Smoke rose like prayer from the ruins of Haven's Rise. The earth still trembled beneath fallen steel and shattered glass. Sirens had faded into the background like a lullaby for the dead, and ash fell from the sky in slow, mournful flakes.
Among the chaos, no one noticed the wind shift.
No one saw the woman who moved like light itself, slipping past barriers of perception and matter. Elyen, the Archon of Charity, descended upon the battlefield without a sound. Her bare feet touched bloodied concrete as she knelt beside the collapsed form of Avile.
His wings were torn, his body barely clinging to its divine shape. Yet even now, his hand still curled protectively as though sheltering a memory. Elyen placed her palm over his chest—feeling the weak rhythm of a heart that had carried too much sorrow.
Then, without a whisper, she vanished—taking him with her into the folds of another world, beyond the reach of mortal eyes.
Back on the surface, the military unit that had been held in reserve stood in stunned silence. They'd seen something, but they couldn't agree on what. A blur? A flash of wings? An illusion?
Eventually, pragmatism won.
"Begin rescue operations," barked the commanding officer. "This city bleeds. We don't have time for ghosts."
A nationwide emergency was declared by nightfall.
Every broadcast—TV, radio, online—carried the same urgent message:
"We are calling on the youth of our nation. If you are able-bodied and willing, report to your nearest shelter or relief station. Haven's Rise needs hands, hearts, and hope."
What no news anchor could explain, however, was the presence of divine footprints in the wreckage. The scorched impressions. The residual heat. The subtle, aching wrongness in the air—as if something holy had broken.
Above the veil of Earth, where the skies burned with eternal light and the firmament echoed with silent hymns, Heaven watched.
But not all of it watched idly.
Uriel stood on the edge of the Ninth Sphere, the farthest reach of divine territory where time thinned and mortals were only dreams. He was a statue carved of gold and sorrow, shoulders hunched under the weight of regret. His tear-streaked face glowed faintly, light breaking along the curve of his cheekbones like dawn behind a storm.
Below him lay Earth—bruised, bloodied, and sobbing.
He could see it all. The shattered walls of the orphanage. The burned corpses of innocents. The echo of Avile's cry when Amelia fell.
"Why did we stay silent?" Uriel whispered, his voice hoarse. "Why did we let this happen?"
A gentle breeze stirred behind him, and then Gabriel was there.
The Archangel of Annunciation bore the usual peace in his features, but his eyes flickered with something else—fatigue, perhaps, or resignation. "Because we were told to. You know the rules, Uriel. We are not to intervene directly. The Archons were sent to Earth to learn. Their pain... is part of the design."
Uriel did not turn. His fists clenched.
"Then the design is flawed."
Gabriel was silent.
For a moment, there was only the hush of celestial winds. Then Uriel spoke again, his voice sharper, more human than it had any right to be.
"They were never meant to suffer alone. We were supposed to guide, not abandon. We could've warned them. We should have warned them."
"You would break the will of God?" Gabriel asked gently.
Uriel turned at last. "No," he said. "I would fulfill it. Truly."
Gabriel said nothing more. He only stepped aside, giving Uriel a path to Earth.
And Uriel, wings unfurling in a blaze of light, descended.
It had been four days since the massacre.
Four days since Evelin had walked out of the hospital with hollow eyes and her hand in Elyen's. She did not speak much anymore. She simply sat near the recovery tents, wrapping bandages, handing out water, whispering prayers she no longer believed.
Avile had awoken.
But not to peace.
His body was healing—thanks to Elyen's care—but his soul had not.
He sat beside Amelia's hospital bed like a gravekeeper. The room was dim, machines quietly hissing and beeping in the background. The oxygen mask still covered her mouth, and her chest rose and fell like it was afraid to stop. Her heart monitor ticked an uncertain rhythm. The stump of her arm was wrapped in gauze. The hole in her abdomen had not closed.
Vale stood at the window, eyes fixed on the street far below. He hadn't left the room in two days.
Neither of them spoke.
Then... the light changed.
The soft gold of hospital fluorescents was overtaken by something older. Purer.
Uriel entered without sound, as if the air had known him before it knew breath.
Both Avile and Vale turned at once.
Their eyes darkened into obsidian mirrors, a warning burned into instinct. Power shimmered in the room like flint on stone.
Vale's arm raised—black fire coiling into a sword made from the hate they had been forced to swallow.
"Not. One. Step."
Uriel stopped. His hands remained open, empty.
"I am not here to fight," he said softly.
"Then leave," Avile growled. "Leave before I slice you open and pour out that righteous light."
Uriel's gaze moved gently across the room—taking in the sterile walls, the smell of antiseptic and quiet death. He saw Amelia.
And his resolve broke.
"I know what was done to her," he whispered, stepping forward despite the weapon trained on his chest. "I know... what we let happen."
Vale's blade surged brighter, but he didn't move.
