Time is the most powerful and also the most magical kind of magic.
For short-lived races, every minute and every second of their lives are precious. If they do not cherish their limited and short lives, then when they reach the end of their lives and look back, all they will get are countless regrets.
But for races with long lifespans, or even those without the concept of a lifespan, time is cheap. The extremely precious years and decades in the lives of short-lived races are nothing but a moment of a short nap for them. Many things that short-lived races must seize the time to do are things that they don't need to be in a hurry for at all. They have plenty of time.
At least in the eyes of the Flügel, the world is like this—just take a short nap, maybe for a few months, maybe for a few years, and everything outside will not change much.
The great war is still the great war, and the slaughter is still the slaughter. Although those disrespectful groundhogs have now invented a weapon with great destructive power, it is still like a toy in the eyes of their master, not worth mentioning.
Whether it is the Dwarf alliance or the Elf alliance, in the eyes of the Flügel, they are nothing more than the Useless self-deception of the weak, which can be shattered at a touch in front of their master's great power. They firmly believe this, and the facts are indeed so. The only thing that makes the Flügel feel puzzled is their master's order—do not act rashly, and contract your forces.
It is precisely because of the God of War's tolerant attitude that this three-way standoff has appeared on the continent.
But the Flügel themselves firmly believe that as long as their master wants to, the power of all the Flügel, plus the power of the Phantasma Avant Heim, plus the power of the God of War Himself, the power of their side alone is enough to kill the other two sides with one enemy and two.
However, the order the God of War issued was to contract their forces and wait for the opportunity. The Flügel could not understand, but since it was their master's order... they would naturally obey.
But wait for the opportunity... what opportunity?
They could not understand.
Is it an opportunity that only Lord Artosh can see?
What is He... waiting for?
Living entirely on the back of the Phantasma Avant Heim, countless scattered huge blocks were piled up here at will. The Flügel's various houses and facilities existed between these blocks that did not have the usual sense of roads. It was impossible to grasp the specific size of the city because the distance and size of space were meaningless here. But even in such a strange city, there was still a more magnificent hall compared to the other buildings, and that was the divine throne where the God of War Artosh was entrenched all year round.
Except for more than a decade ago, when Jibril, an outlier and the youngest individual among the Flügel, Ex-Machina the expectations of all the beings who were paying attention to her and truly broke through the limits of their race by defeating and killing a Dragon. Because she was too eager, she stood up and walked to the side of the recovering Jibril and talked with her. Besides that, this Old Deus has been sitting on His divine throne for an unknown number of years.
In this great hall, even the Flügel who were usually crazy and had slaughter and war on their lips would feel reverence and be respectful in front of their god. And all reports and audiences with the God of War Artosh also took place here.
His body was so huge that they could only look up at it. Compared to Okein, the form that the God of War Artosh manifested in the real world was more similar to the concept of an Old Deus. His black beard, as coarse and straight as steel, spread out fiercely. There were eighteen horizontal wings behind Him, which clung to His body like a coat. And what could never be ignored was the sharp gaze of golden light that was constantly radiating from His deep face. Even without saying a word, it was enough to impose a sense of oppression on any being He looked at.
Just being looked at was enough to make one's mind feel numb. However, even this form that made people involuntarily feel reverence and get drunk on His great glory was nothing more than an insignificant manifestation of His great power, like a drop of water in the ocean.
Looking up blankly at the unrivaled power of the master she revered, it should have been an extremely serious scene. However, Jibril inexplicably recalled the dumplings that were born from her hands in that dilapidated ruin city on that day called the New Year. The master was made of dough... Jibril suddenly wanted to laugh, and she did laugh.
"Pfft..."
"Jibril!!!!"
Following Jibril's laugh was Azril, who was kneeling beside her, turning her head in astonishment and exclaiming in a low voice. For this eldest sister of all the Flügel, even though Jibril had shown a defiant side many times in front of their master, such a disrespectful action was still unacceptable to her.
"I'm very sorry, Lord Artosh. Jibril is just—"
[It's fine.]
Azril's words to excuse Jibril, which she spoke in a hurry, were interrupted by Artosh's casual wave of a hand. This Old Deus even leaned forward with a look of curiosity and stared at Jibril.
[My wing, why do you laugh?]
Of course, Jibril couldn't say that she had once made a dough version of Him and bit off its head with her own mouth. This was not a good time for a joke. Besides, as she had said before, although she was rude to her creator by fighting and beheading, she was really a good Flügel.
The so-called rudeness was nothing more than seeing the true wish in her creator's heart and wanting to achieve the goal He yearned for.
"I just recalled some interesting viewpoints I heard during a trip out a while ago. Although they were a bit ridiculous due to the limitations of power and perspective, after some thought, I decided to present those words to You. I hope they can provide some ideas for the problem that is bothering You," Jibril said while also kneeling.
[Interesting. Then speak. No need to be constrained.]
More casual than the personality that many races had guessed, the God of War Artosh just nodded casually, waiting for the answer that His favored and most anticipated little wing would bring back to Him. He was indeed anticipating it, the problem that had bothered Him for countless years.
The reason the weak fight.
The reason the strong fight.
The thing that the strongest yearned for.
The words that Su'er had once said, and the questions he had once asked her—whether there was something that was created by her own will, not for slaughter, but just a simple, unrelated creation, something that was of no use at all.
Lowering her head and speaking slowly, the images of her running around with Su'er and that annoying weed gradually passed through Jibril's mind.