Who is Justice? “I AM”: A Philosophical & Theological Analysis on Death Note

Light Yagami (bottom-left) and the Shinigami, Ryuk (top-right), recreating Micelangelo’s “Creation of Adam”.

Few anime so unapologetically force viewers into philosophical crisis as Death Note. Wrapped in the aesthetics of a supernatural detective thriller, it is, at its core, a sustained meditation on the nature of justice, the corruptibility of power, and the silence of God. With the drop of a single notebook, the series plunges its characters—and its audience—into a moral vacuum, one where justice is no longer defined by divine command or natural law, but by the unstable wills of those powerful enough to enforce it. In this universe, notions of good and evil become disturbingly subjective, contested between brilliant minds like Light Yagami and L, both of whom claim moral superiority while manipulating others with the precision of chessmasters.

This is a world where power is not measured in brute strength, but in brilliance. The intellectual cat-and-mouse between Light, L, Near, and Mello reveals not just a battle of wits, but a philosophical question: does reason divorced from morality lead inevitably to tyranny? As each character maneuvers around the constraints of justice, legality, and even metaphysics, we begin to see how intellect can be weaponized in the absence of transcendental values. Yet, Death Note complicates these dynamics further with theological undertones: Ryuk’s amused detachment, Light’s god-complex, and the eerie deistic structure of the universe provoke deeper questions about divine absence, human agency, and whether freedom in a morally indifferent cosmos is a gift—or a curse.

What emerges is an allegorical narrative with striking echoes of biblical and philosophical motifs. Light plays Adam and Lucifer all at once: tempted, exiled, self-deified. Ryuk becomes a parody of the serpent, offering not knowledge but power. Even L, as a rationalist agnostic, wrestles with the implications of opposing a so-called “god.” By weaving together these questions—justice and divine right, wit and moral fallibility, determinism and theological silence—Death Note ultimately demands that we consider what kind of universe we inhabit. Is it one where morality is authored from above, or one we must create ourselves—and if the latter, what happens when the author becomes the villain?

The Pen is Mightier Than the Sword: Justice in Death Note

Light (Kira) writing names into the Death Note.

“The human whose name is written in this note shall die” writes the first rule of the Death Note. “If the cause of death is written within the next 40 seconds of writing the person’s name, it will happen. If the cause of death is not specified, the person will simply die of a heart attack” are the third and fourth rules of the Death Note. All together, the Death Note makes for a rather seamlessly easy killing machine for anyone—but none as proud to wield it as highschooler, Light Yagami. Light Yagami’s transformation into the worldwide killer known as Kira initiates a twisted exploration of justice—one that attempts to cloak self-idolatry in the language of public good. From the outset, Light’s rationale aligns with a utilitarian framework: eliminate criminals, reduce suffering, and achieve global peace. Yet this "justice" quickly reveals its darker edge. The moment Light kills Lind L. Tailor for defying Kira, it becomes evident his true goal is not world peace, but control and reverence. His descent perfectly illustrates Socrates’ warning in Plato’s Republic through the myth of the Ring of Gyges: "No man is just of his own will, but only from compulsion... if he thought he could act unjustly with impunity, he would." He sees justice in terms of outcome: if fewer people suffer because criminals fear death, then his killings are justified. This echoes a crude interpretation of utilitarianism, where moral worth is determined by the greatest happiness principle. Yet, as John Stuart Mill cautions, "The worth of a state in the long run is the worth of the individuals composing it"—a dictum that Kira ignores in favor of statistical outcomes. Light’s version of justice is ultimately self-serving, as it increasingly targets not only criminals but those who oppose his worldview, demonstrating how utilitarian ethics, when detached from virtue and humility, can mutate into totalitarianism. Despite his proclamations of moral reform, he murders those who merely oppose him ideologically, exposing his underlying narcissism and hunger for domination rather than righteousness.

