The Guardian gods-Chapter 443

To wield true justice, she could not be blinded by her own sense of righteousness. She could not choose only the victims she wanted to avenge.

She opened her eyes and looked up at the Leviathan.

"So, you see now."

Its voice was a deep rumble, rich with amusement, with something almost like satisfaction.

Xerosis exhaled, a slow, steady breath.

"Yes," she said. "I see."

Xerosis turned around looking different than she did when she walked into this realm, as she took a step, her view changed and she was now back on the woods of the spirit world.

Now even more cautious she continued to walk with no direction in mind until a similar sensation came over her.

Xerosis took a step forward, and the sensation gripped her again—that strange, insidious pull of emotion.

She had felt it before. The gnawing hunger. The all-consuming greed. But now, something different took root in her chest.

She exhaled sharply, pressing it down, forcing herself to focus. Suppression had worked before. It would work again.

Her eyes wandered across the space, taking in the endless paintings that adorned the realm. Each one was a window into another’s life—a glimpse into a moment, a feeling, a struggle. Some pieces radiated warmth and triumph, filled with the colors of hope and fulfillment. Others were cold, jagged, darkened by the weight of failure, abandonment, and despair.

And then, at the center of it all, stood him.

A massive figure, his back turned, his form hunched over a canvas, lost in his craft. The scent of oil paint and aged parchment filled the air. Every stroke of his brush was meticulous, deliberate, as if he were trying to capture something just beyond his reach.

The Despairing Virtuoso.

Xerosis knew what he was—the Arch-Cursed Being that embodied talent, or the pain of its absence. The curse of yearning for greatness, of being tormented by envy, of watching others soar while being shackled by one’s own limitations.

She stepped forward, her gaze drifting back to the paintings as she moved. She couldn’t help but be drawn in.

Each canvas whispered to her.

A young warrior staring at a sword he could never lift.

A poet crushed beneath the weight of unwritten words.

A musician with hands too broken to play.

Dreams unfulfilled. Desires turned to anguish. The longing for talent, for recognition, for meaning.

Xerosis slowed her steps, her throat tightening.

For all her strength, for all the certainty she once carried about her own purpose, she had never truly considered this kind of suffering.

Was talent a gift? Or was it a curse?

She clenched her fists.

The Leviathan had forced her to question greed. But now, standing in the Virtuoso’s realm, she was forced to confront something deeper.

The suffering of those who longed for greatness but could never grasp it.

And for the first time since stepping onto this path, Xerosis wondered—if she had been born different, if she had been powerless, if she had lacked the gifts granted to her by blood and fate... would she have been one of them?

Would she have despaired? Would she have envied?

Would she have been worthy of justice?

She looked ahead at the giant figure before her, feeling the weight of the question settle in her soul.

And then, she took another step forward.

When she got close to the sitting giant, she looked over his shoulder to see what he was painting.

Xerosis’s breath caught in her throat as she gazed upon the painting.

She had steeled herself against the emotions creeping at the edges of her mind, but now, they crashed over her like a wave.

The brushstrokes told a truth so profound, so raw, that for the first time, she could not ignore it.

At the top of the pyramid stood the godlings—her kind. Draped in wealth, adorned in power, untouched by the struggles of those below. Their gazes were indifferent, their hands held treasures beyond measure, their divine auras marking them as those chosen by fate. They did not reach for more because they had no need to.

Just beneath them were the human nobles—their crowns gleamed, their garments fine and pristine. They were not divine, but power had been granted to them by birthright, securing their place above others.

Lower still, the mages and knights. Warriors of skill and intellect, individuals who had forged their own paths to strength, but still confined to a station beneath those born superior.

And at the very base—the common people.

Haggard. Hollow.

Their arms stretched toward the heights above them, toward a place they would never reach.

Some trampled over the weak, stepping upon the bodies of those who could not climb. Desperation and cruelty intertwined.

Others, too broken, too weary, had long since stopped trying.

The weight of it pressed against her chest, suffocating in its enormity.

This was not just a painting.

This was the world.

Xerosis felt something burn in her—something unfamiliar and unwelcome. Was it anger? Frustration? Sorrow?

Or perhaps... guilt?

Had she ever thought of them before? Truly? She had wielded justice, yes. But justice only for those she had chosen to see.

Her gaze flickered back to the godlings at the top.

Her people. Her kin.

And then, for the first time, she asked herself—what did it mean to be born above?

Did it mean she was more deserving?

Or did it mean she had more to answer for?

Her hands trembled as the thoughts took shape. Had she ever given true justice? Or had she only given it to those she deemed worthy?

What of the ones at the bottom? The ones who had no strength to demand justice at all?

She looked to the Despairing Virtuoso, her voice caught between breath and sound.

This was what he painted. This was what he saw and now, she saw it too.

The giant turned towards her "Tell me your story princess, what is your justice towards a world like this" He said as he ponted to the painting.

Xerosis barely had a moment to react.

The giant’s words—his challenge—lingered in the air like a heavy fog.

"Tell me your story, princess. What is your justice towards a world like this?"

She parted her lips to speak. To give an answer.

But before she could, the painting twisted. The canvas rippled, warped, and then—collapsed inward.

A great whirlpool of color, ink, and oil ripped itself from the frame, swallowing her whole.

She plunged into the painting.

Into the world it had depicted.

Xerosis hit the ground with a force that rattled her bones. It was real beneath her hands—rough, cold, and cruel.

She stood at the base of the pyramid.

The lowest level. A beggar.

Her once-pristine form was reduced to rags. The divine power that had always hummed in her veins? Gone. She felt small. Weaker than she had ever known.

The air was thick with desperation. Around her, figures pushed, shoved, trampled over one another in their struggle to ascend.

A man grabbed her wrist, wild-eyed with hunger.

"Give me your bread!" he snarled.

Bread?

Xerosis looked down. In her hands, she held a single piece of stale, crumbling bread.

A heartbeat passed. Her first choice.

Would she fight for it? Would she surrender it?

Would she judge him for his desperation, as she once would have?

Did she deserve to judge him at all?

The world demanded her answer.

Xerosis looked at the man before her.

His sunken cheeks, the way his trembling fingers dug into her wrist—he was starving. Desperation burned in his hollow eyes. He had no strength to fight, yet he still reached for the bread in her hands.

Once, she would have judged him instantly.

"A man who steals is unjust."

But here, in the lowest depths of this world—was it truly injustice to want to survive?

She felt the hunger clawing at her own insides, something she had never experienced before. A mortal’s hunger. A weakness that gnawed at her body and mind alike.

A choice.

Give, or keep?

If she gave it away, she would suffer. If she kept it, she would deny another.

And above them, the pyramid loomed.

The godlings, nobles, and mages—none of them suffered like this.

Her grip on the bread tightened.

Would this man give to her if their places were reversed?

Would anyone give to her?

The weight of survival pressed down on her, an invisible force dragging her lower. She could feel the despair of this realm creeping in, the same despair that fed the giant painter.

A soft laugh echoed around her. The Despairing Virtuoso watched. Waiting.

This was only the beginning, Xerosis took a slow breath.

She made her choice.

Xerosis exhaled slowly, feeling the warmth of the bread in her hands. The man’s sunken eyes never left it, flickering between desperation and silent pleading. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"What is justice in a world like this?" The Despairing Virtuoso’s voice echoed in her mind, its question lingering like an unfinished brushstroke.

Justice, in an ideal world, was fairness. It was balance. It was order.