I’m the God and This World Is Doomed

Serian was the only one left in the ethics class. His score of 5 on the hunter exam was so low that Kael didn't know whether to laugh or cry. No one had gotten a score like that in a decade. The instructor, Kael, stood at the front, staring at the exam paper with a look of disbelief.

"How..." Kael muttered, "how did you even manage to get a score this low?" He shook his head, running his fingers through his hair. "It's... it's almost impressive, in its own way."

Serian sat calmly at his desk, his expression serene, unfazed by Kael's frustration. He didn't quite understand what the problem was. The numbers, the test—none of it made sense to him, but here he was, and so it had to be part of the process. His mind wandered a bit, trying to make sense of it all. He had always been an observer, watching the actions and reactions of others in this strange world, but today, he couldn't quite grasp why everyone made such a big deal about these tests.

Kael, seeing Serian's detached gaze, tried to explain, though his patience was fraying. "Listen, this class is for students who score under 30. You're supposed to be in here to... to at least understand the basics of ethics and what it means to be a hunter, a protector. But you…" Kael trailed off, shaking his head in disbelief, "you got a 5. A five! Do you even care?"

Serian didn't answer immediately, his mind drifting away from the conversation. He wasn't bothered by the score; it seemed like an arbitrary system that humans used to measure worth. To him, it was nothing more than a number. He wasn't concerned. "It's just... a score," he said, his voice quiet, but with an almost unsettling calmness. "A number doesn't change anything."

Kael sighed deeply, his frustration building. "That's not the point! You're not just here to be another number, Serian. You need to understand what it means to be a hunter! People depend on us. They need us to protect them from the monsters, from the infected, from all the things that want to destroy what we've built. But you—" Kael stopped himself, realizing he was speaking too harshly. "But you... you don't even seem to care."

Serian blinked slowly, his eyes unfocused as he processed the words. His thoughts, as usual, were somewhere distant, beyond the scope of what Kael was saying. He had heard these kinds of things in other worlds, in different forms, but it always boiled down to the same question: Why? Why was it so important to protect things that could be so fleeting?

Serian spoke again, his tone soft but firm. "You say protect. But why? In the end, everyone... everything fades. It's all transient." His eyes drifted toward the window, lost in thought. "I don't understand... why you would fight so hard for something that's only temporary."

Kael's eyes widened slightly, his frustration momentarily fading into confusion. "What... what do you mean by that? Of course, we fight for the people we care about. The world, this place—it's worth protecting. People are worth protecting."

Serian's gaze didn't waver. "People... yes, I suppose. They're worth something to others. But to me, they are like... fleeting stars. Distant, burning bright for a short time, then gone." He paused, watching Kael closely, as if searching for an answer in the instructor's face. "I don't see the point of holding on to things that will disappear anyway."

Kael's expression tightened. He was starting to see that there was more to Serian than just a reckless student. Something else was at play here, something deeper, darker. But Kael didn't know how to address it. He was an instructor, not a philosopher. "Serian, you have to understand... the world, people, society—they need hunters. They need people to fight for them. You can't just ignore all of that."

Serian blinked, turning his gaze back to the teacher. "I'm not ignoring anything. I just don't see it the way you do. I'm not here to fix the world... or save it. I'm here because I am."

Kael opened his mouth, about to protest again, but something in Serian's words caught him off guard. The calmness, the unbothered nature of the student—it wasn't arrogance. It was something else. Kael let out a deep sigh and collapsed back into his chair, rubbing his temples in frustration.

"You really don't get it, do you? Everything is so easy for you. You don't care about anything. The system, the rules, the expectations... none of it matters to you," Kael muttered, almost more to himself than Serian.

Serian leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the wall. "It's not that it doesn't matter. It's just that I don't understand why it matters to you."

Kael stared at him in stunned silence, realizing that Serian wasn't like the other students. There was a quiet defiance in his calm demeanor, a distance from the human world that Kael couldn't bridge. The instructor closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. "Alright, I don't know what's going on in your head, Serian, but you're here. And you'll need to get through this class somehow. The world may be transient to you, but not everyone thinks like that."

Serian, still calm, nodded. "I understand." He stood up, his eyes distant as he gathered his things. "I'll take your lesson into consideration."

Kael stared after him, unable to shake the feeling that something was deeply wrong, that Serian wasn't just another lost student. There was a weight to him, a silence that seemed too heavy for someone his age. As Serian left the room, Kael couldn't help but wonder if he was truly dealing with a young man—or something much, much older.

*****

The first time Serian met Gaia, he had been sitting under Yggdrasil's vast branches, feeling the pulse of the universe within its roots. The great tree connected all things—past, present, and future—its silent wisdom stretching beyond mortal comprehension. But on that day, something changed.