In contrast, L represents a deontological perspective—that morality is not about outcomes, but about right action. Though eccentric and sometimes morally gray, L never takes a life, even when it might serve the greater good. For L, justice cannot be decided by a single person, no matter how intelligent or well-intentioned. This reflects Immanuel Kant’s categorical imperative: "Act only according to that maxim whereby you can at the same time will that it should become a universal law." Kant’s law is essentially saying that if your proposed idea of morality cannot be applied universally to all peoples, then it cannot be applied to the individual. Is it right for everyone to steal? Of course not! Thus, it is not right for one person to steal. Light’s method—murdering to enforce his vision—could never be universalized without resulting in tyranny. L’s opposition is not just a matter of justice but of philosophical principle: that no one has the right to take life in the name of a self-styled utopia.

Now, I have already mentioned how the moral legitimacy (or lack thereof) of Kira’s actions recalls Socrates’ dialogue with Glaucon in The Republic regarding the Ring of Gyges: a ring that grants its wearer invisibility and thus impunity. Glaucon posits that no man, however just, would act morally if guaranteed anonymity and freedom from consequences. Light’s acquisition of the Death Note is a direct realization of this dilemma—his initial hesitations quickly vanish as the power intoxicates him. The swiftness of his descent confirms Socrates’ suspicion: justice, when detached from societal oversight and metaphysical accountability, becomes expendable. Importantly, Light claims to act for the good of society, but his motivations soon unravel into narcissism. The “new world” he imagines is one he alone controls. In the words of Reinhold Niebuhr, “Man’s capacity for justice makes democracy possible; but man’s inclination to injustice makes democracy necessary.” Kira lacks both accountability and humility, revealing that unchecked power—even with righteous rhetoric—inevitably leads to moral decay.

In contrast, L represents a form of justice grounded not in outcomes but in principle. He believes that murder, even in the name of social good, cannot be justified. His resistance to Kira is not simply an intellectual challenge, but an ethical stance: that no one, no matter how intelligent or powerful, should hold the authority of life and death over others. Returning to a familiar philosopher, this reflects a deontological position akin to that of Immanuel Kant, who argues in the Groundwork for the Metaphysics of Morals that we must treat others “never merely as a means to an end, but always at the same time as an end.” Kira treats people as pawns—criminals are merely statistics to be erased, and even allies are disposable. L, however, acts out of duty, not consequence. His skepticism of Light stems not from mere suspicion, but from a deeper philosophical intuition that Light’s “justice” masks tyranny. In this, L is not just a detective, but a moral dissident—standing against a rising order that redefines justice as domination.

Yet if Light truly becomes “god” in his world—dispensing judgment and creating moral order—then L’s resistance raises theological questions. What does it mean to defy god? In one poignant moment near the end of his arc, L seemingly accepts defeat, staring into the rain, uttering a cryptic, sorrowful recognition of loss—both strategic and existential. He washes Light’s feet, symbolically enacting a Christ-like submission, yet without the resurrection. It is perhaps a final philosophical lament: if the world chooses Kira, then perhaps justice itself is damned. It evokes Ivan Karamazov’s rejection of a world governed by divine tyranny: “I most respectfully return the ticket.” If Kira is a god, he is one in the image of a tyrant—not unlike the depiction of God that Richard Dawkins criticized as “jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak.” In this sense, Kira’s self-deification highlights how distorted power can corrupt even divine imagery. For L, a nonbeliever in Kira’s divinity, resistance becomes a kind of martyrdom. In losing to Light, he does not merely lose a case—he loses the hope that justice can win through moral means. L dies not just as a detective, but as a witness to the cost of resisting false gods. One might also recall Nietzsche’s claim in Beyond Good and Evil: “He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster.” L refuses that metamorphosis—he dies human.

Light (red hair) and L (blue hair), facing off in the first cinematic opening of Death Note, atop two pillars.

