"As I see it, the people here carry bloodlines that descend from later eras," Seraphiel said, his gaze sweeping over the warriors of the Sacred Light Empire.
"They seem to have split from their original source over time… eventually becoming entirely new beings."
His eyes lingered on the golden wings behind Lucifer and the others, a faint trace of curiosity—and disdain—hidden within them.
"Your kind," he continued calmly, "originated from a purer lineage. But as eras passed, that bloodline diluted, evolved, and diverged… until it formed what you now call 'angels'."
The words struck like a silent blow.
Lucifer's expression stiffened, while Michael's fists clenched unconsciously.
To them, their bloodline was sacred—something to be proud of.
Yet in Seraphiel's eyes, it was nothing more than a distant, weakened offshoot of something far greater.