"You came too late," Vale said, his voice shaking with barely-contained rage. "Like all of you. Too late for the prayers. Too late for the children. Too late for—"
"I know," Uriel interrupted. His voice cracked. "And I am sorry."
He walked to Amelia's side.
Avile moved to stop him—but froze. There was no malice in Uriel's presence. Only grief.
Uriel placed a glowing hand on her chest.
Golden light seeped through her bandages, flowing like honey over her skin. Her arm began to re-form, tendons stitching like threads pulled by fate. The torn flesh on her stomach sealed. Her pulse steadied. The ECG found a rhythm.
Her eyes opened.
And Uriel was gone.
Avile couldn't hold it in.
The moment her eyes opened and met his, he broke.
Not like the cracks he'd worn before—those silent fractures hidden beneath duty and divine weight—but something deeper. This time, the tears weren't born of despair. They came from joy. From the fragile, aching relief of not losing someone again.
Amelia smiled faintly—confused, tired, but alive.
He pulled her into a tight embrace, arms trembling. His wings, still ragged from the battle, folded instinctively around her like a shield.
Vale, standing quietly nearby, gave them space. A faint softness touched his face—something rare. He stepped out of the room without a word.
Inside, the silence held for a few breaths longer.
Then Amelia spoke, her voice hoarse but steady. "What happened, Avile?"
He didn't answer.
Not right away.
She searched his eyes, and for the first time in her life, saw a depth she couldn't name. Darkness—not evil, not coldness, but something wounded. Something ancient and buried in silence.
"Avile?" she said again.
He struggled to find words. Something, anything.
But Amelia reached up and touched his cheek. "Don't search for lies to tell me. I can see it all over your face," she whispered. "It's something personal. Too personal."
Her hand dropped.
"You don't have to tell me now," she continued. "Just... tell me when you feel like you can. When it won't hurt you to say it out loud."
He nodded, tears still falling, voice breaking into a whisper. "I will."
Outside, Vale walked the hospital corridors alone.
The place was drowning in suffering. Every room he passed bled pain. Families sobbed into each other's arms. Children cried out for mothers who couldn't answer. Some patients were dead in every way but breath—sitting up, eyes glazed, souls emptied.
This wasn't just a hospital. It was a graveyard that hadn't caught up to itself yet.
He stepped out into the ash-streaked light of early evening.
The others were waiting.
Elyen stood silently under a tree, hands folded over her heart. Mael leaned against the edge of a rusted fence, his face expressionless. Kael was seated on a bench nearby, staring at the sky as if trying to remember what peace looked like.
Avile walked out minutes later, his hand gently wrapped around Amelia's. She wore new bandages, her face still pale—but there was life in her again. When she saw Evelin waiting near the parking lot, her knees almost gave in.
Evelin ran to her. "Amelia!"
For the first time in two days, Evelin spoke.
Tears erupted as she wrapped her arms around Amelia's waist, clinging to her like a lifeline. The girl who had not said a single word since the attack now sobbed freely into Amelia's shoulder. No one interrupted.
Avile placed a hand on both their backs, as if silently anchoring them.
When the tears slowed, Avile looked up and gestured gently.
"This is Elyen," he said. "And Kael... and Mael."
They nodded one by one.
Each of them carried the same hollowness in their eyes. Like Avile. Like war-wounded veterans who had seen something the world couldn't afford to believe in.
Amelia looked at them, saw the sadness they wore like skin, and didn't press for answers.
She already knew.
Someone was missing.
That evening, under a red sun, the Archons gathered to bury their brother.
Mael and Kael had insisted: even though Tovar would be reincarnated, his sacrifice demanded reverence. His pain deserved closure. A proper funeral—for the sake of their hearts, if nothing else.
They chose a quiet field outside the city.
Elyen blessed the ground. Vale dug the grave himself, without a word. Tovar's body, still preserved in divine silence, was wrapped in white linen. Flowers—gathered by Evelin—lined the tombstone.
When they placed him in the earth, the air changed. Softer. Still.
Amelia stood with them. She didn't know who Tovar truly was, but she knew grief. She didn't ask questions. She just watched.
It was Evelin who broke the silence.
She stepped forward, hands folded in prayer, and whispered softly:
"Please, Heaven… take care of Tovar's soul. Let it rise. Let it find light again."
The Archons lowered their heads, tears flowing in silence.
Mael whispered, "I hope you're born into a better life this time... brother."
A soft breeze passed through the trees.
Vale looked up, exhaling slowly. "His family will be here in three days," he said. "I told them he deserved to be buried quickly. They agreed. They said early rest is peaceful rest."
Avile nodded. "We should meet them. Tell them what he meant to us."
No one disagreed.
They stood there a while longer—no longer warriors or Archons or divine fragments.
Just a family mourning one of their own.
----(Scene change)------
The walls of the cult's hideout were dim, lit only by old candlelight that flickered like breathing shadows. Obil lay on a stone slab-turned-bed, wounds wrapped in torn linen, body trembling from pain and weakness.