Thus, the moral framework of Death Note leaves the viewer in tension. If justice is based on subjective authority and outcome—as Light believes—then anyone can become god through power. But if justice is objective, grounded in principle, then Light is a murderer cloaked in messianic delusion.  Light believes he alone defines justice. But if justice is merely the will of the powerful, then it becomes indistinguishable from coercion. Nietzsche’s Genealogy of Morals explores this dynamic, arguing that moral systems are often expressions of will to power disguised as universal law. Yet Nietzsche also insists on the honesty of strength—a trait Light lacks. His pretense to moral righteousness collapses under scrutiny; his “justice” is just the weaponization of personal ego. In contrast, L’s justice is fragile, uncertain, even quixotic—but it is honest. He acknowledges his limitations, seeks truth rather than dominance, and resists precisely because he believes justice must stand apart from utility. The tragedy of Death Note is that the world sides with Kira, mistaking fear for peace. In this way, the series asks its audience to confront the possibility that justice may be possible—but only through vigilance, resistance, and a refusal to let power define morality. Justice is a tension between power and principle, outcome and obligation. To the end, the question remains: can justice survive in a world where the line between god and tyrant is drawn only by who holds the pen?

Brains as Brawn: Power in Death Note

Death Note is, in many ways, a thought experiment in power unmoored from physical force or divine intervention. Although the Death Note provides supernatural assistance, the true battle of dominance is fought with cunning, foresight, and manipulation. Light Yagami’s rise to prominence is less about the book itself and more about how he uses it to manipulate perception, predict behavior, and exploit systems. Still, without the Death Note, Light is not significantly more intelligent than L, Near, or Mello—in fact, the narrative almost implies that he lags behind them. Power in this world is fundamentally epistemological: whoever best understands the nature of the game and the minds of its players wins. Michel Foucault’s conception of power as knowledge is instructive here: “Power is everywhere… because it comes from everywhere.” Light knows people’s habits, fears, and ambitions—and manipulates them. But his power is parasitic on the Death Note. L, by contrast, constructs his intelligence as self-contained, governed by methodological skepticism and careful empiricism. His intellect has limits, but it is also grounded in rationality, not fantasy. Thus, Death Note pits pragmatic intelligence against deified arrogance.

What Death Note subtly critiques is not intelligence itself but the assumption that intelligence entitles one to rule. Light is not the smartest—he is merely the most ruthless and best equipped. His moral bankruptcy hides behind a veneer of logical control, echoing Nietzsche’s “will to power” as a natural, inevitable drive. But unlike Nietzsche’s Übermensch, Light lacks the courage to create new values—he instead hijacks existing ones (e.g., “justice”) and weaponizes them. By contrast, L’s brilliance is limited but rooted in discipline. He takes intellectual risk, admits ignorance, and allows his subordinates autonomy. Light cannot do the same. This hubris eventually leads to his downfall when Near and Mello—who, unlike Light, do not operate as isolated figures—cooperate and outmaneuver him. In this sense, Death Note critiques the myth of the lone genius. Power and intelligence is not pure self-sufficiency; they are–by nature–relational, dialectical, and often dependent on moral context. Kierkegaard once wrote, “Purity of heart is to will one thing.” Light’s volition is internally fragmented—torn between a desire for absolute control, a compulsion to perform and be recognized, and an underlying fear of exposure and failure. Consequently, his intellect, though formidable, becomes undermined by its own contradictions, rendering his cognitive strategies ultimately self-destructive.

Light Yagami/Kira (top left), L (top right), Near (bottom left), Mello (bottom right).

The legacy of L is not inherited by a single person but divided between Near and Mello, each representing different fragments of his psychological and ethical makeup. Mello acts on impulse and emotion, risking his life with calculated recklessness. Near, cool and analytical, detaches entirely from emotional investment. Together, they almost echo Carl Jung’s concept of the “shadow”—multiple aspects of the self that must be integrated to become whole. L kept his shadow hidden, but Near and Mello externalize it, and only through their uneasy alliance can they succeed. Importantly, Near does not attempt to imitate L wholesale; he innovates. Mello, while less traditionally intellectual, destabilizes Light’s certainty—forcing him into mistakes. This is important. Where Near is intellectual, Mello is impulsive–together recreating the past identity that was “L”. Neither of them alone could defeat Light, but their synergy unravels him. This dual effort deconstructs Light’s narrative of solitary genius. It also raises theological stakes: if Light sees himself as god, then Near and Mello are his eschatological reckoners. Near and Mello function not as angels of divine judgment in the traditional theological sense, but as Gnostic aeons—emanations of a higher order of knowledge—who confront the demiurgic figure Light has made of himself. Their triumph is not achieved through supernatural might, but through a synergy of human insight, moral clarity, and interdependence. This resolution illustrates a central Gnostic critique: that intellect, when severed from humility and relational knowledge, does not ascend to godhood but collapses into false divinity—an imitation of omnipotence that exposes its own delusion.

