anguish, unable to tear his eyes from the escalating atrocities.
The God's sorrowful chorus resonated, devoid of malice, yet heavier than any accusation.
"Do you still think I am humanity's enemy, Guts? Look at them. Look at what they did to my daughter."
Inside the grotesque tableau, the scene unfolded with sickening clarity.
The masses, parading her purity to the crowds, now seemed to find perverse joy in its defilement.
The very people who once cheered her now cheered as others tore her bare, laughing with chilling glee.
Her sorrowful cries, born of agony and despair, were met with applause and cheers as they raped her, the joyful clapping of the crowd a maddening counterpoint to her suffering.
After the endless, horrific ordeal finally ended, when her body was broken and her spirit utterly defiled, they dragged her lifeless form through the streets and tossed it out for dogs to eat.
All of this unfolded under the cold, indifferent gaze of the nobles who had orchestrated everything.
They watched from balconies, their faces impassive or faintly amused, casually eating grapes and sipping wine.
This final image - the calculated cruelty, the utter lack of empathy, the systematic destruction of innocence for sport - was the tarnishing of everything the God had hoped for humanity.
It was the ultimate sin, laid bare.
As the final, grotesque image of her desecrated body being tossed to the dogs held firm, the glorious visage of the God's daughter twisted into an unrecognizable mess within the flickering image.
Her features, once radiant, contorted into a mask of pure agony and defilement, becoming as broken and defiled as her spirit.
Then, within the confines of that horrifying memory bubble, the very fabric of the kingdom began to respond to the horror.
The sky above the kingdom of sin creaked, a sound like ancient stone groaning under impossible weight.
The very space within the vision began to tear, not with a silent rip, but with a horrifying, visceral shudder.
From these cosmic fissures in the sky, thick, viscous blood began to pour, not just from the ruptured sky, but from the very edges of the vision, overflowing the confines of the memory bubble.
This crimson deluge didn't just fall; it flooded the kingdom of sin depicted in the memory, a tide of divine sorrow and judgment.
It touched the ground, the buildings, the very bodies of the revelers.
And as the blood washed over them, it began to corrode, corrupting and dissolving their flesh.
Their human forms, once defined by the God's initial hope, now melted and reshaped, turning their appearance into a monstrous, disgusting mess, a physical manifestation of their depravity.
With sickening speed, as their forms solidified into these sinister, unrecognizable shapes, their eyes, now devoid of humanity, turned on one another.
Driven by an insatiable, endless hunger born from their corruption, they began to devour each other. Mother tore into daughter, father into mother, brother into sister-a frantic, tearing, cannibalistic frenzy to satisfy a craving that could never be sated.
Their guttural snarls and the wet sounds of tearing flesh filled the silent void, a horror Guts felt in his very bones.
As the blood of their self-destruction, mingled with the pouring crimson tears from the heavens, gathered in the lowest points of the now-corrupted landscape, it began to coalesce.
It swirled, thickened, and formed a single, pulsing mass.
And from this congealed pool of sin and suffering, a chilling form began to rise, its features pushing out from the bloody mass: the Behelit, its eyes sunken and weeping, its mouth locked in an eternal, silent scream.
It was born of their depravity, a monument to the collective sins of humanity.
The God's multi-voiced chorus, now infused with an even deeper, more profound grief, echoed through the boundless void.
"Whose face do you think that is, Guts?"
They whispered, the question hanging heavy in the air.
"It is my face. Crying at the tragedy that befell my daughter. And the regret that I ever created humanity."
The God's final words - "It is my face. Crying at the tragedy... and the regret that I ever created humanity" - echoed through the boundless void, a profound declaration of despair.
A primal, untamed fury ignited in Guts, hotter and more absolute than any pain he had ever known.
The words were a spark, and his rage was a roaring inferno.
With a guttural roar, he lunged.
His fist, imbued with years of battle-hardened wrath, slammed into the small, grey silhouette.
He didn't stop.
He punched, he kicked, he kneed, he elbowed, a relentless, savage assault against the unresisting form.
It felt like hitting nothing more substantial than wet clay, yielding under his blows yet offering no satisfaction, no feedback, just a sickening, muted impact.
He struck again and again, his every blow a scream against the injustice, against the pain, against the very act of creation that had led to his endless torment.
Finally, Guts collapsed, gasping, his body trembling, his fury momentarily spent. The small, grey silhouette remained, unbroken and unchanged, radiating only that profound weariness.
"Are you done, Guts?"
The God's multi-voiced chorus, as calm and sorrowful as ever, filled the silence.
"If not, we have all the time in this timeless space."
A fresh wave of anguish tore through Guts. He screamed, a raw, broken sound that echoed his earlier madness, but this time it was fueled by an agonizing
"why."
"WHY?! WHY DID YOU MAKE THE ACCURSED GOD APOSTLES?!"
The God's voice remained soft, filled with an ancient, sorrowful patience.
"The self-proclaimed Apostles"
They corrected.
"They never served me."
