Chapter 47: Public Outrage
The Sphere of Saturn—The Palace of the Arch-Seraphim.
As was his custom, Michael prepared to depart for the Sphere of the Moon to inspect Adam's progress on the construction of the wall.
The humans were displaying immense enthusiasm; having successfully fabricated the "cloud bricks," they had swiftly mapped out the intended course of the city wall.
Extending outward from the teleportation array that linked the Sphere of the Moon to the Sphere of Mercury—and encompassing the Celestial Gate and the Holy Staircase—the wall was designed to enclose every grand avenue, winding path, and thoroughfare leading to the higher heavens.
"It is just like a garden fence—everything within its bounds is home." Drawing inspiration from his former dwelling in the Garden of Eden, Adam had—quite unexpectedly—managed to intuit the very will of God.
Michael suddenly grasped the true significance of the wall. He conducted a brief test and discovered that the structure possessed the ability to detect any entity or essence that was not of the Light.
In other words, while the various spheres of Heaven typically communicated and regulated passage through teleportation arrays and verification checkpoints, these measures did not entirely prevent malicious entities from employing insidious means to acquire credentials and infiltrate the realms undetected.
After all, a teleportation array was merely a means of transport; it could not discern the true identity of the traveler. The Wall of Light, however, was a different matter entirely.
In the face of such radiant intensity, darkness had nowhere to hide.
*Is this... the power of the Messiah?*
Michael found himself filled with involuntary admiration for God's profound foresight. If Adam could truly succeed in erecting seven such protective walls throughout Heaven, he would indeed prove himself worthy of the title: Sovereign of the Celestial Kingdom.
Yet, the source of this wall-building power remained a mystery. How was it that mere humans could wield such a force—one capable of expelling darkness? From where did it originate? How did it evolve? Why did its intensity wax and wane—at times steady and static, at others surging with dynamic energy? Michael had no way of knowing.
Initially, he had deemed the humans' plan utterly unfeasible within any reasonable timeframe.
Setting aside the sheer magnitude of the undertaking, consider the efficiency: Adam could only conjure a single brick at a time, and each brick required a full half-hour to manifest. At that rate, when—if ever—would the project reach completion?
However, a mere two days later, Adam had already constructed a section of the Wall of Light extending two hundred meters eastward from the Holy Staircase, standing approximately two meters in height.
This demonstrated that the humans' mastery over this mysterious power was steadily increasing—though, when measured against the vast expanse of the Sphere of the Moon, that mastery remained, for the time being, utterly negligible. But if things continue like this, perhaps a true miracle really could be achieved...
"Lord Michael."
Metatron interrupted Michael's train of thought. Stepping out from the inner chambers, he cast a cool, measured gaze upon the Deputy of the Seraphim—who was just preparing to head out.
After spending some time working together, Metatron had come to understand that Michael possessed a restless nature; he simply couldn't sit still.
On any other day, that might have been fine—but not today.
Metatron fixed his gaze upon the red-haired Seraph. Under that intense scrutiny, the latter—feeling just a touch guilty—rubbed his nose sheepishly.
"We are both of the First Sphere; there's no need to address me as 'Lord,' Meta."
Metatron acted as if he hadn't heard a word. He maintained his customary demeanor, keeping his hands tucked neatly within the sleeves of his robes.
"I must make a trip to the Sphere of Mars to report recent affairs to Lord Lucifer."
"Mm." Michael knew that Metatron was a stickler for propriety and legitimacy in all his dealings.
Although God had already designated the succession, Metatron carried himself as if he held a set of scales within his very soul; he would never commit any act that overstepped his bounds.
In this regard, he differed significantly from other angels who had recently begun to suspect that the Chief of the Seraphim had fallen out of divine favor.
As long as the Chief of the Seraphim remained the Chief of the Seraphim, Metatron would continue to accord him the full respect and authority befitting that station.
Michael held a deep appreciation for this quality in him, though he couldn't quite fathom why Metatron felt the need to specifically mention this to *him*.
"Well, then—go ahead."
"And so... will you be staying here?"
"Of course not—" Michael paused mid-sentence. Catching the look in Metatron's eyes, he finally grasped the implication: "You don't want me to leave?"
Metatron nodded. Ever since Lucifer had departed for the Sphere of Mars, although God had designated both Michael and Metatron to oversee the governance of Heaven, the vast majority of administrative duties had, in practice, fallen upon Metatron's shoulders.
It was fortunate that he possessed such a mild temperament and boundless patience; yet, there were times—such as now—when even he found himself stretched too thin to manage everything alone. In such moments, he earnestly hoped that Michael would step up and fulfill his own share of their joint responsibilities.
"This post cannot be left vacant."
