"What will I choose?"
The question echoed louder than the clash of sword and broken staff. But the real war burned within Micafer's soul.
Each swing of Beelzebub's twin blades struck with divine contradiction—Michael's searing judgment on one edge, Lucifer's seductive freedom on the other. But neither light nor darkness called to him.
It wasn't pride that stayed his hand—it was something deeper. Destiny. A mark carved into his spirit long before this war began.
His splintered staff trembled in his grip. His body faltered. Vision blurred. Yet through the storm of pain and doubt, four words rose like a whisper:
"Child of the Veil."
He had searched for purpose. But now, amid chaos, it revealed itself.
BOOM.
Another blow descended. He staggered back—not out of fear, but toward fate.
Beelzebub launched high, blades screaming with wrath. Micafer moved, not with strategy, but instinct. He shifted into the path of destiny.
His broken staff aimed not at the king, but beyond him. A feint. A prayer.
Beelzebub struck—obliterating both splinters. But Micafer stepped in.
And found the gap.
A sliver between strikes. A breath where fate lived. He slid into it like shadow.
The blades slammed down—too late.
Then, the miracle.
Kneeling between them, Micafer touched both hilts. The moment his fingers met steel, the Veil trembled.
His soul split—light on one side, shadow on the other. Not torn, but aligned. Balanced.
White linen bloomed along his right. Midnight shadow wrapped his left. Not born of Beelzebub's chaos—but from the divine cores of Michael and Lucifer.
Within him, something awoke—not rage. Not power.
Awakening.
Beelzebub stepped back, not in pain—but awe. His kingly pride faltered.
Micafer did not strike.
He didn't need to.
In a breath, he stood before Beelzebub. No weapon. No threat. Only presence.
The king's head bowed—resting against Micafer's palm.
And then, his body crumbled.
Dead before he could even die.
Silence overtook the battlefield. Purgators stood frozen, their gazes stitched with awe and terror. Then—
They knelt.
Not to a tyrant. But to a sovereign reborn.
Above, the skies split. Radiance poured through one side. Darkness from the other.
Michael descended in light. Lucifer in shadow.
Their presence shattered the air. Mortal souls collapsed beneath it—unable to bear the weight.
Beelzebub's form dissolved, leaving a soul-mark behind. A legacy split between Heaven and Hell.
Micafer turned. No longer confused. No longer torn.
Whole.
Michael approached, voice low with awe.
"You've done what neither of us could."
Lucifer followed, grinning like a blade.
"You chose nothing—and became everything."
Michael held out a dark, twisted ring. Micafer raised his left hand.
The ring slid on—and changed.
Shadow shimmered into balance. Half light. Half dark.
Above, sun and moon fused into a single, unmoving orb.
The Veil, once barren, bloomed—black and white flora erupting from cursed soil.
A new age had begun.
Michael and Lucifer raised their hands—beams of opposing force entwining in radiant chaos.
Their voices became one:
"A new king is born.
Woven of us both.
He is Micafer—
King of the Veil."
A robe descended—embroidered in white and black, a symbol of harmony. They placed it on him.
And Micafer rose.
No longer a boy.
No longer lost.
A sovereign—crowned by paradox.
Michael bowed his head.
"The Veil is yours. Its gates open at your will."
Lucifer smirked.
"But your true kingdom lies within. Don't forget that."
Micafer nodded. Fire stirred in his chest—not wrath. Not ambition.
Purpose.
He turned. Light and shadow parted for him.
And then—he vanished.
Transmigrated.
But the echo of his presence remained. And in his heart:
"Who am I now?"
"What awaits me?"
Not just destiny.
Something greater.