The God paused, allowing the weight of the statement to settle. After what felt like an eternity, as Guts's raging breath slowly began to calm, the God continued.
"I merely created the concept, Guts. Their existence is a cause and effect, the culmination of humanity's collective sins."
Guts stared at the Behelit, the face of the God's own sorrow, and the horrifying spectacle of humanity's self-destruction still burned in his mind.
As the Behelit's image shimmered, other, more recent flickering images began to bleed into the periphery of the central bubble, forcing their way into Guts's sight.
He saw glimpses of a world ravaged, familiar landscapes torn asunder, the raw, bleeding wounds of recent, horrific destruction.
And then, a fleeting, agonizing vision: a small, desperate figure, his tiny companion, Puck, cowering amidst the chaos.
A fresh wave of terror and anguish surged through Guts, eclipsing even his earlier madness.
He fell forward, slamming his fists into the shallow water, a primal scream tearing from him.
"Then stop it! Save us! Save Them!"
The multi-voiced chorus of the Tired God resonated with an ancient, unyielding weariness.
A sigh, deeper than any Guts had ever heard, seemed to emanate from their small form, rippling across the silent water.
"No."
They whispered, the word an echo of their refusal to Guts's earlier pleas for release.
"I cannot. I will not. My hope... it is long since spent."
Guts pushed himself up, desperation twisting his features.
"Then send me back! Send me back to them! Let me save Them!"
He roared, his voice raw.
"No."
The God replied, their collective voice unwavering, a testament to their desire for ultimate cessation.
"The world must end. Not be saved."
The God's silhouette seemed to dim, as if the very act of speaking drained them further.
"I have witnessed enough cycles of creation and destruction, of hope blossoming only to be trampled by the relentless cruelty of the very beings I willed into existence. I have already given up on humanity, Guts. Everything must end. It is the only true peace."
Guts felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.
"Where will they go when all of them perish? Where do we all go?"
The God's gaze, though unseen, felt heavy with infinite knowledge and profound sorrow.
"They go to Hell, Guts."
They stated simply, the multi-faceted voices devoid of judgment, only fact.
"But not all of them are tortured for eternity. There are those who still possess a flicker of kindness, a touch of compassion in their hearts, even amidst the darkest deeds. My judgment, though weary, is never unfair."
The God then turned their enigmatic gaze directly towards Guts, and a strange, almost gentle energy began to emanate from their form, subtly warming the stagnant air around them.
"Yet, your struggle, Guts... your unrelenting refusal to break, even when driven to madness by what you've seen and endured. It is a peculiar, stubborn light in the endless darkness. For you, Guts, for the faint comfort your existence has brought to my eternal despair, I can offer a different end. The only thing I can still truly do for you is this: I can gather every soul you care about, every cherished companion, every beloved memory, and bring them together in one place."
"A place free of suffering."
The God continued, the chorus of voices intertwining into a single, melancholic melody.
"The last resting place of pure happiness, where you may be together, again."
A shimmering, almost imperceptible light began to coalesce around the God, hinting at a reality beyond the void. But then, the light pulsed, and the God's voice returned to its ancient, somber tone.
"But there is a price, Guts. A final, irreversible decision."
The God's offer hung heavy in the desolate air: a chance for his beloved's souls to ascend to the place of eternal Happiness after their penance in Hell. This profound, bittersweet mercy came at a price, a decision Guts alone could make.
He looked from the God to the swirling, ancient memories, his own pain momentarily overshadowed by the vastness of the choice.
As his gaze drifted over some of the countless flickering images, not all of them from the distant past, but some hinting at a future he could not comprehend, he recalled the architects of his suffering, the ones who seemed truly beyond redemption.
"And the God Hand?"
Guts rasped, his voice raw with a sudden, rekindled rage, the name of Griffith burning on his tongue.
"What happens to them at the end of all things? To Griffith?"
The small, grey silhouette of the God seemed to grow subtly, their multi-voiced chorus resonating with a cold, absolute finality that sent a shiver through the timeless void.
"They—the God Hand, those most arrogant of beings, who conspire against me even now from their dark dominion—they believe they are beyond my reach, beyond my judgment. They believe they are the ones who manipulate and decide. But they are wrong. At the final Judgment Day, they too will be humbled."
"They," The God stated, their voice a judgment itself, "Along with the one playing gods behind the empty throne, and all their devoted followers, will be cast into the deepest part of Inverno."
As the God spoke, a new, horrifying image intensified within a nearby bubble, no longer fleeting but raw and vivid: a glimpse into Inverno. It was a desolate, fiery abyss, a landscape of perpetual, agonizing screams. Guts saw the nobles of the kingdom of sin, their regal robes now tattered, their faces twisted into masks of eternal torment, their flesh constantly flayed by unseen whips of heat, only to regenerate and be flayed again.
Their once elegant fingers clawed at their own burning skin, but there was no relief. Beside them, the citizens of sin, those who had cheered and participated in the desecration, writhed in a sea of molten metal, their bodies slowly dissolving into grotesque shapes before reforming, only to be submerged once more.