This approach differed from Lucifer's philosophy of governance. Metatron favored a prudent, grounded style; he wished for every sector to proceed in an orderly fashion, each moving at its own steady pace. Lucifer, conversely, was a master strategist—always adapting his methods to the specific circumstances at hand, adjusting policies with fluid flexibility. Metatron's meaning was clear: in his absence, the designated acting Archangel—the Seraphim Archangel—was required to hold the fort at the Archangel's palace.
Michael had little interest in administrative affairs; upon hearing that Metatron intended to make him fill in, he immediately felt a splitting headache coming on.
He had never been particularly fond of clerical work to begin with. Things hadn't been so bad when Lucifer held the position; the former Seraphim Archangel held himself to extremely high standards, yet was remarkably lenient with others. As long as a report was coherent and passable, that was enough; Lucifer valued concrete results far more than written formalities.
However, after Metatron took office, he complained that the existing documentation was too chaotic—making it difficult to search through or organize—and insisted on standardizing the format for every single type of official document.
Fortunately, due to the recent surge in workload and a shortage of assistants at every level, Metatron hadn't been able to unearth and re-organize the thousands of years' worth of accumulated archives. He could only mandate that all future reports submitted by the angels adhere to the new, strict requirements.
And even that was a total nightmare.
Michael inwardly grimaced. Official documents had become as dry and tedious as scripture. In the old days, whenever he got bored, he could doodle little sketches of "Mishi the Grass-Eater" in the margins; the Seraphim Archangel would even add witty comments to the returned documents—remarks such as "the eyes are distorted" or "the composition makes no sense."
Now, however, if he so much as accidentally drew a single blade of grass, Metatron would send the document back and then stand right behind him, watching him rewrite it.
Although Metatron generally possessed a good temperament, when he dug his heels in, he could be even more terrifying than a demon!
Even if he wasn't the one doing the writing this time around, Michael still didn't want to have to look at those documents for a single second longer than necessary!
"Where did Gabriel go?" Wearing a long face, he instinctively looked around for someone else to pawn the duty off on.
"Do you recall that Thrones Angel who defected? His Highness Gabriel has gone to apprehend him," Metatron stated coolly. "You needn't bother looking for alternatives. Had I been able to find a suitable candidate elsewhere, I certainly wouldn't have chosen *you*."
"The last time you were in charge, you botched the assignment of the angels guarding the Fourth Heaven. Consequently, the Powers Angels stationed in the Heaven of Mercury ended up completely gridlocked at the entrance to the Fourth Heaven—and Raphael's request to repair the damaged teleportation array still hasn't been processed."
Metatron's look of reproach was unmistakable; Michael gave a sheepish cough, feeling his cheeks flush ever so slightly. Still, one couldn't really blame him for mixing up the lower-tier Powers with the middle-tier Virtues—who could possibly keep track of so many angelic ranks?
"You may not think much of it, but rank is a matter of utmost importance to lower-tier angels. Your erroneous command nearly drove the Powers mad."
"They believed they had earned the right to ascend to the Fourth Heaven—little realizing that such an ascent would have cost them their very lives."
*Then why did you let me sit here all this time?* Michael felt a flush of shame and muttered a soft complaint under his breath.
"Alright, fine. I'll keep watch here for you."
"You are not keeping watch *for* me; this is, in fact, your own designated duty," Metatron emphasized.
"Yeah, yeah, I get it!" Michael waved his hand dismissively, looking utterly exasperated, and urged him to be on his way.
Sensing Michael's impatience, Metatron pursed his lips.
He never seemed to be very popular among his peers.
Then again, he had never felt the need for anyone's approval in the first place.
"Very well, I shall take my leave."
"Oh—come back soon." Michael watched as Metatron used a spell to gather the documents requiring official review from the desk, shrinking the stack down to the size of a small square. He placed the miniature bundle into a specialized archival box, which he then held—perfectly level and upright—in his hand as he bade Michael farewell.
It was at once practical and impeccably formal.
*That is so very 'Metatron.'*
With such a peculiar yet rigorous personality, one had to wonder what exactly God had been thinking when He created Metatron. But speaking of which... why did it feel lately as though Heaven was perpetually short-staffed?
Gazing out the window with his crimson eyes, Michael waved back at Metatron, who had turned to look at him, and then watched the somewhat bewildered Seraphim depart.
"It really is quiet here."
After a long moment, he slumped back into the chair where the Chief Seraphim usually sat to work, letting out a deep, drawn-out sigh—a sound tinged with both boredom and melancholy.
"When it comes right down to it... why do people insist on making things so hard for themselves?"
The Realm of the Void—the very edge of Heaven.