A presence emerged from the earth itself, heavier than mountains, older than time. The air stilled. The rustling leaves fell into an unnatural silence. Then, from the shadows of the great tree, she appeared.

Gaia.

She did not walk; she simply was. A towering figure woven from soil, stone, and ancient life, her gown made of withered leaves and crumbling petals. Her skin, once rich like fertile earth, was now cracked and dry. Faint silver streams trickled down her arms—what remained of the once-great rivers that coursed through her being. But it was her eyes that held the most weight. Deep emerald pools, reflecting centuries of ruin, of forests turned to dust, of oceans choked with filth, of mountains hollowed by human greed.

She looked at him, and the world itself seemed to hold its breath.

"Why?" Her voice was the echo of the first winds, the tremor of shifting land, the whisper of forgotten prayers. "Why do humans keep repeating the same mistakes?"

Serian sat still, his expression calm as always. He had seen many gods, many worlds, but few held the sorrow that she did.

Gaia's fingers curled into the soil, gripping it as if trying to hold onto something slipping away. "I nurtured them. I gave them everything. And yet, they destroy. They carve into me, poison my rivers, strip my forests bare. I have warned them through storms. I have cried through the trembling earth. But they do not listen."

She stepped closer, her presence pressing against him like the weight of the world itself. "You see everything, don't you?"

Serian did not answer immediately. He only observed her, this forgotten mother who still loved her wayward children despite their betrayal.

Finally, he spoke, his voice soft, unhurried. "It is the will of Yggdrasil."

Gaia's sorrow deepened. She had long suspected the answer, but hearing it confirmed was different. "Yggdrasil allows this?"

Serian did not blink. "It is not about permission. It is the cycle. Growth, destruction, renewal. Again and again."

Gaia's breath was heavy, like the rumbling of distant thunder. "But you... You can change fate. You have the power to stop this."

Serian tilted his head slightly, his silver hair catching the faint glow of Yggdrasil's light. "I do not interfere."

"Why?"

"I am a record." His violet eyes, deep and unreadable, met hers. "I watch. I remember. But I do not change."

Gaia stared at him for a long time, the weight of ages pressing between them. And then, finally, she exhaled, the sound heavy with resignation. "Even you do nothing."

Serian did not respond. He only watched as her form flickered, as if she were fading back into the earth itself. The great primordial mother, who had given everything, who had suffered so much, was now nothing more than a whisper in the wind.

That was the last time he saw her.

But he still remembered her sorrow. He still remembered her question.

Why did she love humanity so much?

Even after everything they had done—why did she still grieve for them?

*****

Edward couldn't believe what he was seeing.

Serian stood there, calm and composed, watching the gruesome hologram recordings of the 8th District ruins. Around them, students were in chaos—some were throwing up, others breaking down into tears, a few trembling in horror. The images projected before them were too real, too vivid. The early era of humanity's struggle against the monsters was nothing short of a nightmare.

Even Edward felt unsettled. The screams, the desperation, the sheer helplessness of the humans in the recordings—it was hard to watch. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to endure it, but his stomach twisted in discomfort.

Then there was Sienna. She had already accepted her fate, holding a plastic bag to her face as she groaned. "I hate this class. I really do."

Despite the grim atmosphere, Edward almost laughed. "You came prepared?"

Sienna wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Of course. Survival instincts."

Edward shook his head, but his focus quickly shifted back to Serian.

Unlike everyone else, Serian wasn't reacting at all. He stood in front of the hologram, his pale face bathed in its cold blue light, his violet eyes unwavering. There wasn't fear, disgust, or sadness in them—just quiet observation. It was as if he were watching a distant memory, something that had already been decided long ago.

Edward swallowed hard. He had always thought Serian was strange, but this... This was something else.

"Serian," he called, lowering his voice. "Are you okay?"

Serian didn't look away from the projection. His gaze remained fixed on the moving images of monsters tearing through crowds, of humans running and screaming, of entire buildings collapsing.

Then, in that same gentle, unbothered tone, he asked, "Can I change it?"

Edward blinked. "What?"

Serian finally turned to him, his violet eyes deep and unreadable. "This happened a long time ago. No matter how much I watch, no matter how much I think about it, I can't change it. So why should I be disturbed?"

Edward opened his mouth, but no words came out.

He had no answer. Because Serian was right.

It had already happened. Nothing they did now could erase the past.

But… was it really that simple?

Edward frowned. "Even if you can't change it… don't you feel anything?"

Serian tilted his head slightly, as if considering the question. Then, finally, he answered.

"I remember."

Edward felt a chill run down his spine.

It wasn't the answer he expected. But somehow, it was the most unsettling one.