Their laughter had been replaced by endless, bubbling cries of despair, their applause by the constant hiss of their own flesh burning. The very air is thick with the stench of scorched meat and bitter regret, a stench that somehow permeated Guts's phantom senses even in the void.
"They will never be free from torment and suffering,"
The God continued, their tone devoid of regret, only the declaration of unyielding cosmic law.
"They will never get used to it. And they will writhe there for eternity."
The sheer, unyielding finality of the God's pronouncement was absolute. This was not about mercy or a chance for redemption for them. This was about an eternal, inescapable consequence for the architects of true despair.
"The world you are in now, Guts, the one whose memories you witness,"
The God's voice shifted, imbued with complex sorrow and a hint of purpose.
"is not the only world. There are others. Other worlds, other existences. And there is one, yet to fully unfold, that holds the last, faint flicker of what could be. A world of pure potential, untainted by the history you know."
The God's gaze, unreadable yet heavy with meaning, fixed on Guts.
"I offer you a chance, Guts. The last mercy I will bestow upon humanity at the Judgment Day."
The swirling memories seemed to draw closer, offering glimpses of humanity's vast, chaotic existence.
"Their collective sins are immense, their cruelty boundless. Many are destined for the fires of Hell, where their penance will be severe. But after their punishment, there are two paths."
"The first is the Land of the Damned,"
The God explained, and Guts felt a sudden, profound chill colder than the void, a desolate realm of eternal wandering, of souls lost forever, never knowing rest, never finding peace, an existence without purpose or end.
"The other path"
The God continued, their voice now infused with a fragile, almost yearning hope.
"Is a chance to move beyond Hell. A decision to put humanity into Heaven after their penance is complete, to grant them true rest, true peace."
The God's silhouette seemed to brighten almost imperceptibly, and their words gained a new weight.
"This is the choice I offer you. This is the price for the happiness I can grant you and your loved ones in their final resting place: You must go to that new, unknown world. You must protect my other daughter, ensure she does not fall to the same sins, prevent the rise of the same monstrous depravities around her."
As the God finished speaking, they moved one of the remaining, smaller bubbles closer to Guts and, with a silent gesture, caused it to expand rapidly, filling the entire horizon. The void vanished, replaced by a terrifying, all-encompassing vision.
Guts found himself standing on a vast, churning ocean, surrounded by a fleet of battleships, their cannons blazing.
Islands erupted in plumes of smoke and fire, cities crumbled under a relentless barrage, and colossal, ancient trees, sacred and revered, were splintered into kindling by the sheer, unbridled force.
The air itself shrieked with the sound of thousands of exploding shells, the ground vibrating with apocalyptic tremors. It was a "Buster Call" in its purest, most devastating form: a world consumed by an overwhelming, righteous destruction, obliterating everything in its path, including the innocent and the unknowing, all in the name of a perceived evil or forgotten knowledge.
"There, Guts."
The God's voice echoed through the booming devastation of the vision, tinged with unspeakable sorrow.
"The last mercy, and my ultimate warning, lay there. The capacity for self-destruction, even when wielded by what they believe is justice. This is what you must prevent from ever taking root in the world I send you to, for my daughter's sake."
The terrifying vision receded, pulling back into its bubble and then vanishing, leaving Guts once more in the silent, ankle-deep water. The small, grey silhouette of the God was before him again, its collective voice resonating with fragile hope.
"Protect my daughter, Guts."
The words were a plea, soft yet profound.
"My other daughter. The last connection I have with humanity, the embodiment of my final hope. She will be there."
"Who should I protect?"
Guts rasped, the question driven by a flicker of purpose, a desperate need for direction.
"You will know,"
The God replied, their gaze falling for a moment to the Brand of Sacrifice on Guts's neck, the ever-present symbol of his torment.
"The Brand you bear, the one that ties you to suffering, will also serve as your guide. It will show you where the dangers truly lie, and what must be prevented from ever touching her. You will understand its new purpose."
The God's voice softened further, almost a lullaby of ancient sorrow and offered peace.
"After everything is done, Guts, after your mission is complete, you and everyone you cared about will live in a special place among Heaven. My kingdom, along with my daughter. You will live free from suffering and full of happiness."
A pause, laden with a specific, powerful promise. Guts's thoughts, even in this profound moment, drifted instantly to her, a deep, aching longing blooming in his chest. The image of her broken, vulnerable form, even the memories of her pure smile, flashed behind his eyes.
"Especially Casca."
The God's silhouette seemed to glow faintly.
"Is it good enough, Guts?"
They asked, their voice holding the weight of infinite ages. A dark, almost vengeful satisfaction then entered their multi-voiced chorus.
"And perhaps, when everything finally ends, you can watch. You can watch how Griffith is tormented, for all eternity, for you to enjoy. Your symbol of nightmare, the cause of everything that befell you and your loved ones, will know endless agony, forever for you to witness."