This was the most remote jurisdiction within Heaven's domain; situated precisely at the boundary between the celestial realm and the mortal world, a single step further down from here would land one directly in the realm of mortals.
It was here that the Throne Angel, Arioch, had gone into hiding. Ever since he heard that the Arch-Seraph had been confined in solitary punishment, he had known no peace; seizing the first opportunity that arose, he secretly slipped away from the Upper Heavens down to the lower realms.
"Heaven is no longer the Heaven of old. If even the Arch-Seraph can be punished by God, then what significance could an Ophanim like me possibly hold? I would be better off leaving early to live a life of unfettered freedom."
He felt that Heaven was no place to linger, yet when he truly found himself hovering at the very edge of the celestial realm, he could not help but pause and hesitate.
'But where am I to go?'
He was an angel who had voluntarily defected, yet his six wings remained as pristine and white as the day they were born—a fact that filled him with both pride and deep vexation.
'If I were truly a Fallen Angel, I could simply go and seek refuge with Lilith; but as it stands, I remain a pure, unblemished angel.
Heaven and Earth have been irreconcilable since time immemorial; I have slain countless demons of Hell—am I now to sully myself by mingling with them?'
Just as he stood frozen in indecision, struggling to determine his future path, a mass of pitch-black clouds suddenly drifted into view from the distance ahead.
Its appearance was not entirely sudden, yet due to its sheer velocity, it closed the gap and loomed right before him in the blink of an eye.
The cloud seethed with a dense, ominous aura; instinctively, Aryo tightened his grip on the weapon at his waist, watching with high alert as the black mass threatened to engulf not only him but the very ground beneath his feet.
"What is that thing?"
A strange, low hum emanated from within the cloud bank. Aryo drew his sword; as a powerful Ophanim, combat was his very instinct. A surge of potent angelic energy radiated from his blade, successfully halting the cloud's advance.
It appeared to harbor a fear of the power of light.
Aryo breathed a sigh of relief; just as he prepared to cleave the cloud in two with a swing of his sword, the mass above him suddenly parted of its own accord.
Amidst a flash of lightning and a rumble of thunder, a colossal serpent materialized directly before him.
'Aryo...'
The serpent reared its head high, hissing as it flicked its forked tongue. The angel thought he heard it whisper his name—and suddenly, the pieces clicked into place.
A giant serpent... capable of speech... and it knew his name.
He could not help but feel a surge of excitement. "Is that you?"
"Your Highness Samael?"
"It is I. I am Samael." The serpent nodded, its blood-red eyes unfathomably deep.
"It's truly you! I've finally found you!" The angel lowered the sword he held—an act of disrespect he now abandoned—and bowed low before the serpent.
"Why are you here? Your Highness, everyone has been waiting for your return!"
A sudden gust of wind swept forth the serpent's whispers; its colossal form transcended anything the angel had ever known, yet his blind adoration caused him to overlook its hideousness.
"Ever since we learned of your plight, Arios has felt nothing but indignation on your behalf!"
"Your loyalty moves me deeply. I have waited a long, long time within the Void Realm for you to finally arrive, Arios."
Arios bowed his head even lower, asking with a blend of humility and barely suppressed excitement:
"What is it you would have me do for you?"
He was willing to follow Samael, even though the latter was no longer the Archangel of the Thrones. For an angel, loyalty transcends all else; yet, such narrow-minded devotion blinded Arios, rendering him unable to perceive the cold ruthlessness and murderous intent lurking within the serpent's eyes.
The serpent was no longer the Archangel of the Thrones; Samael's fallen heart had long since been steeped in darkness. Neither innocence nor purity could sway a heart that had wallowed in the shadows for so long.
"Anything at all?" The serpent drew closer, its black scales glinting with a cold, razor-sharp sheen.
"Anything you require—whatever you command."
"There is a certain matter—one I find difficult to speak of—that requires immediate resolution. At this moment, you are the only one who can assist me." The serpent advanced upon him slowly, its long tail imperceptibly coiling around him until the angel had no hope of escape; then, it opened its massive jaws.
From within those foul-smelling depths, Arios heard the very last words he would ever hear in this world:
"Thank you, Arios."
The serpent swallowed the angel whole; its belly distended like a drum, it lay motionless amidst the clouds.
At first, signs of struggle could still be seen beneath its pale, whitish underbelly; but before long, those struggles—along with the swelling of its belly—subsided completely.
The serpent's massive form gradually began to shrink, until, in the very spot where it had lain, it transformed and reappeared bearing the exact likeness of the angel it had just devoured. "I'm sorry."
