Jibril was an anomaly among the Flügel, the designated Extra Unit.
The God of War, who already possessed a sufficient number of kin, had not originally intended to create another. However, after being moved by his battle against the End Dragon, he created one last Flügel—the only one, a flawed, supplemental unit.
Because she was imperfect, little Jibril fought relentlessly, accumulating experience through countless battles. She overturned the "common sense" of the Flügel, rewrote the defensive formulas bestowed upon them by the God of War, unleashed "Heaven's Strike" against her own creator multiple times, and even single-handedly challenged the Dragonia, a race the Flügel never fought alone, from whom she learned "Time Transfer."
Due to these insane actions, despite having fundamentally mediocre base abilities among the Flügel, she could rely on her combat experience to defeat even the First Unit, Azriel, whose base abilities were four times her own.
Today, this Flügel maiden, made formidable by her imperfections, was soaring through the skies of this world.
The master of the Flügel—the strongest of gods—had encountered an enemy.
He had commanded all his kin to find this enemy, the one who gave even him a sense of crisis, at any cost.
Just what kind of being could be considered an enemy by her master?
How curious.
How it made one want to sever their head from their shoulders.
Perhaps because of the social customs of the Flügel—where status was determined by the rarity and number of heads taken in a hunt—the girl named Jibril couldn't help but lick her vibrant lips.
A being capable of stirring her master's will to fight was undoubtedly the most terrifying existence in this world.
In that case, the head of such a monster would surely be more precious than that of a God-Spirit...
No, a being who could ignite her master's fighting spirit was most likely a top-tier God-Spirit themselves.
The sensation of cleaving that entity's head off would surely be so sublime as to be intoxicating.
The girl was fantasizing about the impossible, fully aware that she lacked the ability to contend with an enemy of the God of War.
To dare raise a blade against the strong is to be a hero.
But to charge against a tank is to be a Polish fool.
To attack another god capable of clashing with her supreme master, as a mere Flügel, would be like a donkey charging with Amiya on its back.
Realizing she was getting ahead of herself, the Flügel maiden flapped the wings that, in theory, were aerodynamically incapable of providing lift, and flew towards the horizon.
Her mission was reconnaissance.
If such a being were to appear, there should be some kind of anomaly in the surroundings.
With this thought, she beat her wings and gazed into the distance.
To the east, everything was normal.
To the west, a group of "ground moles" was sailing north in their fleet.
To the south, some "monkeys" were on the move.
And to the north was a group of "lewd-elves," likely heading for a street brawl with the ground moles.
The Flügel maiden, who perhaps had a misunderstanding of what a "brawl" entailed, thought casually to herself.
She witnessed countless minor conflicts erupting almost daily across this world—a world that would have long been shattered if not for its inherent resilience. She was used to it.
If nothing unexpected happened, the fleets of the Dwarves and Elves would soon meet, and then proceed to tear up every inch of land within a ten-thousand-meter radius.
What's this?
Isn't everything perfectly normal?
The girl, feeling that this was all quite routine, sighed internally and prepared to change direction to continue her search.
And then—
Just as she was about to turn, something bizarre occurred.
As mortal enemies, the Elves and Dwarves should have opened fire the instant they met, without a moment's hesitation, fighting like rabid dogs. But they did not go to war.
They stopped their battleships, disembarked, and silently formed two separate lines.
The scene plunged Jibril into a state of confusion.
A youth, whose racial features were indistinct but who somewhat resembled a monkey, stood in the center of the would-be battlefield.
That's right.
A monkey was standing between the ground moles and the lewd-elves, receiving their adoration.
In this world, there existed sixteen races, ranked according to their affinity for spirits.
God-Spirit Race (Immanity)
Phantasma
Spirit Race (Elementals)
Dragonia
Gigants
Flügel
Elves
Dwarves
Fairies
Ex-Machina
Demonia
Dhampir
Lunanista
Werebeasts
Seirens
Imanity
This ranking was merely a measure of spirit affinity (similar to a talent for magic) and did not directly correlate with combat strength.
A being of a higher-ranked race was not necessarily strong, but they were absolutely not weak.
Those ranked above seventh were known as "Life," while those ranked seventh and below were known as "creatures."
Of course, in this era, the term "Sixteen Races" did not yet exist.
This was because the designation "Imanity" was a collective name granted to them by Tet only after he became the One True God, and he had not yet been born.
During the Great War, the term "Imanity" was completely unheard of.
In the eyes of the higher-ranked races, these beings were no different from ants, entities to be obliterated with a casual wave of the hand. In this era, their status was perhaps that of a thinking beast...
