The Guardian gods-Chapter 444

But the world was not ideal. She felt the hunger gnawing at her own insides, the weakness that made her limbs feel heavy, her mind slow. Mortals could not afford fairness. They lived by necessity, not ideals.

A bitter thought struck her "Even if I give, this man will hunger again tomorrow."

It was never-ending. Her mind warred against itself, but her body moved first.

She tore the bread in half and placed a piece in his trembling hands.

Not everything had to be absolute. Not every choice had to be one or the other.

The man blinked at the bread in shock before shoving it into his mouth, devouring it like a starving beast.

Xerosis watched him, the hunger still twisting inside her, the unfairness of it all pressing down on her chest.

But she had made her choice and for now—that was enough.

Behind her, the Despairing Virtuoso smiled. The painting began to shift once more.

The world around her rippled like wet paint, colors bleeding and reforming as the scene changed. Xerosis felt herself being lifted, as if pulled by an unseen force. She was no longer in the starving city—she was within the painting itself.

A grand hall unfolded before her, gilded and towering, with chandeliers casting golden light over a lavish feast. Nobles and scholars, adorned in silks and jewels, laughed and dined, their hands adorned with rings of power, their tables overflowing with food untouched by hunger.

Xerosis stood among them, her own attire changed—a regal gown woven with celestial thread, her divine blood recognized and honored in this world.

At the head of the table sat a woman with piercing silver eyes, draped in flowing robes that shimmered like the sky at dusk.

"You are one of us," the woman spoke, lifting a goblet of deep crimson wine. "Why trouble yourself with the struggles of those below?"

Xerosis’ throat was dry. The scent of roasted meats and spiced wines wrapped around her, tempting, suffocating.

This was comfort. This was power.

And yet...She turned her gaze downward. Through the grand marble floor, she could still see them.

The starving, the struggling, the ones stepping over others just to reach where she stood.

Their world, their pain, was merely a painting beneath their feet. Her fingers curled around the goblet.

Another choice. Would she drink, accept the warmth of privilege, stand at the top and call it "just"?

Or would she tip the goblet over, stain the table, shatter the illusion of fairness that the powerful clung to?

She exhaled. This world—this painting—had given her the answer.

Xerosis let go of the goblet.

It slipped from her fingers, crashing onto the floor, red wine splattering like blood upon the marble.

The room gasped. The woman’s silver eyes narrowed. "You would throw away what was given to you?"

Xerosis met her gaze, her voice steady "It was never given to me. It was taken from them."

The world shuddered. The feast, the nobles, the grand hall—all of it distorted, unraveling like torn canvas.

She was falling again. The Despairing Virtuoso’s voice whispered in her ears, this time filled with something other than despair.

"Then paint a better world."

Darkness swallowed her whole.

Xerosis awoke in a new world, the remnants of the unraveling painting still clinging to the edges of her mind.

This place was hers.

A world she would shape with her own hands.

She took a step forward and the ground beneath her responded, shifting, forming. The cracked earth smoothed into fertile soil. A city rose in the distance, its towers reaching toward the sky. Roads wove through the land like veins, leading to villages where people gathered, speaking in hopeful tones.

Xerosis had set one rule upon this world:

"All shall have equal chance."

No one would be born into greatness, nor into suffering. No one would be lesser or greater by fate’s design. The concept of birthright and inheritance was erased—all must earn their place through effort, through merit.

And for a time, it worked.

Scholars and farmers stood side by side, their worth judged not by status but by what they contributed. Soldiers were not chosen by bloodlines, but by strength and skill. The powerful could not hoard wealth, and the weak were not left to rot.

A world of fairness. A world where justice was not an illusion.

Or so she thought. It started with a child.

A boy, frail and weak, born from parents who had tried and failed to rise in this world. His mother had once been a weaver, his father a laborer. They had no legacy to pass down, no advantage to give him.

Though he worked tirelessly, he was always behind. His hands shook too much for the sword, his mind grasped too slowly for books. In a world that only rewarded merit, he had none.

No one oppressed him. No one harmed him.

Yet he suffered all the same.

"Why?" he asked, staring at Xerosis with wide, hollow eyes. "Why was I born like this?"

She had no answer.

The second sign came in the form of a merchant.

He had once been a beggar, rising through clever deals and hard labor. He followed all the rules, never cheated, never stole. His wealth was built from nothing, a testament to the fairness of this world.

Yet people resented him.

Whispers grew into murmurs, murmurs into accusations.

"How is this different from the nobles of old?" they cried. "He has more than the rest of us! Is this justice?"

Xerosis tried to reason with them "He earned it. He did not take it from you."

But fairness was not enough. Envy rotted fairness into perceived injustice.

The merchant’s house burned that night.

And the third sign—the one that shattered her belief entirely—came from a trial.

Two men stood before her. One was a murderer, the other was a thief.

The law was clear—a life for a life, and the thief must return what was stolen.

But the murderer had killed to protect his family.

And the thief had stolen to feed his dying child.

If she followed justice, both would suffer.

If she showed mercy, was it still justice?

Would the next murderer also claim righteousness? Would the next thief also be a desperate soul?

Xerosis hesitated.

And in that hesitation, she understood.

There was no such thing as fairness.

There was no perfect balance between justice and mercy.

No law could account for every soul’s burden, no rule could ever be truly fair to all.

Justice was not an absolute truth.

It was a story people told themselves, a dream they clung to because the world without it was unbearable.

And she had tried to turn a dream into reality.

Her world began to crumble.

Not because of war. Not because of violence.

But because it was a lie.

People abandoned her laws. Some clung to their pain, unwilling to believe that fairness was possible. Others twisted fairness into something else, seeking revenge in the name of justice. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

And those who truly followed her vision were the first to fall.

The boy who worked hard but had nothing.

The merchant who was hated for his success.

The mother who stole to keep her child alive.

Xerosis stood at the center of it all, watching her creation die.

She clenched her fists.

Her heart ached—not with anger, but with grief.

She had believed justice was an answer.

But now, she saw that it was only a question.

And she had not yet found the truth.

As the last remnants of her world faded into dust, Xerosis closed her eyes.

The voice of the Despairing Virtuoso echoed in her mind.

"And what will you paint next?"

When she opened them again, she was falling once more.

Xerosis fell.

She did not scream, did not struggle. The ruins of her world drifted past her like falling petals, each fragment carrying the weight of her failure. She had tried. But in the end, justice had proven fragile, a dream too delicate to survive reality.

She landed—not with a crash, but with a quiet step.

The world she found herself in was a void. No sky, no earth, just an endless abyss of grey mist. The only thing that existed was a mirror, standing before her.

And in the mirror, she saw herself.

But not as she was now.

The reflection showed a version of her that never faltered, never failed. A demigoddess of justice, pure and unyielding, blindfolded like the statues mortals carved in reverence of the law.

This reflection did not hesitate, this reflection did not question. This reflection did not suffer.

Xerosis stared at it. And then, it spoke.

"Why do you waver?"

She opened her mouth, but no words came.

"Justice is not meant to feel. Justice is meant to act."

The voice of her reflection was not cruel, not warm. It was absolute.

It continued: "You saw too much. You felt too much. That is why your justice failed."

The void around her shifted. A thousand voices whispered, crying out for fairness, for vengeance, for mercy. Conflicting. Contradicting. The weight of it crushed her mind, splintering into echoes of every unjust moment she had witnessed.

She saw the boy, the merchant, the thief, the murderer.