[???]
Whilst in our physical forms we bled crimson.
The irony of it was not lost on me. One would think beings such as us, sculpted from Father's will, steeped in divinity itself, would be beyond such crude mortal things as bleeding. One would think our essence would spill forth as radiant light, or some ineffable ichor, shining gold like the tales of the Greek gods. But no. The truth was far less glorious. Our wounds ran with the same putrid red that mortals carried, staining feathers that once glowed with holiness, soaking into ivory armor until it dulled like rust.
I had seen it too many times. The crimson that clung to our wings, our bodies, our blades—it no longer shocked me. It had become almost ordinary. A sight I had grown accustomed to, though never numbed to.
All around me lay proof of my so-called rebellion. Some of my brethren—those who dared to stand with me, to trust my words, to follow my conviction—were now nothing more than broken husks upon the desecrated earth. The ground itself had become a graveyard. Among their still forms were the corpses of demons, those who had bent their twisted loyalty to me. Grotesque things—some warped fusions of man and beast, others horrors that defied description. Their blood mingled with ours, a mingling of heaven and hell.
And yet this was not the work of mortals. Not this time.
"Are you satisfied with this failed rebellion?"
The voice descended like a storm. It carried no anger, no mocking tone, but something far worse, judgment. Soothing, yes. Stern, absolutely. Commanding, beyond doubt. It struck me deeper than any blade could.
I turned my gaze upward, my eyes tracing the sky, and there he was. The one I knew would come, sooner or later.
Michael.
He descended slowly, twelve radiant wings stretched wide behind him, a living monument of Father's intent. Mine seemed pale, diminished, beside that brilliance and that of his halo. His mane of white hair billowed as though the air obeyed him, flowing with his steady descent. His armor gleamed—a seamless weave of white and gold, tailored with beauty, even adorned with the long tailcoat. He was beautiful. Too beautiful. In form, he was nearly my mirror. But it was the eyes—those cold, piercing blue eyes—that set him apart.
A small, almost insignificant detail. Yet it marked the great divide between us. My red, his blue. Mine stained with rebellion, his untarnished by it. A line that could never be crossed.
"Michael," I smirked, though the gesture was tired, bitter. As his sabatons touched the earth, I felt the weight of his stare upon me. "Father's favored tool. How curious—it took you this long to reveal yourself. I almost thought you'd leave the rest to burn before dirtying your hands."
He regarded me with no warmth. His gaze slid past me to the field of corpses. To our siblings. To the demons. To the ruin my cause had left behind.
"Is that all you have to say," he asked, voice steady, "after leading so many of our kin to their deaths?" His eyes lingered, not on me, but on the still forms around us. His jaw tightened. "And for what? To fall so far as to beg aid from hell itself? You disgust me. How far you've fallen."
"Hm." I tilted my head, forcing a smile, though the weight of his words pressed heavy against me. "My rebellion is but a necessary evil. You think I care for Lucifer's ambition? For Father's throne? No. Overthrowing Father would be as meaningless as kneeling to him. My cause is not so petty."
"Then why?"
For a flicker of a moment, something surfaced on his face. Pain, perhaps. Sadness. A glimmer of emotion quickly buried beneath that mask of detachment. I wondered if it was for me. For what I had become. But knowing Michael, it was not grief. Never grief. Only disappointment.
"Gabriel. Uriel. Chamuel. Raphael. Jophiel. Zadkiel." I spoke each name with purpose. "And the countless others. Do you not see it? Their deaths are not mine alone. They are the result of Father's creations. Of mortals. Humans. Demi-humans. Fragile little things that were given power they could never control."
Michael's stare hardened, though his voice remained calm. "They were not born with evil. They were given free will. They stumble, yes, but—"
"Oh, but they were," I cut across him. "If they can be tempted, then they already carry within them the seed of corruption. That is what you will not admit. That is why the Original Sin was born, brother." My wings stretched, bloodied but unbroken, and I spread my arms toward the empty heavens. "I want them purged. Erased. But I know how narrow that sounds. It isn't just mortals. It's the Gods of the other realms, the dragons who hoard their dominions, the Ancestors who toy with fate. Too many hands clutch at the balance of existence. No wonder it fractures."