When intelligence is distorted by supernatural assistance, its authenticity erodes. Light’s success is often facilitated by the Death Note’s abilities: instant death, memory erasure, and the Shinigami Eyes. When characters like Misa Amane or Kyosuke Higuchi wield the Death Note without brilliance, they are–quite frankly–swiftly outmaneuvered. This disparity demonstrates that the tool of the Death Note alone is insufficient—intellect is still necessary. Yet, Light is still cheating. His “power through wit” is inseparable from divine interference. Theologically, this mimics idolatry: Light becomes dependent on a created artifact (the notebook) while proclaiming himself god. Thomas Aquinas warned that “to substitute anything for God is to fall into error.” Light’s hubris rests on an illusion. Even when Teru Mikami and Minoru Tanaka (A-Kira, from a 2020 Death Note one-shot) inherit the Death Note’s power, their fates are insignificant. Near, who lacks the Death Note entirely, does not even bother to pursue Tanaka. This suggests that power rooted in spectacle is fleeting. It is not that Near cares less about justice—it is that justice, divorced from truth and humility, becomes a hollow pursuit. True authority, in Death Note, emerges not from killing, but from exposing lies.

Is power through wit ethically neutral—or does its use always reflect its wielder’s moral framework? Light uses his mind to justify murder. L uses his to preserve life. Near and Mello ultimately deploy their gifts to prevent future atrocities. Their differences are not merely intellectual, but ethical. Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics defines virtue as the mean between extremes—courage, for instance, lies between rashness and cowardice. Light falls into rash confidence. Near, with Mello, strikes the balance. They act boldly without believing themselves infallible. Light cannot grasp this—his intellect is shaped by fear of failure and obsession with legacy. When exposed, he breaks—not because he is defeated, but because he is no longer seen as a god. Death Note reveals that wit ungoverned by morality becomes tyranny. Power through intellect is not evil—but it is fragile when built on deception. True brilliance lies not in being untouchable, but in being transparent. Near’s final judgment isn’t a dramatic victory—it’s a quiet, almost anticlimactic exposure–in both his anime and manga victories. And that, in the end, is the deepest cut to Light’s pride: to be outwitted not by a god, but by children with integrity.

Determinism, Free Will, & Deism

The arrival of the Death Note into the human world is best understood not as an act of providence nor a demonic intervention, but as the intrusion of an amoral anomaly—something metaphysically foreign, ethically unanchored, and cosmologically detached. The notebook itself contains no intrinsic telos, no moral imperative for how it is to be used. It is not a tool of divine justice nor infernal temptation, but a blank instrument of agency—a medium through which the desires of its wielder are disclosed and empowered. Ryuk’s attitude reflects this: he is not a Satan tempting mankind, nor a God judging its deeds. He does not command Light to use the notebook; he does not prevent him. Instead, he observes, much like the deistic god of Enlightenment philosophy—curious, detached, and utterly unconcerned with ethical outcomes. In Ryuk’s words—“I didn’t choose you. I just dropped the notebook and you picked it up”—we find the echo of a cosmos without moral guidance. The Death Note becomes an existential crucible, not unlike Sartre’s conception of radical freedom: it offers power, but not meaning. In this framework, Death Note poses a stark theological question—if the universe is morally silent, and fate or God offers no comment, does evil still remain fully our responsibility? The show answers not with metaphysical determinism, but by exposing the human heart. Ryuk’s indifference does not compel Light to act; it simply unveils what Light already is.

Light first holding the Death Note.

