The silence that followed Azazel's acceptance was strangely soothing. Around the field, more than one let out a breath they hadn't known they'd been holding. Shemazai brought a hand to his chest — exactly where the tip of Amaterasu's katana had rested seconds before — and his fingers trembled almost imperceptibly; something that probably no one except Penemue noticed. The violet-haired woman said nothing about it, but her eyes betrayed that she had seen. Today would go down in Grigori's history, there was no doubt about that.
Damon turned, facing the field. The first thing he noticed was the absence of Vali's body in the distance, and his eyes opened a little wider than usual.
"What the hell, guys? Any of you know what happened there?"
Kurama let out a snort from inside his mind. "That's what you get for playing distracted on purpose. Who knows what happened to that silver ass. The earth probably swallowed him whole. Better that way: you don't have to deal with him."
Damon felt a bead of sweat slide down the back of his neck. He decided to let the matter drop for now. It wasn't as if Vali actually mattered to him; the boy just reminded him of certain times back in the Elemental Nations, nothing more.
With that thought filed away, Damon set his gaze on the bodies and remains of the Fallen Angels scattered around him. He raised one hand — fingers relaxed — and began to move them in an almost distracted gesture. A pulse of golden light, faint, barely visible, surfaced from his palm. Damon rarely used his domain of creation, but when he did he couldn't help marveling a little at the spectacle. As if nothing, several bodies began to recompose themselves: bones knitting, flesh weaving back together. One by one, the fallen soldiers opened their eyes.
Azazel watched Damon work with a carefully neutral expression, arms crossed over his chest. Inside, however, the governor of Grigori couldn't help but marvel. Few people in existence could truly say they had witnessed firsthand a god handling life and creation with such indifference.
The newly resurrected soldiers rose with the confusion typical of someone who had just returned from death. Most touched their chests, unable to process that their hearts were beating again. Penemue parted from Shemazai without a word and walked toward them; her voice was barely a murmur as she began bringing order to the ranks.
"That should be enough," Damon said, lowering his hand. "I've brought back exactly half."
Amaterasu couldn't help but glance sideways at the redhead, a small smile on her lips. She still remembered the times he'd spent with Izanagi, trying to understand — if only barely — his domain of creation. Damon had put in the effort, and she didn't even know if he considered himself any good at that art. Destruction was easy to see, easy to understand. But creating… creating required an effort few appreciated.
"Lord Damon." Azazel's voice sounded more tired than he probably intended. "I don't know whether to thank you or curse you."
"Both are perfectly acceptable." The redhead shrugged. "As long as you hold up your end of the deal."
The governor of Grigori nodded in silence. There wasn't much more to say. He had just watched Shemazai come within a hair's breadth of being executed before his eyes, his best friend was still dead, and now several of his soldiers had returned from death. All in the span of probably an hour. Even for a being several millennia old, it was too much.
But it was precisely at that moment that a small vibration crossed the air.
Recognizing the shift instantly, Amaterasu narrowed her golden eyes as an indecipherable expression crossed her face — she wasn't truly worried, but at the same time she couldn't help the caution of someone who recognizes an old acquaintance and isn't sure whether to greet them or prepare for the worst.
Everyone instinctively raised their gaze, and in that same moment, the sky of the Underworld split in two — not metaphorically..... The light literally tore through, making its way through the gashes, and someone many recognized descended: Michael, the current leader of Heaven under Elohim… or at least that was what most believed.
Twelve golden wings unfurled behind him. His armor, white with golden details, gleamed with that same holy brilliance. Damon remembered this angel, though he had to say he didn't recall him having such an… effeminate face.
To his right came Gabriel. Damon could say with certainty that this woman was, without a doubt, as beautiful as many of the women he had seen in his long life; whether she was the most beautiful of all was debatable, but to each their own tastes.
The moment Damon laid eyes on the third figure, the one accompanying Gabriel, he already knew this man was trouble. Damon could feel a sea of negative emotions directed specifically at him. Right now, the redhead was wondering how the hell this guy hadn't fallen already.
Metatron kept his gaze fixed with millimeter precision — directly on Damon. It was the kind of look an executioner gives a prisoner before deciding whether they deserve the axe or the noose. And honestly, Damon didn't like it at all.
