In the Imperial box, the air was a thick sea, dense, unbreathable. Tension slithered like invisible blades. The floating screens showed the rebellion in Amazonia, the forbidden names, the betrayals, the unexpected alliances.
Tiberius, the Grand Emperor, moved from side to side, restless, his cape billowing like a banner laden with gravity. His fist struck the railing forcefully, his voice roared over the silence like contained thunder:
"How the hell did no one inform me about an infiltration?!" his eyes burned, rabid, incredulous. He pointed at his officers. "Immediately summon the Supreme Imperial Minister! Intelligence and War! I want them here… NOW! I can't believe no one informed me about an operation of such magnitude. I am the emperor."
The imperial assistants ran out, colliding with each other, vanishing among the marble and crystal corridors.
Then, Leftraro, the King Emperor of Amekaris, rose from his seat, his silhouette erect like an ancestral mountain. His dark eyes, full of wisdom and fire, sought Tiberius's. His voice was deep, measured, laden with a solemnity that pierced the atmosphere:
"I can see that contrary to what I believed, Tiberius, you are a good man." His tone wasn't flattery, but a revealed truth. "You're just surrounded by the wrong people and a lack of authority that suffocates you."
Tiberius looked at him, perplexed, still breathing with fury.
Leftraro took a step forward. His words vibrated like a war drum:
"That's why I'll help you. Not just for you. But for all the young people there, alone on another planet, who see their dreams transform into a nightmare. But that Kraven fellow speaks with reason—what's the difference if we ourselves are the ones sending them there to die? We're no better than them." His face hardened. "I must help you and act because there are many young people from Amekaris there too." His eyes darkened. "Including my son."
Silence extended, heavy.
"…I'm going to call the Grand Priest Sorcerer of Amekaris, Machipillan." His name fell like a thunderclap, making the air vibrate. "Although until now it was a state secret, I must tell you—we have no other alternative. He can open portals. Though the quantity is limited, everything depends on how his vital energy is and how his cosmic flow is. You know that unlike the other flows, the cosmic also depends on the synchrony in which the universe finds itself at that moment."
His gaze was lost for an instant in the battle projected on the screens.
"I hope his spirit is still strong enough for us to keep fighting."
Tiberius swallowed, surprised, moved, he responded: "Thank you very much, Leftraro. I will be in debt to you and the people of Amekaris."
Leftraro turned, called two of his escorts with a single gesture.
"With all speed!" he ordered, his voice laden with an authority no army could challenge. "Fly to Amekaris! Use the fastest ship you can find! And bring Machipillan with you! Inform him it's an emergency."
"Yes, majesty!" responded one of the soldiers, striking his chest in salute before running out, his steps rumbling like war drums receding in the distance.
The imperial box fell silent. But not the earth.
Because in the arena itself, beneath the skies, a searing light descended like a white comet.
The heavens split.
The light opened like a divine eye.
And Rhygar descended.
Not as just any warrior.
But as the Sefirot.
His armor was white as the cruel justice of heaven, embroidered in golden lines that gleamed like trapped lightning. From his back, golden wings unfurled, gigantic, infinite, each feather a luminous sword.
His face was serene.
His gaze, unbreakable.
Behind him, six figures descended.
Six Seraphim, each bearing armor of light and steel, metallic wings that cut the air like sacred blades. They were those who remained faithful. Those who had not deserted in Amazonia.
The air froze.
The stadium bowed.
Light bathed the world.
Heaven itself had descended.
And with them, the sentence.
Because where the Sefirot descended, Judgment also descended.
The radiance expanded over the stadium like a sacred tide.
Behind Rhygar, the six pairs of luminous wings descended one by one, like meteors guided by a single oath.
The first to set foot on the arena was Rafael. His mere presence seemed to heal the very air, calm the invisible cracks of the world.
His face was handsome, virile, serene. There was something in his gaze—that warm, enveloping brown—that gave peace, harmony, comfort, enhanced even more by the fine glasses that framed his eyes.
His brown hair, silky, fell over his forehead in impeccable locks. His armor was bright celestial, metallic, reflecting light like a sacred lake under the sun.
His white and pointed metallic wings unfurled gently, like a silent embrace.
At his side descended Gabriela. Her walk was majestic, laden with contained strength, a dazzling beauty that seemed both forbidden and reverent. Twin sister of Gabriel, the seraphim who had betrayed the Empire and was now in Amazonia.
Her face, beautiful and radiant, possessed unequaled grandeur, her pink eyes, intense, looking as if reading the very soul of all present.
Her dark gray hair fell in elegant waves to her back. Her metallic celestial armor, low-cut, revealed glimpses of her celestial-toned skin, while her white wings with silver and golden reflections vibrated with energy worthy of a celestial queen.
