War time was an especially busy time for all the many gods of this world, and
every world. All throughout time, in every era, there were disagreements that became conflicts and eventually became war. Eras of peace never lasted long, no matter how many souls said that they wished for such.
Someone,
somewhere always wished for war. It took many lives but, for some, it was a profitable venture, and lives were disposable.
In some worlds, the gods ignored the plight of the poor ungodly creatures. But for Kazuo, that was not the case. He survived only with the aid of the creatures whose prayers he heard humming in his head, always, so he could not go on to ignore them. The strange god was not so powerful that he could resurrect the dead, that was beyond his hands, but there were many things that he
could do. Countless lives had been saved simply because he stepped in before they were met with mortal danger.'
Kazuo thought that many years of experience with the horrors and tragedies of the world and the wars fought all across it had left him prepared for anything. Dead bodies lying in the streets, the dirt, some even blown to bits, they were not unfamiliar sights. The magnificently blond haired man wore no uniform, only flowing robes, as he strode through the areas that had become a battlefield with ease and grace unlike many others. He was entirely unconcerned, even when bullets or blades came his way, or when he stepped around long since dead corpses. When hearing a prayer that he could answer, there was no choice but for him to make such an appearance.
It wasn't a prayer which had drawn him onto half destroyed grounds of an elegant manor, but a woman's scream, accompanied by gunfire, as he had been passing by in the distance. Or, perhaps, it
was a prayer of one of the occupants. Taking off with blinding speed, feet not even touching the ground, he navigated his way toward the gunfire, but it seemed that the god had arrived too late. He could sense the soldiers in the distance, inside the manor, as he stopped to take in the scene just outside of it. Man, woman, and child were all drenched in blood. Oh, but wait. The boy still had life in him, but it was fading out. It was too late for treatment. He would die.
Kazuo hesitated for a moment, the world seeming to slow all around him, and it really did. He approached the young child, eyes fixated on him. Over all these years, he was familiar with scenes of death and destruction, but a small child, killed in cold blood, he wasn't prepared for that.
He knelt down, raising the dying boy with one arm so that he was sitting up with the support, although he had already gone limp. Eyes searched the boy's face for a moment longer, before doing something even unexpected by his own self; Kazuo rose his free hand toward his mouth and bit into it,
hard, tearing into the flesh. He cringed at the pain he caused himself, but the pain was
nothing. The blood began to seep from the fresh wound, and he brought it to the boy's face, letting the blood drip into his mouth. Drinking the blood of the god was the only way for him to be saved.
It would work within moments to heal his wounds, making it as if they never existed in the first place.