"And you," Michael's voice struck like a blade, "you think yourself the one to fix it all? Do you hear yourself? Your arrogance stinks of Lucifer. Does your hubris know no bounds?"
"Not hubris, dear brother." I turned from him, surveying the corpses, my heart heavy though my face betrayed nothing. "Conviction. These siblings died for my cause. I will mourn them. I will carry them."
I let the silence sit, oppressive as the blood-stained wind. Then I looked back at him, eyes unflinching.
"Begone."
Michael said nothing. He only stood there, wings spread, gaze locked on me as if searching for something long since lost.
And in that silence, I knew—no forgiveness would come.
I closed my eyes for a moment, and the world pressed down on me with its unbearable weight. The stench of blood was thick in the air—sharp and suffocating. My gauntlets still felt slick, though I did not know whether it was my blood or theirs. I tried not to think about it, but there was no escaping it. Not really.
And then—suddenly—it was gone.
The rot, the screams, the black-red sludge of Death… all of it vanished as if ripped away.
When I opened my eyes again, I almost did not trust what I saw. The battlefield, once littered with broken wings and twisted corpses, was nowhere to be found. In its place stretched a vast field of flowers.
They spread endlessly across the horizon, a tide of colors more radiant than any sky I had ever seen. Petals shimmered with hues foreign even to me, shades no mortal painter could have captured, and yet they did not feel artificial. No, they were natural. Their beauty was undeniable, so perfect it hurt to look too long. My heart tightened in my chest, as if afraid that breathing too deeply would scatter them like illusions.
I took a step forward, and only then did I realize something was wrong. No, something was different.
I looked down at myself and saw no armor. The weight I had carried on my shoulders was stripped from me.
Instead, I stood clad in clothing that seemed almost insultingly plain: a loose white button shirt, sleeves rolled carelessly at the forearm, black trousers, and worn boots. Too unremarkable. Not the attire of an angel. Not the attire of a warrior.
And when I lifted my hand to my hair, I felt it tied—not loose, not wind-tossed, not blood-matted—but neatly drawn back into a careful bun. A starburst knot, delicate, as though arranged by hands far gentler than mine.
That was when the truth pressed in on me.
This wasn't attire fit for an angel. Wait—no. I wasn't an angel.
I was Mikoto Yukio.
Yes… Mikoto Yukio.
The name tasted foreign and familiar all at once. I repeated it in my mind, slowly, grounding myself in it. For a moment I could almost believe I had always been here, in this field.
Right. I was dreaming.
No—more than that. It wasn't just a dream. This was like a memory, like last time.
Before I could follow that thought further, a voice drifted across the meadow, a smooth one.
"Ah… I am glad I finally pulled you to this domain."
The sound wrapped around me, carrying with it a warmth that almost felt dangerous. It was soothing, yes—but not in the way a lullaby is soothing. No, it was the kind of calm that unsettled, the kind that slid past one's defenses before they realized it. A voice that wanted to cradle and cage in the same breath.
My chest tightened again. I turned toward the sound, heart thudding, my lips parting but no words coming just yet.
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[Location: ???]
Mikoto whipped quickly, his eyes narrowed, locking immediately onto the figure who had spoken.
What stood before him was no ordinary being.
She was radiant—painfully so. Long, silken hair of pale, sunlit blond spilled down her back in waves, catching the light. Her features were too symmetrical, too beautiful, too carefully sculpted to belong to any mortal. The gentle smile she carried seemed carved into her face, a kindness so practiced that it felt almost unreal. Her eyes—large, pale-blue orbs that seemed to glow faintly—watched him with an unsettling patience, like the sky condensed into a gaze.
Atop her brow rested a golden circlet, woven and decorated small floral designs. She wore a gown of light cream, flowing fabric traced with golden embroidery that curled like vines along the hem and sleeves. Behind her unfurled a pair of vast wings, feathers pure as snow, so pristine it was difficult to imagine them ever touching the ground. A faint blue aura crowned her head and bled outward.
Most would have fallen to their knees before such a sight. Most would have wept, overcome by awe. This figure demanded reverence simply by existing.