An impossible mixture of imposingness, serenity, and latent danger.
And then Sariel descended.
His arrival wasn't light, but neither crushing. It was the presence of balance between fire and calm. His black armor with golden details shone with the intensity of a dimmed sun, reflecting each flash of celestial light surrounding him.
His orange eyes burned like fire contrasting his beautiful and icy face, capable of piercing the soul of anyone who dared look too closely. His long red hair floated around him like soft flames dancing in the breeze.
Each of his steps made the air tremble with respect, and his white wings, large and robust, unfurled with a majesty that recalled the strength of dawn over clouds.
He was the embodiment of silent judgment and contained power, a burning beacon before Metatron's thunder broke the calm.
His fall was different.
It wasn't light or ethereal.
It was like thunder stepping on earth.
His tall and slender figure radiated natural authority, an air of confident greatness, as if heaven itself had chosen him and he knew it.
His face was serious, imposing, lips curved in a subtle smile, laden with irony and sarcasm, but also inexplicable kindness.
His grayish white hair, long, fell in perfect locks over his back, while his black armor adorned with red lines seemed to pulse with internal light, as if a heart of fire rested beneath the metal.
His semi-closed smiling eyes were a mixture of challenge and play.
Between judgment and laughter.
Rafael placed a hand on Rhygar's shoulder.
Gabriela crossed her arms, observing the arena with a mixture of curiosity and strategy.
Metatron let out a low laugh, tilting his head.
"Well… well…" he whispered, his voice deep, with an almost musical echo. "Looks like we arrived just in time for the main show."
Rhygar said nothing.
His gaze was fixed on the horizon.
On Amazonia.
On the young people.
On the traitors.
On the rebels.
Because Heaven had descended.
But not just to observe.
Not just to judge.
It had descended to decide who deserved to keep breathing.
And as the Seraphim aligned their wings behind the Sefirot, the entire Imperial Box trembled. The nobles lowered their heads. The troops knelt.
Tiberius swallowed.
"Seraphim are here…" he murmured.
Leftraro closed his eyes, crossing his arms.
"The war is no longer just of the earth…" he whispered.
"…Heaven also wants its part."
And as the seraphim watched from the heights, in Amazonia, the jungle's roar became a desperate prayer.
Judgment was just beginning.
And when it seemed all of heaven had already descended.
Two new auras tore through the firmament.
First, a pink and golden explosion crossed the skies. A figure descended as if twilight itself had taken female form. Each of her steps in the air left trails of living light.
It was Miguela, the second most powerful of the Seraphim.
Her brown skin, luminous, gleamed as if made of hardened sun. Her dark, semi-wavy hair fell with youthful grace, free and fierce.
Her face was a bridge between the celestial and human: beautiful, strong and tender at once, with green eyes, heritage of her birthplace, House Malatesta.
The metallic pink armor, forged by divine flow, embraced her silhouette, refined and powerful. Her white metallic wings, long and elegant, vibrated with the latent power of her lineage.
And behind her…
Lucifer.
The most powerful of all Seraphim. The guardian of balance, fire and mystery.
He descended in silence.
But his presence wasn't announced with fear, but with awe and respect.
Because where Lucifer appeared, the world remembered heaven's beauty.
His black hair, long and lush, fell like a moonless night.
His pale skin, impeccable, seemed made of living marble.
And his red eyes, deep, didn't burn with rage but with eternal passion, with unbeatable will.
His black armor, carved with ancient symbols, gleamed as if forged with fragments of the cosmos.
And his golden wings, majestic and extensive, unfurled like swords of sun.
But beyond his power…
Lucifer was beautiful.
Indescribably beautiful.
Of a beauty that bordered the divine, but also contained humanity.
When his feet touched the arena, there was no fear or doubt.
Only an energy that enveloped everyone like a promise of hope.
Heaven was united.
Judgment had begun.
Lucifer walked a few steps. He stopped.
And then he looked at her.
At her.
At Miguela.
And in that instant, between chaos and war, between the Seraphim, and the thousands of souls in the stadium, Lucifer smiled.
It wasn't a smile for the world.
It was for her.
For Miguela, who without uttering a word, returned the smile.
Warm. Deep. Unbreakable.
Because they weren't just warriors.
They were spouses.
Eternal lovers.
Two stars destined to orbit each other through the universe's fury.
Gabriela, to one side, observed them with a soft smile.
Rafael bowed his head.
Metatron smiled crookedly, with his usual noble irony.
And Rhygar, leader of the Archangel Fortress, nodded once, knowing the weight of judgment was in the right hands.
And then, with one more step, Lucifer spoke:
"Tell me, how is Ian?"
His voice was deep. Serene. Powerful without effort.
The name rumbled in the stadium like an echo seeking destiny.
And at that moment…
The countdown for the world's fate began to roll.