"Inbreeding!" Lilith continued.
Nathan kept staring at the blackboard, now blank.
"’I... Inbreeding?’" he whispered. "So... you mean... humanity’s sin was... incest?"
Lilith didn’t answer right away.
She stepped slowly to the side of the board, raised her hand, and drew something into the air—instantly, a holographic image appeared: two naked humans, one male and one female, standing in a glowing field, their hands touching. Like an overly idealistic religious brochure.
The glow that wrapped their bodies wasn’t just light—it was warmth, liquid and slow, as if the universe held its breath watching two perfect beings almost touch. Their fingers, suspended millimeters apart, trembled slightly—as if one accidental graze could rewrite reality. There was no lust, no hunger—only the unbearable intimacy of being known by someone whose body was sculpted for yours. Even without skin-to-skin, the energy between them pulsed, humming with a frequency only the stars could hear. It was the first temptation. Not to dominate. Not to possess. But to melt. To dissolve into each other and become something new. Something more than human.
"In the beginning," said Lilith, "The One Who Made the Earth created humans in pairs. Thousands of them. Each with a different energy flow. Not reliant on each other. Not devouring each other."
"So... like... production batches?"
Lilith turned to him. "Nathan."
She turned her gaze back to the image. This time, thousands of points of light began to fill the holographic sky.
"Back then, a single human... could hold the sky with their thoughts. Mana wasn’t an added power—mana was a part of their body. Like a hand. Like breath."
"And now... we can’t even touch mana at all."
Lilith nodded slowly.
"Because you folded a perfect creation... into fear and blood."
She moved her finger, and the visual changed. The pairs began to drift apart. Then they argued. Then they formed small circles—family groups. Then... inbreeding.
"When trust in outsiders vanished... humans only dared touch those who looked alike. Of the same blood."
"So... that’s how inbreeding began?"
"I don’t want to discuss just that sin," Lilith replied. "This is about... betrayal of the original design. You fused bodies... but severed the integrity of the code."
Nathan squinted. "Code?"
"Genetic," Lilith answered sharply. "A divine line that once carried the ability to receive mana. But when you repeated it, again and again... the path broke."
She looked straight at Nathan.
"You rewove that inheritance... with fear, vengeance, and petty greed."
"The One Who Made the Earth tried to fix it. He sent... disasters. Signs. Even... a great flood."
On the screen, a massive flood appeared. Human bodies floated. Yet some survived—only to once again... marry their own kin.
"Nothing changed," Lilith muttered. "Even after every kind of warning."
Nathan stared blankly at the screen.
"So... humanity was stubborn from the very start?"
Lilith didn’t answer immediately.
She slowly turned back to the board, now showing a symbol: a glowing blue DNA chain... gradually fading into a cracked red.
"Until finally... just to answer one question—why do you keep choosing that path—"
"—The One Who Made the Earth... tasted a part of you that... He was never meant to touch."
There was no tongue, no bite, no carnal act—just a moment where a God allowed Himself to feel the ache of a species built on touch. His divinity shuddered. Not because of sin—but because of a softness so tender it could unmake eternity. In that moment, He didn’t just observe mankind. He felt them. The way a mother feels her child’s sob before it reaches the air. The way lovers know each other’s skin even in the dark. He touched empathy like a forbidden fruit—and in that touch, His power bent. Not from lust... but from longing to understand.
Nathan frowned. "You mean... what?"
Lilith looked straight at him.
Her voice was small. Gentle.
"My son, I’ve told you before—empathy." She smiled.
And when that word was spoken, the entire room seemed to fall into a deeper silence.
Lilith continued, as if revealing a secret even the system was never allowed to record:
"His curiosity... wasn’t about technology, nor power. It was about... understanding why you choose to hurt others... for the sake of those you love."
"And that... made Him fall?"
Lilith nodded slowly.
"Love born from empathy... can turn a God into a being that kneels."
The silence hanging after the word empathy had yet to dissolve—when Domina slowly raised her hand. Like a student in a history class... about to ask the father of all questions.
