People say the war began in Heaven.
They're wrong.
Heaven doesn't start wars.
Heaven finishes them.
The first time I saw an angel, I was eight years old.
The sky had already been broken by then.
Not cracked like glass.
Opened.
Like something enormous had peeled the world apart just to look inside.
That was the year the mountains started moving.
That was the year the oceans stopped staying where they belonged.
That was the year people stopped praying for miracles and started praying to survive the night.
They called it salvation when Heaven descended.
They called it judgment when Hell answered.
No one asked what we called it.
We were just the ones standing in the middle when both sides arrived.
The elders used to say demons crawled out of the dark places beneath the earth.
They were wrong too.
Demons didn't crawl.
They walked.
Through cities.
Across rivers.
Over battlefields filled with people who thought swords and guns meant something anymore.
And the angels—
They didn't descend in light.
They descended in silence.
The kind of silence that makes the world hold its breath because something stronger than fear just entered it.
That silence still hasn't left us.
Even now.
Even after everything.
Even after that night.
The war never ended.
People just stopped pretending it would.
Some chose Heaven.
Some chose Hell.
Some tried to pretend neither existed.
Most of them died first.
The rest of us learned how to survive between them.
Or how to become something neither side wanted to claim.
Something like me.
The night my parents died, the sky was clear.
No storms.
No fire raining from the clouds.
No screaming armies marching across the horizon.
Just snow.
Falling slowly.
Quietly.
Peacefully.
Like the world was apologizing before it broke my life in half.
My father opened the door before they knocked.
He already knew they were there.
I think he always knew they would come eventually.
He didn't look surprised.
He didn't even look afraid.
He just looked tired.
My mother held my hand too tightly that night.
Not enough to hurt.
Just enough that I understood something was wrong.
Children always know.
Even when adults pretend they don't.
The men outside didn't introduce themselves.
They didn't explain why they came.
They didn't need to.
Everyone knew what it meant when hunters arrived after sunset.
My father stepped outside first.
He closed the door behind him.
Like he thought walls could protect us.
Like he thought he could handle them alone.
Like he thought being strong was enough.
It wasn't.
I heard the first scream before my mother could cover my ears.
It didn't sound human.
I didn't understand why at the time.
I understand now.
When she finally opened the door—
the snow had already turned red.
They called him a demon.
They called her a traitor.
They called me something worse.
Something they didn't bother saying out loud.
Because everyone already knew what I was supposed to become.
My mother didn't beg.
She didn't cry.
She didn't run.
She just stepped in front of me.
Like she thought she could stop Heaven and Hell at the same time.
Like she thought love was stronger than war.
It wasn't.
I don't remember who struck first.
I don't remember who gave the order.
I don't remember who held the blade.
I only remember the sound she made when she fell.
After that—
no one looked at me like I was a child anymore.
They left before sunrise.
They always do.
Hunters don't stay to watch what happens after.
The house burned slowly.
Like it didn't want to disappear either.
That was the night I learned something important.
Something no angel ever teaches.
Something no demon ever explains.
Something no human ever survives long enough to say out loud.
If Heaven and Hell are both willing to kill your family—
then neither of them deserves your loyalty.
So I chose something else.
I chose survival.
And one day—
I chose war back.
My name is Tetsuo.
And I will kill every last demon I find.
Even if I end up dying.