Yet now, a monkey stood between the seventh-ranked Elves and the eighth-ranked Dwarves, receiving their worship.
Yes, worship.
With her superlative vision, Jibril could clearly see on the faces of those Elves and Dwarves the same loyalty her own kind showed to their master.
No...
It was more than simple loyalty.
It was the fanaticism of one encountering a supreme, unparalleled god.
But—
The god of the Dwarves was Okan, the God of Smithing.
The god of the Elves was Kainath, the God of Forests.
That monkey... no, that god was clearly not one of those two high-ranking deities. Why was he able to command the fanatical devotion of two different races?
Vaguely sensing that she had stumbled upon something extraordinary, Jibril's mind began racing.
A new god has been born.
His Authority is most likely in the domain of the mind.
If that's the case, his head must be very valuable.
Ahem.
This was not the time to be considering the rarity of his head.
This being could be her master's enemy.
Unsure if she was lucky or cursed to have encountered her final objective right at the start of her search, Jibril watched the youth who had so effortlessly gained the fanatical allegiance of two different racial armies.
Should she go notify her brethren?
The thought surfaced in her mind.
Then, she quickly dismissed it.
She did indeed feel a sense of pressure from a certain individual, but she did not feel it was greater than that of the Dragon King.
A being of this caliber, even if he were a God-Spirit, didn't seem to be on a level where he could be an enemy to her master.
She thought for a moment and chose to continue observing for a little longer.
And then—
A clear and pleasant voice drifted over from the distance.
"My dear and lovely Flügel miss, could you please not stare at me like that?"
The person, having clearly noticed her undisguised gaze, turned his head to look at the final unit of the Flügel.
"Oh my, was I disturbing you? My sincerest apologies, my very precious—ahem, handsome, sir."
Realizing she had been discovered, Jibril very naturally flapped the wings that, from an aerodynamic standpoint, were far too small to keep her body afloat, and drifted to the young man's side.
"The word 'precious' is better suited for rare materials or protected animals, miss. You've used the wrong adjective."
The youth, who had silently seized control of the Elven and Dwarven warships with his power of Corrosion and altered their minds with the Feathers of Passage, corrected the battle-kin's flawed descriptor.
"My apologies, then. I shall try to find another adjective."
The Flügel maiden, now certain she had encountered something extraordinary, narrowed her eyes. She decided to first communicate with this strange individual and, quite unskillfully, struck up a conversation.
"Might I ask what it is you are doing?" Jibril asked, forcing the small talk, as she wasn't very good at conversing with anyone outside her own race.
"If a normal person were to ask me, I wouldn't answer this question. But seeing as you're so adorable, miss, I'll make an exception."
The youth, who was clearly much better at conversation than Jibril, half-closed his eyes and then pointed a finger at the races whose attire was, frankly, a bit risqué.
"I'm delighted to receive such a compliment."
The Flügel maiden said, feigning pleasure, though she felt none at his flattery.
Jibril was indeed a beautiful female.
She had an exquisite face, long, flowing hair that emanated a faint glow from where it grew at her waist, and which billowed endlessly even in the windless air. Every time a strand of hair swayed, it would refract light like a prism, creating a rainbow-like effect.
But the Flügel were the weapons of the God of War, and the virtues of a weapon should be sharpness, durability, and terror.
To the Flügel, a beautiful appearance was actually a mark of shame.
To be male was to be strong, to be powerful.
This was Artosh's way of thinking.
The Flügel were too weak, not having reached his expected level of power, and thus were unworthy of being designated as male.
"I'm just thinking about what kind of effect it would have if the ultimate weapons of all the major races were united," the youth said, his tone incredibly light.
Uniting the ultimate weapons of the major races?
The words, spoken so casually yet sounding so utterly preposterous, fell upon Jibril's ears, causing her heart to skip a beat.
In this world, different races each possessed their own trump card.
The Divine Strike of the God-Spirit Race.
The Collapsing Roar of the Dragonia.
The Void Zero Protection of the Elves.
The Marrow Burst of the Dwarves.
...
Each one of these possessed the power to, at a minimum, end a continent. If they were linked together and unleashed simultaneously, the world itself could be irreversibly pushed towards annihilation.
So, what kind of existence would warrant this person, who was likely a god, to go about connecting the ultimate weapons of different races?
An existence that required all the other races of the world to unite against it.
An image of a figure seated upon a throne surfaced in Jibril's mind.
The answer had already emerged.