'Arael's' voice was hoarse and grating—a lingering aftereffect of having left his vocal cords unused for far too long. He gazed at his own flawless, slender limbs and the six wings—now faintly tinged with gray—sprouting from his back; within his conjured, light-brown eyes, a fleeting crimson glint flickered into existence, only to be swiftly suppressed once more.
He looked upward at the sky, where a faint, somber darkness seemed to emanate; the Lunar Heaven lay just beyond.
"I will remember you—forever."
He spoke the words aloud, then instantly transformed into a dim streak of light and soared toward the heavens above.
Within the boundless chaos that lay between the Realm of the Void and the Lunar Heaven, lurked a host of monsters—all coveting the divine radiance of Paradise.
Samael himself had once briefly numbered among them. Banished by God, stripped of his radiant form, and transformed into a hideous serpent with nowhere left to turn, he had been forced to skulk in secret within this desolate region, awaiting the opportune moment for his resurgence. Now that he had reclaimed his angelic powers, his impatience knew no bounds.
Even the eternal twilight of the Lunar Heaven appeared to him as a beacon of hope—a solitary ray of dawn.
After a long and arduous journey, familiar sights finally came into view. The tranquility of the Lunar Heaven—imbued with an ethereal, dreamlike beauty—seemed to welcome his arrival, just as it had in days gone by.
'I have returned!' Suppressing the surge of excitement within his heart, and fueled by the lingering fury of his divine banishment, he flew swiftly toward his destination.
Before long, a towering wall rose into view.
'So that is the wall built by humans.'
He gave no thought to this crude, humble barrier; indeed, as he gazed upon it, his eyes held a distinct glint of disdain.
His true objective lay beyond: the grand, sweeping staircase of the Lunar Heaven—that magnificent 'Celestial Gate' leading upward to the higher realms of Paradise.
That is, until he attempted to cross the wall.
The cloud-bricks suddenly flared to life, as if ignited by some unseen force; points of light connected to form lines, and lines expanded into planes, coalescing into a towering wall of light that stretched toward the heavens—a barrier denying entry to any creature not of Paradise.
Rebuffed by the backlash of the light-wall's power, Samael was flung backward, tumbling through the air like a plummeting crow before crashing onto the clouds below.
As he fell, he remained utterly stunned—unable even to react.
'Impossible!' '
He shook his dizzy head, staring in disbelief at the wall before him. He knew that Heaven would not suffer dark creatures to intrude, yet he had already devoured the angelic power of Arioch; why, then, had he still been exposed?
He rose slowly, then tentatively pressed his hand against the wall—a barrier he had foolishly underestimated—and distinctly felt its will of rejection.
Holy light seared his dark essence; Sammael soon caught the scent of burning flesh wafting from his own palm.
The commotion caused by the wall of light could not escape the notice of the patrol guards stationed in the First Heaven. Before long, an angel, spear in hand, approached to investigate.
"What is going on here?"
"Oh, my apologies," Sammael moaned, feigning a bout of dizziness. "I am Arioch, a Throne Angel. I have just returned from the mortal realm after completing a mission to exterminate demons. I was preparing to re-enter Heaven, but—for some reason—I've suddenly become terribly dizzy and disoriented."
"Ah, it is Lord Arioch, a Throne Angel."
The angel of the Lunar Heaven held his superiors in high esteem. He lowered his spear, bowed deeply, and stepped forward to steady the teetering 'Throne Angel,' speaking with genuine concern: "You must have been inadvertently infected during your struggle with the demons; that is why the wall of light mistook you for one of them."
Sammael's masterful acting quickly won the patrol angel's trust. Pointing toward the wall a short distance away, the angel said, "I'm afraid we'll have to temporarily shift those bricks aside. Please, come with me."
The angel guided him toward the guard post, then shouted loudly across the way:
"We have a Throne Angel here—Lord Arioch—who has been afflicted with the 'Grey Wing' corruption! He requires passage via the Celestial Stairway to reach the teleportation array!"
Swiftly, another angel emerged to assist. This one was more cautious; he verified the access credentials—confirming they were indeed reserved for Throne Angels—before finally lowering his guard and joining his comrade to help the weakened angel inside. "Why is it Graywing again? Didn't the commanders of the Seventh Day issue an order two months ago to temporarily suspend all operations against demons?"
"My apologies; I returned a bit late," Samael said. "I went down to the mortal realm three months ago. I slew well over a hundred demons—I was unaware of the order, and thus did not return in time."
"Wow! Over a hundred!" The angel let out a small gasp of astonishment.
"Truly worthy of being a Throne!"
They rarely had the opportunity to interact with high-ranking angels at such close quarters—let alone a valiant angel who had slain over a hundred demons. Yet, seeing him now in such a weakened state, he fit perfectly into the social dynamic of this group of rankless angels.