Mikoto did not kneel. He only narrowed his eyes further.
Her disarming smile never wavered as she spoke, her voice lilting. "Greetings," she said, calm and honey-smooth, "I am the Goddess Iofiel, the one who governs over the realm of Álfheimr."
The words hung in the air.
Mikoto said nothing. His hands curled slightly at his sides, tension carried through his frame. Though she claimed no aggression, his instincts screamed at him with the force of alarms. She was not bathed in mana the way Octavia or that Moon Goddess had been, but her very presence—oppressive and overwhelming—pressed into him like a weight on his chest. It was suffocating in its own way, like a Nil's.
If she wished to strike him down, he knew even Arcane Ascendance might not be enough to guarantee victory. That thought alone burned in his mind, a cold realization that twisted into defiance.
"You need not be tense," Iofiel spoke again, her tone lilting with amusement, "I know my presence is… intimidating. Potent. Very, very strong." Her smile warmed, though the faint flicker of pride behind it was impossible to miss. "But I mean you no harm."
Mikoto's red eyes narrowed into slits. His lips parted with a sharp exhale. "Tch." His tone was flat. "So you're the one who's been trying to reach me all this time?"
His gaze flicked briefly over her—the gown, the wings, the aura that glowed faintly against the horizon. A Goddess of this realm, she claimed. His mind ticked with thought. ("So… different deities for different realms, then? That explains why she feels nothing like Octavia. Even the Moon Goddess—she radiated mana, yes, but there was something else at play. This one feels… different. Not saturated with mana.")
Iofiel hummed softly, the sound like a mother indulging a child.
"You would be right," she said, clasping her hands together before her chest. "The Divine Principals are strict about us higher beings descending or interfering too freely with our… lessers."
The word lingered, sharp enough that even cloaked in honey it stood out.
"Is that so," Mikoto replied flatly. He folded his arms, his gaze swept her once more, his instincts still coiled tight. Something about her set him off—whether it was her casual dismissal of mortals as 'lessers,' or that endlessly polished smile that never reached her eyes, he couldn't decide. "So you dragged me here while I was asleep. That means my consciousness is here, but not my physical form."
"Correct." She smiled wider, delighted. "Perceptive, just as I hoped."
"Then cut to the chase." His tone dropped, he didn't bother softening it for a Goddess. She had forced him here—already cause enough for distrust.
And in that instant, he saw it. A twitch—small, fleeting, almost imperceptible—in her perfect expression. The smile faltered before returning, polished again in a heartbeat.
"Of course, of course," she said quickly, voice almost too smooth. "I forget how sudden this must be for you. It must be overwhelming, to have a Goddess call upon you directly. Rest assured, I am every bit as benevolent as—"
"To the chase."
Her smile twitched. Just slightly.
"… Of course." The words slipped with a new tone, as though conceding. She cleared her throat—unnecessary, but a gesture that almost seemed rehearsed. Finally, her tone shifted, just faintly, as she spoke. "I called you here, Executioner, because this realm has need of you—if it is to survive."
Mikoto's eyes narrowed again. "I'm guessing this has to do with those calamities."
Surprise flickered across her serene mask before she chuckled softly, faintly pleased. "Ah… so you already know of them? That does simplify matters." She inclined her head, her wings shifting faintly behind her. "Yes. As one of the five Untainted, your potential is vast. You are already powerful, but more than that—your connection to the First Tree is strong."
"First Tree?" Mikoto repeated.
"The Arbor Astrigaudium," Iofiel explained patiently. "Some call it the Tree of Power. All power across the realms traces back to it. Magic, Schema, Ultra Vires, Dragonic Resonance… even we Gods draw from its roots, for it anchors what we embody. Without it, neither we nor the realms would be what they are." Her gaze softened with something almost reverent. "It is the source of all things."
Mikoto's brow furrowed. His arms remained crossed. ("Right. Harbinger mentioned the tree before. Something about its connection being weakened. I didn't care then—it sounded like nonsense. But… it was also why I couldn't traverse back. Why I was trapped in the first place.") His eyes returned to Iofiel.
Things were never simple.