POV: Haruki
"Has anyone told you that you're ridiculously good with swords? And that Sacred Gear of yours is a goddamn cheat code? Honestly, I hate all of you who get handed divine artifacts just for being born."
Kiba Yuuto, my smiling tormentor and sparring partner for the last week, raised an eyebrow while casually tossing his practice sword from one hand to the other. He was dressed like someone who'd just finished a morning jog, not like someone who could hurl me across a training field without even trying.
Kiba chuckled, still spinning his practice sword like he was bored. "What was that? Couldn't hear you over all the pathetic whining."
"And this is rich coming from Mr. I mastered demonic energy manipulation in three days," he added, smirking.
I groaned from the ground, too exhausted to move and too proud to admit that I might actually be enjoying this. So I stuck my tongue out at him like a mature adult.
Akeno had finished drilling the basics of demonic energy control into me, and now it was time to apply that knowledge in practical combat. Which meant sparring with Kiba every day. Hand-to-hand, swordplay, mixed-style beatdowns. he'd volunteered for all of it. Lucky me.
Translation: I've spent a week getting the ever-loving hell kicked out of me by Anime Legolas with a gym membership. We've fought easily over a hundred times. I haven't landed a single hit. Not even once.
At first, I couldn't even see him move. And this smug bastard claimed he was going slow for my sake. Slow. Like I'm supposed to believe his definition of "slow" includes teleporting behind me and knocking the wind out of my lungs before I can blink.
The hardest part isn't even the physical part. It's trying to manipulate demonic energy mid-fight. Trying to channel demonic energy mid-fight is like reading two books simultaneously while someone throws dodgeballs at your face.
It's a two-layered mental gymnastics act: keep calm and focused to mold the energy, and simultaneously survive against an opponent trying to murder-teach you. You need to gather the energy, choose which body part to enhance, and time it all perfectly. It's like trying to do algebra while someone throws rocks at your head. Apparently, once you're experienced, it becomes second nature. Like breathing.
Kiba does it like he's flipping a light switch.
Hence why we've spent the entire week in full Rocky-montage mode. I haven't even gone to school. Not until I land one goddamn hit on him. At this point, I'm starting to suspect anime protagonists were all on steroids or blessed by the author's bias. If I had a stats window, it would just say: [Debuffed: Reality Check].
I exhaled heavily and stared up at the sky.
"Haruki," Kiba said, lowering his sword and sitting next to me, "you've been training for a week. A single week. It's normal that you haven't landed a hit. I've been training for years, after all."
"I know," I muttered. "It's just the first time I'm… struggling. Like, actually struggling."
"Your arrogance is always amusing," he said, amused, obviously. "What you've done in a week takes most devils months of focused training. And yet, here you are, calling it struggling because you didn't instantly master it."
"Well, sorry I'm built different," I said, smug grin barely intact.
"Apparently not that different, since you still can't hit me," he replied, nudging me with his elbow.
"You've fought me over a hundred times. You've improved. Massively," he continued, seriously.
"Just not enough," I muttered.
"You're so used to things coming easy, you confuse effort with failure," he said with a smile that wasn't unkind, just precise. "What you call struggle is most people's miracle."
We lay there for a while, letting our pulses settle and our egos bruise in peace. We talked about random stuff: music, the weird food in the Underworld cafeteria, who'd win in a fight between Rias and Akeno. Eventually, the conversation drifted toward deeper territory.
"Can I ask you something?" I said finally.
"Of course."
"You ever think about… you know. All of this. The whole 'devil who used to be human' situation. The metaphysics. Free will. Cosmic alignment. That kind of crap."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're getting philosophical now?"
"I'm sore, sleep-deprived, and emotionally compromised. It's prime existential crisis time."
He laughed softly. "Fair enough."
I looked at him, the gentle smile, the calm eyes, the kind of aura that said I've seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore.
"You were human once," I said. "You believed. Like, capital-B believed. In God, in purpose, in good and evil. Does any of that still stick?"
There was a long pause.
Kiba looked at the ceiling. Then he said, "you're still wondering why it happened. Why He let it happen. Why He didn't stop it."
"…Something like that."
"You still believe He's watching you, don't you? Even now. Even like this. A devil with the cross carved into his memory, still wondering if God might look down and change His mind."
I didn't answer.
"Let me guess, you're not angry that He exists. You're angry that he let this happen. That He didn't stop it. That He watched while you fell, and said nothing. That silence… it's loud, isn't it?"
Kiba's voice was calm, but there was something serrated beneath it. Old pain, worn thin by time but not gone.
"But here's what I've learned, something you probably already suspect. That silence? It's not new. It's always been there. We just didn't want to admit it.
People say God is love. They quote saints who kissed lepers and slept in the snow with beggars. And maybe that happened. Maybe some man once held a dying stranger and called it holiness. But I don't believe it was love. Not real love. It was guilt dressed in robes. Obedience. Fear. The kind of 'charity' that hurts more than it heals , because it tells the suffering: this is your cross, carry it.
That's the core of the system, isn't it? Obey. Endure. Hurt. And call it sacred.
I'm told suffering has meaning. That it purifies. That it tests the soul. But it always seems to test the ones with no choice, doesn't it? The orphan. The beggar. The child. Not the bishops, not the kings. No, they get incense and hymns. The poor get silence and pain.
And when someone does ask why — why children starve, why innocents bleed — the answer is always some version of: we can't understand His plan.
Convenient.
Maybe there is a plan. Maybe it ends in light and choirs and eternal peace. Maybe it all balances out, and the scales of heaven are precise down to the final tear.
But I don't care.
Because if the price of that harmony is one child locked in a cellar, crying to a God who never answers, then it's not worth it. No paradise justifies that. No future revelation redeems that silence.
I'm not blaspheming. I'm not even angry anymore. Just… done.
You want to know the truth? I don't hate God. I reject him.
You can keep wrestling with Him if you want. Keep shouting at the sky. But eventually, you'll have to decide if you're still waiting for an answer or if you're finally ready to live without one."
The training field was silent.
For once, even my smart mouth had nothing to say.
AN: Another chapter. Yes, it's a bit short. Unfortunately, I'm currently sick and my body has entered full "useless meat sack" mode, so sitting and writing for long stretches isn't really happening. Once I recover and return to my final form (mildly functional human), I'll get back to longer chapters and also update the other fic. Thanks for your patience,