"So..." she said softly. "The One Who Made the Earth... truly... loved humanity?"
Lilith turned to her. Not quickly. Not slowly. Just... enough to show that the question was weighty.
Domina continued, her voice now trembling slightly.
"That means He’s different... from The One who created the Rabbit Fighters? Or The One Who Made the Rabielm?"
Nathan glanced at Domina. "Rabbit Fighters... Rabielm, that’s your world,"
"Yes," Domina nodded. "A world of beautiful chaos, burning battles everywhere."
Lilith let out a deep breath.
As if the question had opened an old folder in her heavenly memory—one she had long wanted to delete... but the system kept restoring it automatically.
"Yes," Lilith finally said. "He is different."
She walked slowly, touching the air with her fingers—and the board in front of them lit up, showing three great entities. Silhouettes of The Ones—each tall, eyeless, voiceless—except for one... who stood above a small human figure.
"The others," said Lilith, "kept creating."
Her hand pointed at the two other Ones. They were building worlds, collapsing them, rebuilding them again—like cosmic toy architects who never sleep.
"They never descended. They never questioned why their creations killed each other. Because that was simply... part of the ’Great Game.’"
Then her hand moved to the third figure.
"But The One Who Made the Earth... betrayed His role. After tasting empathy, He lowered His dignity as a divine being."
Lilith looked at Nathan. Then at the Monster Girls.
Now the visual showed a glowing figure descending to Earth, confronting bare-chested humans with hollow eyes. There was fire. There was water. There were bones.
"He descended... and made humanity a promise."
Lilith closed her eyes for a brief moment before speaking.
"Stop lying with your own flesh and blood," she whispered. "Stop spinning fate within such narrow circles."
The board now fractured into a broken mosaic.
Fragments of the covenant were burned, shattered, carved into stone. Some were rewritten. Others... turned into tools to justify cruelty among humans.
"That promise," Lilith said in a flat tone, "became the deepest betrayal."
The final visual on the board showed humanity building temple after temple for other gods—gods they created themselves. Stone statues. Blood incantations. Gods of war. Gods of harvest. Gods of rivers.
And amid the ruins... there stood one empty altar.
No one remembered the one who first gave them life.
Nathan stared at the display for a long moment.
"...They erased Him," he muttered.
Lilith didn’t answer.
But a bead of water formed in the corner of her eye—neither falling nor evaporating.
As a symbol of something even the system could not log.
She clenched her fist. Her voice rose, filled with divine fury.
She looked sharply at Nathan, then pointed her right index finger at him.
"Your kind created gods out of fantasy, just to forget The One who truly loved them—who wanted them to thrive and grow strong. But instead, they chose false deities who, even in the modern age, are still the root of endless debate and conflict."
"And that is why I’m angry," Lilith added, quieter now. "Because He... can no longer create anew. And yet... He also cannot bear to let hope die entirely."
"So instead... He wove the Tower—designed to slowly awaken the ancient human code, summoning those who still carry fragments of the genetic line able to wield mana and nature’s energy."
Nathan swallowed hard.
"So... the Hunters..."
"Yes. They’re not chosen. They’re just lucky enough to carry a sliver of the old code."
"Th-then... what about me?"
Nathan asked, eyes wide.
"Why can I use mana? Am I... special? Does that code still exist inside me? Or... is all of this just some bug?"
"It’s precisely because you’re strange... that a little bug inside the Tower summoned you first."
Lilith moved swiftly behind the still-seated Nathan.
Her body didn’t carry heat—it carried gravity. As her presence closed in from behind, Nathan felt a chill run through his spine, not out of fear... but surrender. There was something primal in her proximity. Not sexual. Not maternal. Just raw—like the very concept of comfort wearing skin. When her arms wrapped around him, the warmth didn’t settle—it bloomed. His breath hitched. Not because he wanted her. But because some part of him, ancient and fetal, remembered her. Remembered being held, before memory began. And maybe that’s what Lilith was: not a woman, not a god, but the shape of safety itself.
"My son..." she whispered, gently kneeling and wrapping her arms around him.