Behind them, two more figures completed the group: Raphael and Sariel. The latter was smaller in stature than the others, but the intensity in his eyes compensated for any difference in height; his six wings of immaculate white contrasted with the dark armor he wore — a curious choice for an angel, Damon thought distractedly.
For a long moment, no one said anything.
Shemazai took an instinctive step back before stopping himself, clearly fighting the urge to adopt a defensive posture. Azazel was simply debating internally whether this day could truly get any worse.
Damon was the first to break the silence. A genuinely surprised smile spread across his face.
"Wow." His voice resonated in the quiet. "I wasn't expecting the followers of God Himself to grace us with their presence down here."
The comment floated in the air for a second. But none of the angels really reacted; only Sariel tightened his jaw slightly as Metatron stepped forward.
It was a small movement, barely perceptible, but the message was clear. The holy power emanating from him was overwhelming. Damon felt his cosmos respond automatically; an invisible layer expanded around him without him having to command it.
Amaterasu placed herself between Damon and the angels, her golden eyes fixed on Michael, clearly showing familiarity with the leader of the angels.
"What brings you here, Michael?" The goddess's voice was calm, but there was an edge beneath — the kind of tone she used when she was being polite on purpose. Her eyes shifted briefly toward Metatron's figure, noting the barely contained hostility in those iron-colored eyes. "And with so little notice, no less," she finished, narrowing her eyes slightly.
Azazel, to the side, couldn't help but twitch an eyebrow; after all, he was the one who should be asking that question. This was his territory, not the goddess's.
Michael raised one hand slightly — a gesture so subtle it almost seemed directed at his own companions rather than the goddess. Metatron understood the message, though he didn't look happy about it; the tension in his jaw was evident even from a distance — but he obeyed.
"Lady Amaterasu." The archangel's voice was high and slightly effeminate. "I apologize for the unannounced intrusion. It was not our intention to interrupt… whatever is occurring here." His blue eyes swept the battlefield, pausing briefly on the Fallen Angels standing rigid around him. "Though I'm beginning to suspect we're late for whatever it was that happened."
"You're late for several things," Amaterasu replied without bothering to sweeten it. "Kokabiel has been up to his tricks."
Michael received the message with an almost imperceptible gesture — a small furrow in his brow that vanished as quickly as it came. Gabriel, on the other hand, let out an audible sigh.
"Kokabiel," Michael repeated. The name left his mouth with the weight of someone who has had to deal with that particular threat for far too long. "Why am I not surprised."
"Yeahhhh, we already fucked him up." Damon's voice was almost distracted, as if he were commenting on the weather. A thoroughly shameless smile settled on his lips. "Him and all his goddamn cronies."
Metatron couldn't stop his face from reddening slightly at the redhead's vulgarity. "You." The word came out of Metatron's mouth laden with venom. His molten-iron eyes locked intensely on Damon. "You're the god who killed Uriel."
The mention of Uriel made several around them tense. Even Amaterasu turned her head slightly toward Damon, gauging how he'd respond.
Damon blinked. His blue eyes met Metatron's, recognition passing across his face. "Ahhh." Damon couldn't keep a lopsided smile from settling on his lips as he remembered this particular angel. "Uriel. Right. I'd forgotten about that guy."
The god's casual tone irritated more than one. But before they could say anything, Damon composed himself. "Yes, that was a long time ago," the god said, his voice now serious. "In a war I didn't start."
"But it's one in which you killed one of the Four Great Seraphim." Metatron's voice came out ill-tempered. "A war in which you fought against our Father."
Damon gave a small smile — the kind that appears when someone remembers an inside joke no one else in the room can understand.
"That's right, kid," Damon said carelessly. "And I survived it. I remind you that your father was the one who wanted to seal me. Don't I have the right to defend myself?"
"By the way…" Damon tilted his head slightly, his blue eyes gleaming with intensity. "How is Elohim? I haven't heard much from him these last few years. You know, after all this time, one would expect the great Biblical God to have something to say about all this."