At the beginning of the series, Light hints that the Death Note itself tempts him to use it, almost as though it possesses a will of its own. The Death Note's introduction into Light’s life functions as a form of temptation that is profoundly theological in shape, paralleling the narrative of the forbidden fruit in Eden. The notebook lies in wait, inert yet potent, like the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil—neutral in itself, yet revelatory and catalyzing once taken. When Light first picks it up, there is no compulsion, no divine voice demanding he use it, but there is something haunting about the simplicity of the power offered: write a name, and someone dies. Much like Eve and Adam, Light's first use is rationalized—he believes the world will be better, that order can be restored, that he is bringing justice. But underlying these reasons is a deeper seduction: the allure of autonomy, of being like God. In Genesis 3:5, the serpent tells Eve, “you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Similarly, the Death Note promises Light the capacity to define morality through judgment and execution. This is not mere curiosity—it is the temptation to become the source of moral law. The notebook does not whisper commands, yet it tempts by proximity, by latent possibility. Light interprets its presence as justification for its use: “If it fell into my hands, maybe it was meant to be used.” This is the logic of self-authorization, not compulsion. The Death Note is not demonic possession—it is moral invitation, one that exposes the inner drift of Light’s heart toward power and control. The more he uses it, the more he identifies with it. The fruit, once eaten, changes the eater. But as with Eden, the tragedy is not in the power itself, but in the presumption that using it will bring wisdom instead of ruin. After relinquishing the notebook and losing his memories, Light becomes moral once more—sincere, compassionate, and even sacrificial. This version of Light expresses horror at the notion of murder, supporting Kant’s claim that “good will” is the only thing that can be considered good without qualification. However, once his memories return, Light just as quickly justifies slaughter in the name of order. This transformation is not because the Death Note compels him, but because its power gives his latent narcissism the means to thrive. The Death Note doesn’t force—it reveals.

L watching Light Yagami regaining his memories as Kira.

Light Yagami (Kira) watching L.

Yet Light’s split persona—pre- and post-memory loss—raises significant questions about human identity and moral continuity. If a person, deprived of memory, returns to moral goodness, does that mean the “real” self was good all along? David Hume famously argued that the self is not a fixed entity but a bundle of perceptions, changing over time. Light’s case dramatizes this: when stripped of memory, his bundle of moral judgments is reoriented entirely. The dramatic shift in Light’s moral disposition following the loss of his memories poses deep philosophical and psychological questions about identity, freedom, and moral continuity. When he relinquishes ownership of the Death Note, Light is no longer Kira—at least not in any active sense. He recoils from murder, expresses compassion for victims, and collaborates earnestly with L to capture the very killer he once was. This moral “reset” reveals that Light, in his core personality, is not a sociopath devoid of empathy. Rather, he is a fragmented self—someone who, absent power, still retains a latent sense of right and wrong. This corresponds with David Hume’s notion of the self as a bundle of perceptions and psychological states rather than a singular, static identity. Light without memory is a different “bundle,” driven by different impulses, desires, and judgments. But if this is true, then moral agency must be reevaluated: is Light the same person when he has forgotten his actions? Can he still be held accountable for deeds his current mind cannot recall? Theologically, this raises questions of sin and intention. Augustine argued that sin originates not merely in action but in the orientation of the will—the libido dominandi, or the lust for domination. When Light regains his memories, his old self reemerges fully formed, as though waiting just beneath the surface. This indicates that his moral shift was not a permanent change in nature, but a suppression of will due to ignorance of power. He did not become good; he simply forgot how to be god. Moreover, if Light’s evil actions can be paused and replaced with moral behavior simply by manipulating memory, then the will appears malleable, not fixed. But this also means that Light’s evil is not metaphysically necessary—it is freely chosen when the opportunity arises. Kierkegaard would describe this condition as despair—a misrelation within the self, a refusal to align one’s finite reality with eternal responsibility. Light is only “good” when he is blind to his ability to be otherwise. His morality is contingent, not chosen. The contrast between Light’s moral outrage in amnesia and his cold utilitarianism as Kira thus illuminates the central dilemma of human freedom: are we good because we choose to be, or only when we are prevented from being evil? If the answer is the latter, then morality is not virtue, but convenience. Death Note uses Light’s memory loss to dramatize the thin line between the will to justice and the will to power—how easily the former becomes a mask for the latter once the self is handed the means to act unimpeded. Instead, Light defines himself not by divine moral accountability but by his own capacity to manipulate outcomes. He cannot live with being “just another person,” so he chooses to become a god.

