#1267 Ragnarok 

I am Hermes, god of wisdom...! 

In the divine realm, battle still rages. 
The dispute is this: who among us shall be the patron deity that guards the Saint’s land? 

Such a quarrel hath been seen ere now. 
Once did Uncle Poseidon, god of the sea, and mine own wayward sister Athena contend for the right to guard a certain city. 

On that occasion, the contest was decided by whose gift was deemed the greater. In the end, Athena triumphed, saying, “Surely mine olive tree is the better gift, yes? Or wouldst thou rather die?” and so she seized victory. 

To us Olympians, the current struggle doth call that tale to mind, yet the circumstances differ. 

For against the Saint, gifts avail us not. 

Why, sayest thou? Because the Saint himself is producer of that which is fairest and finest. No gift from godly hands could surpass the craft born of his own. 

Would any rejoice at receiving a gift inferior to that which his own hand doth create?  
Nay. The Saint perchance would think that if thy heart be in it, he is gladdened. Alas, gods know not of heartfelt sentiment. Our gifts art wrought not of love, but of desire. 

And as for gifts, the Saint hath already received from my brother Hephaestus the supreme and ultimate of offerings. 
In craft, none in Olympus surpass him; only perhaps the dwarves of Ivaldi in Asgard could rival such skill. 

Therefore, to win the right of guardianship over the Saint’s land, the gods must needs find another way. 
Thus hath endless strife dragged on. 

“Take this! Hadouken! Hadouken! HADOUKEN!!!” 
“Cursed be thee! Stop spamming fireballs!!!” 

Now Uncle Hades doth contend with Lord Odin of Asgard in a match of Str**t Fighter II. 

Many gods already burned out after a three-hundred-million-year marathon of Momotetsu, yet these two fight on with undying vigor. 

Odin’s obsession with victory is staggering. Though nearly every other god faltered long before the three-hundred-millionth year, he endured to the bitter end.  
When no victor emerged, he demanded yet another contest, this time in a different game. 

Truly, as one who ever thrived on pillage and slaughter... his persistence doth astound. 

“Damnation! Still no victor in this fighting game! O god of the underworld, let us settle it with an RPG!” 
“An RPG?! But where lieth the means of competition in such a game?!” 
“We shall race to see who clear it first!” 
“Another contest that devoureth years unending?!” 

And that my uncle Hades keepeth pace with such madness is no less wondrous. 
Godspeed, Uncle! Olympus’ honor resteth upon thee! 

“Haa... they art full of vigor, those two...” 

A voice beside me.  

’Tis none other than Sugawara no Michizane, summoned from Dazaifu.  
He, too, had long since dropped out... 

“I am by nature a court scholar, a Kyoto nobleman. Conflict is not to my taste. Do not liken me to those eastern barbarians.” 

True enough.  
Yet hadst thou such fighting spirit in life, mayhap thou hadst not been exiled after losing a power struggle. 

“Well, I did strike back most gloriously after death.” 

Ah... indeed.  
This one’s power waxeth greater in death. 
A wrathful god is no jest. 

Still, with even foreign deities tangled in our games, this chaos hath no end. 

“Everyone, let us play Mnster Hnter!” 
“I shall be the hunting horn!” 

And lo, the others stray to idle games of no bearing upon the contest. 

At this rate, no conclusion shall ever be found, like the endless strife of Baron and Randa. 
This cannot be.  
For each god hath duties to fulfill, and endless contests keep us from them. Worse still, these foreign gods linger, a grievous burden upon us! 

Let Hermes show forth his famed wisdom! 

“Hear me, all!!!” 

At my cry, even the laziest gods lift their heads. 

Mm, some courtesy remaineth, at least. 

“Uoooooogh! Skip the prologue! Mash the buttonsssss!” 
“To hell with tutorialssssssssss!!!” 

...Though others heed me not. Ill-mannered play indeed.  
Speedrunning RPGs dost corrode the soul. 

In any case...! 

“This cannot continue. Time passeth, purpose is forgotten, and only hollow rivalry remaineth. Surely, thou seest it is waste most dire.” 

The goddesses have even drifted to tea parties whilst waiting. 

For the health of the pantheon, this must be cut off clean with a single stroke! 

“How dost thou mean to end it swiftly...?!” 
“If it could end so, would we be locked in this endless strife...!” 

The gods murmur in confusion. 

Nay, despair not. 
I am Hermes, thrice-great in wisdom, bringer of revelation.  

The famed answers of Hermes, herald of “aha!” moments, bringer of swift and certain solutions unto countless woes! 

And the way to settle this matter is… this! 

“Rock–Paper–Scissors!” 
“ROCK-PAPER-SCISSORS??’” 

What, know ye not Rock–Paper–Scissors? 
Ah, well. ’Tis a custom spread amongst mortals, after all. 
Then from the beginning shall I explain. 

Before the gods, I clench my hand into a fist. 

“Lo, this is rock.” 
“And with it, dost thou smite thine enemy?” 

Nay. 
Rock standeth for stone. 

Stone is hard; it turneth aside the blades of scissors. Thus rock defeateth scissors. 
Paper defeateth rock, and scissors defeateth paper. 
Each hath its foe it triumpheth over, and its foe it falleth to. In an instant the victor is plain. 

Swift judgment is the beauty of Rock–Paper–Scissors! 

“So…a threefold strife, each set against each… like Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite?” 

Nay, that battle findeth no end, only breeding greater wars beyond measure. 

Enough! Whosoever still seeketh to be guardian of the Saint’s kingdom, step forth and join! 

Now then! 
He who showeth not, loseth! He who retreateth, groweth old! He who feareth, perish! Cry aloud! 
Rock, paper, scissors, shoot! 

“This rock is... Mjolnir.” 

Hah? 
What babble is this from Odin? Verily, this war-mad god speaketh naught but riddles. 

“’Tis no mere stone, but Mjolnir, the thunder-hammer! Wielded by my brother Thor, it striketh with deathly might! No paper may cover it, for it rendeth all asunder!” 
“Then my paper is the ledger of Yama, the Enma-scroll! Upon it art inscribed all sins beyond mortal count. No violence can tear it asunder! Thus do I win!” 

When each bringeth forth thine own rules, no contest shall ever find end! 
Why dost they not heed my words?! 

“My paper... is papyrus.” 

Anubis muttereth on the side. 

At long last I thought to have found a single path unto resolution, yet still no end draweth near! 
At this rate, whilst we gods squabble, the Saint’s Kingdom shall be completed! 

... 
Ah. 

I take swift heed and cast mine eyes below. 
...As I feared. 

“...Pray, hearken unto me, all of ye.” 
“...Hah?” 

Who answereth me so, with voice rough and heavy? 
No matter. Hearken still. 

“The Saint’s kingdon is finished.” 
“…What?” 

Aye. Whilst we squabbled, the Saint’s kingdom hath been wrought. 
But lately did I think it barren wilderness—yet how? 

Nay, ’tis but that so much time hath passed. 
Whilst we gods were lost in contest, ten years sped by. 

And it seemeth the kingdom was not born yesterday, but hath stood for two or three years already. 

Which meaneth it prospered well enough without any guardian deity at all. 

“…………” 

The gods fall silent, left bereft of standing. 
And thus was it proven once more: the strife of gods availeth naught but futility.