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The Outer Gods, who had been fighting Beru in the sky, suddenly came to a realization.
“Ah...”
The anger had been real, expressed to such an extent that an eye had bled. Now, however, the corners of their lips had somehow curled upward, as if ready to split open. The Itarim, beings who had lived since the dawn of time, suffered a small ripple in their vast consciousness. Every part of the intriguing situation unfolding before them stirred something within them: interest. In an eternity of apathy, this was the first truly refreshing stimulus they had experienced.
“Hehe...”
Laughter escaped their lips. The Itarim were, by nature, creators. They crafted something out of nothing, established laws, and granted life. That entire process had been brought to perfection at a certain point in the ancient past. The nearly infinite time that followed was nothing but a repetition of the same landscape, a continuous eternity of boredom, dullness, and meaninglessness. Within that endless cycle, nothing that occurred in the world they had created had ever deviated from their predictions—not war, not peace, not birth, nor death. Everything ran along its designated course. It was tiresome, even hateful.
However, then came along this meager creation named Beru. The more he...
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