He opened his eyes.
The air was thick. Heavy. Breathing felt like dragging iron through his lungs.
A figure stood above him.
Azazil.
Obil blinked in confusion, his mind fractured and hazy. "You…"
Azazil's voice was cold silk. "Ah, Obil. You were always too arrogant. That pride, you know—it was the root of your fall."
Obil tried to sit up but winced. "Why… why did you save me?"
Azazil smiled, the kind that didn't quite reach the eyes. "It would've been a shame if you missed what's coming. Besides… I find your chaos quite entertaining."
Before Obil could speak again, the sound of footsteps echoed through the halls—fast, desperate. He turned toward the door just as it opened.
His breath caught in his throat.
It was her.
Rachel.
She ran to him like a ghost breaking free of death, tears streaking down her cheeks. Without a word, she embraced him, burying herself in his chest. Their lips met in a kiss that held years of sorrow, love, and disbelief.
Obil trembled violently. "Is this… real?"
He didn't care if it wasn't. He let the tears fall freely. For once, he didn't resist the feeling.
Azazil crossed his arms and smirked. "This is your reward. For completing the second phase. And, well... for the entertainment."
"I failed," Obil whispered.
Azazil waved his hand dismissively. "My lord Lucifer saw value in the destruction you brought. He's not... generous, but he is particular. It seems your pain pleases him."
Obil looked up, eyes still wet. "Thank you."
Azazil paused. He hadn't expected that.
He gave a final nod, then vanished into smoke.
Moments later, another voice called out—soft and unsure.
"Mama?"
Obil turned slowly.
Miriam.
She peeked through the door, eyes wide with confusion. Rachel knelt and opened her arms. "Come here, sweetheart. This… this is your father."
Obil felt like the air had left his body.
He knelt, gently cupping her small face in his scarred hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered, voice cracking. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you that time."
Rachel stopped him. "No. Stop being sad. Stop being so broken. We're alive. We're together. That's all that matters now."
Obil nodded. The war, the Archons, even Lucifer—it all faded from his thoughts. In the days that followed, he allowed himself to believe. To breathe.
The evening sun poured molten gold through the windows, catching in Rachel's hair as she laughed—soft, warm, and full of life. Obil watched her from the threshold, her silhouette swaying gently as she hummed to the tune of some forgotten lullaby, stirring a pot of stew. The scent of rosemary and garlic drifted through the room, mingling with the fading scent of Miriam's crayons.
"Papa!"
Miriam's voice, small and bright, snapped him out of his reverie. She barreled into his legs, hugging him with the full force of her little body. Obil dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around her, breathing in the scent of apple shampoo and childhood.
"You draw something for me again?" he asked, smiling into her tangled curls.
She beamed and held up a wrinkled paper, proudly displaying stick figures—him, Rachel, and herself—standing beneath a sky painted in fierce orange. "That's you," she said, pointing. "The one with the biggest smile."
He stared at the picture a moment too long. It felt like prophecy. A fleeting glimpse of something perfect, doomed to vanish.
Rachel turned and caught his gaze. For a second, the world stopped. Just her eyes. Just that moment. He crossed the room and kissed her forehead, letting his hand rest on her back. Her skin was warm. Alive.
"This," he whispered to himself, as Miriam tugged his hand toward the table, "is what I was meant to protect."
He played with Miriam beneath the crimson skies. Rachel smiled more than she cried. His wounds healed. He laughed. He smiled. He forgot.
But Heaven never granted peace for free.
And Hell certainly didn't.
It was dusk when Obil returned from the village, groceries in hand. His coat flapped in the cold wind, and a distant unease scratched at his spine.
Then he saw him.
Azazil, standing in the middle of the road.
Rachel and Miriam were nowhere to be found.
"No," Obil whispered, heart dropping into ice. "No, no, no—!"
He dropped the bag and ran. "Where are they?! What did you do?!"
Azazil didn't answer.
His presence surged.
A pressure descended like the weight of a collapsing world. Obil fell to his knees, hands clawing at his chest. He tried to rise, divine power sparking in rage—but it wasn't enough.
Azazil's smile was cruel now.
"You didn't actually believe Lucifer was merciful, did you?" he said, tilting his head. "He doesn't give without taking."
Obil gasped for air, tears returning, this time sharp as knives. "You said it was a reward…"
Azazil crouched down. "Oh, it was. But only for a time. Now comes the price."
He stood and turned to leave. "The cult has found another child. One just as pure. One perfect for sacrifice."
Obil tried to scream but only a rasp came out.
"Finish the ritual," Azazil said. "No more mistakes. And if you want to see them again… you know what must be done."
Then he vanished.
Obil was left in the dust and silence, his body shaking, his heart shattered again.
He lay there for what felt like hours.
Then, slowly, painfully, he rose.
Tears still clung to his cheeks, but his expression was different now—emptier.
Hollow.
He looked to the heavens with dead eyes.
"Just one more time," he said.