Now, a peculiar metaphysical wrinkle in Death Note is the notion that Shinigami can see a person’s predetermined lifespan, unless altered by the notebook. This introduces a kind of soft determinism: death is fixed unless interfered with by supernatural forces. If Light shortens a life with the Death Note, is he disrupting fate—or fulfilling it? This paradox is particularly evident in the case of Naomi Misora, whom Light kills not randomly, but with a calculated manipulation of her trust. Did fate intend her death, or did Light’s choice become part of fate? The ancient Stoics, like Chrysippus, held that determinism and moral responsibility are compatible—that even if fate governs outcomes, individuals are still accountable for their choices. In Death Note, the Shinigami’s awareness of death does not necessitate Light’s guiltlessness. The narrative insists on culpability. Similarly, Misa’s and Chief Yagami’s shortened lives reflect not fate’s inevitability, but Light’s prioritization of his cause over human dignity. Their deaths serve as collateral in his pursuit of utopia—an act Sartre would call “bad faith,” using others as means while denying their full humanity.

Light’s lifespan, from the perspective of Ryuk.

Ultimately, the moral structure of Death Note resembles that of a deistic or even atheistic universe: a world in which divine silence forces humanity to define good and evil without clear revelation. The notebook is a kind of test—a Tree of Knowledge with no God to enforce the consequences. Light’s use of it demonstrates how easily humans can mistake power for righteousness. In this sense, the show echoes Dostoevsky’s claim in The Brothers Karamazov that “if God does not exist, everything is permitted.” Yet, the narrative subverts this nihilism by showing the destructive consequences of such belief. Light ends not as a triumphant god, but as a shrieking, desperate boy—exposed, alone, and dying in silence. Thus, he is less a god and more a priest of death, performing rituals of judgment without the power to redeem. The silence of Ryuk, who–in both the anime and the manga–simply writes Light’s name without judgment or fanfare, becomes the final theological verdict. For unlike Light, Ryuk is a true god of death—not merely in title, but in ontology. He belongs to a different order of being, one not limited by human perception of justice or salvation. In this way, Ryuk resembles not a moral agent but a metaphysical constant: death itself. Just as a priest may ensure forgiveness without being the source of it, Light merely imitates divinity without possessing its essence. Only Ryuk—and the Shinigami—can truly claim the title “god” in the world of Death Note, not because they save or judge, but because they are death incarnate. Yet, as the Shinigami are inactive in human affairs–if there is no one to stop us, the burden of choosing good falls entirely on us—a weight that Light, for all his brilliance, proves unable to bear.

Conclusion:

Death Note does not resolve its moral tensions—it weaponizes them. Light’s fall is not just a narrative end but a theological parable: an echo of the ancient human temptation to become like God, to know good and evil on our own terms, and to enforce that knowledge with unchecked power. In this way, Light's transformation into Kira is less a heroic arc than a cautionary tale—Socrates' fear realized, the Ring of Gyges wielded not for justice but for ego. And as L is dragged into this abyss, even he begins to falter, confessing a kind of spiritual exhaustion that mirrors the reader’s own: how does one fight a god who is merely a human in disguise?

Yet the genius of Death Note lies in its refusal to grant Light the dignity of a tragic hero. He is not noble, nor necessary. He is not justice, nor fate, nor even a credible god. Instead, he is a mirror—reflecting our modern discomfort with divine silence and our frantic urge to fill it. Light is what happens when a human, given divine power without divine wisdom, writes his own commandments and calls it morality. Ryuk’s cold final act—writing Light’s name without ceremony—serves not as judgment, but as reminder: in this world, death is the only certainty, not justice.

In the end, Death Note forces us to confront the terrifying possibility that there may be no divine response to our moral dilemmas. If the Shinigami represent the gods—unmoved, unbothered, and unbound—then the weight of justice lies entirely on human shoulders. The story is less about divine punishment than it is about human failure: to wield power humbly, to pursue justice honestly, and to resist the temptation to play god. That Light fails is no surprise. That we, watching him, almost understand his motives—that is the warning.