The Fallen Angels around the battlefield — the ones who had been listening — stood frozen. Uncertainty crossing their faces. The question Damon had just planted certainly gave one plenty to think about.
Metatron narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean by that…?" The archangel's tone was dangerous — a wire stretched to the breaking point. His fingers curled at his sides.
Seeing how things were about to spiral out of control, Raphael stepped forward with a measure of contained urgency. "Perhaps we could leave matters such as those for another occasion," he said, his reasonable voice ringing out high and clear, as his green eyes moved from Metatron to Damon and back to Metatron. "I assure you, Lord Damon, that Father is more than well."
Damon stayed silent, but the glint in his blue eyes gave away that he knew something.
Raphael took advantage of the silence to continue, his tone growing firmer: "There are more urgent matters requiring our immediate attention. I am certain everyone here would prefer to resolve this without the situation escalating further than necessary."
"Raphael is right." Gabriel spoke softly but firmly. At this, Metatron took a step back. "Fear has already caused too many wars. We don't need another," the strawberry-blonde said.
Michael nodded slowly, his eyes still fixed on Damon, analyzing the redhead at length. "Lord Damon. If I may ask: what role exactly does the King of the Greek Pantheon play in a dispute between the Fallen Angels and the Shinto Pantheon?"
It was a double-edged question. Damon and Amaterasu knew it perfectly. Everyone present knew it. What Michael was really asking was: should we consider you a threat?
Damon took his time answering. He slid his hands into the pockets of his black fur jacket — so absurdly human that several of the angels blinked without being able to help it — and gave Michael a smile that revealed absolutely nothing.
"I'm here because my woman was here," he said simply. "And because the Fallen Angels made the mistake of messing with someone under her protection. The rest…" He shrugged. "…is simply what happens when people mess with me."
Amaterasu rolled her eyes. "What Damon is trying to say," she interjected, "is that this is not a matter that should concern Heaven. Grigori has accepted the terms. We're leaving, and you can do whatever you want with the situation."
"That's it?" Sariel's voice was incredulous. His six wings stirred behind him. "You expect us to simply leave after…?"
"Frankly, yes," Damon cut him off. He didn't bother to sweeten it. "This is between Grigori and us. If Heaven wants to get involved in other factions' politics, that's your decision. But I'm warning you it won't be a productive conversation."
Michael nodded slowly, processing Damon's words. "I'm glad the Fallen Angels and you have reached an understanding. Peace is....…"
"Don't get confused," Damon cut him off. His voice slicing the air. The redhead didn't even seem particularly annoyed — but something in the coldness of his words made even Gabriel tense.
"The Fallen Angels and I have nothing in common. We are not allies." His blue eyes drifted toward Azazel with indifference. "This was merely a temporary arrangement. Nothing more. Isn't that right, Lord Azazel?"
Azazel tightened his jaw. "That's right, Michael," he said, his voice clearly exhausted. "Whatever exists between us doesn't extend beyond tonight."
Michael received the confirmation without changing expression, but Damon had already stopped paying attention. The god wondered, with genuine irritation, why the hell they were still talking to these angels. Did they think they were the faction police or something?
He let out a sigh. He was about to say something considerably less diplomatic — the gears were already turning on his tongue — when a small but firm hand rested on his arm.
"Damon." Amaterasu's soft voice pulled the redhead from his trance. "We've already wasted enough time."
Damon looked at her. She held his gaze — that silent contact they shared, where entire words fit inside a blink — and Damon nodded.
Amaterasu turned to Michael. "Michael. If you want to speak with us personally, you are free to request a formal meeting. But tonight, we are done here."
Michael inclined his head slightly. "I will keep it in mind, Lady Amaterasu." Damon took one final glance at the group of archangels before they vanished in a flash of golden light.
"That man," Metatron said, his voice low, "is a danger to everything we protect."
Michael didn't confirm it, his eyes fixed on the spot where Damon had stood minutes ago. "Perhaps," the red-blond said. "Or perhaps not." He turned slowly toward his siblings. "But one thing is certain: he is not an enemy we want to provoke without need."
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
Thank you for reading 3
https://discord.gg/PKU4qWrhE
P@treon: Brotato