Light Yagami is a man of order. He believes in systems, in control, in a methodical cleansing of what he deems impure. He envisions a perfect world and sees himself as the god who must bring it forth. His war is not one of desperation but of ideology. In every act, Light remains composed, distant, almost cold. His justice is not born from suffering, but from superiority. He sees himself above the masses, fit to pass judgment, untouched by the pain he inflicts. His actions are cloaked in calculation, his conscience buried beneath logic.

Eren Yeager, by contrast, is raw storm. He is fire and instinct. His mission is not to purify but to destroy that which shackled him. Eren does not dream of perfection, nor does he believe himself a god. He believes himself a weapon, forged by cruelty, aimed at those who wronged him. He speaks not with reason but with wrath. While Light writes names in a notebook from a quiet room, Eren marches through the streets of the world, leaving ash and ruin in his wake.

They might share a glance of understanding—the look of two men who carry the weight of judgment on their shoulders. They might speak of sacrifice and necessity, of freedom and justice. But it would not be long before they turned from one another. Light would see Eren as a beast, a savage who lacks the discipline to build a new world. Eren would see Light as a coward, hiding behind paper and false righteousness, unwilling to get his hands truly dirty.

No, they would not get along. They are not brothers in arms, but warnings carved in flesh and ink. Each shows what becomes of a man who tries to bear the burden of divinity. And in the end, neither finds peace—only ruin, dressed in the name of justice.