Luciferian Reckoning, Year 11429, August 12:
The Demon Realm launched its surprise invasion of Heaven under the command of Mammon as general and Sariel as deputy. In a single night, they breached the Gates of Heaven. Sancta Faylia dispatched Gabriel and Randekiel to intercept, but their power was no match for Mammon, the ruthless young upstart. The inferno of war spread across the lower territories of Heaven, burning vast tracts of land and buildings to ash.
Seizing the momentum, the Demon Realm sent reinforcements from the rear: Leviansen, Frossebina, Bruton, and Baberette led a force of half a million troops to support Mammon’s vanguard. Soldiers roared to the heavens, and iron cavalry howled in all directions.
Mammon rode a black dragon, clad in obsidian armor with platinum gauntlets flashing at the wrists and pauldrons gleaming like polished obsidian. As the dragon’s wings stirred the air, his knight’s cape unfurled behind him. Bone wings and black feathers jostled in chaotic layers, yet swept in terrifying unison. The bear-clad legions stretched for miles like an unending tide. The morale of the demon soldiers soared; the moment Mammon and Sariel raised their hands in tandem, they surged forward in unison, crashing into the Second Heaven like a tidal wave.
Beyond the Gates of Heaven, the boundless mists of the First Heaven had already become a battlefield. Magic burst above like fireworks, while below, blades clashed in blinding sparks. The entire front resembled a grand game of chess—hawks and wolves devouring their prey—black pieces swallowing white in a frenzy of calculated violence. The battlefield rang with war cries; soldiers plummeted from the sky or collapsed where they stood, their bones swallowed by the white fog.
At the rear, golden six-winged angels launched spell after spell into the front lines, their magic weaving wind and water into crashing waves that swept away scores of demon soldiers. But Heaven was clearly on the losing side. Though Gabriel and Randekiel maintained calm expressions, unease had begun to seep in. One by one, the angels were falling, yet no reinforcements arrived from above.
Sariel, likewise stationed in the rear, commanded his forces while simultaneously drawing his magical bow. One pull loosed twelve arrows—each shot struck true, each hit a vital point. Leviansen and the others dominated in close combat, riding black-winged steeds through the skies, their very hooves capable of trampling foes to death.
These generals at least knew restraint.
But when Mammon entered the battlefield, it was impossible not to see him. He had long delegated command to Sariel and now charged into the fray himself. From the back of his dragon, his scythe sliced down like lightning. In an instant, blood bloomed across the sky. Skulls spun like popcorn through the air. With a twist of Anra’s tail, lightning struck again. Before the last blood spray had peaked, a fresh volley of heads followed. If attacked by magic, the dragon would shoot skyward like a missile, loop in the clouds, and crash back down like thunder.
Mammon’s eyes burned their brightest red on the battlefield. Though Mammon was known for his temper, even Lucifer had never seen his son’s demonic form sustained this long. The deeper the transformation, the brighter the glow. At this moment, Mammon’s eyes were nothing but two blazing pools of crimson, a cruel smile playing on his lips. Angels feared demonization above all, but Mammon most of all. Wherever he drew near, the divine race instinctively retreated dozens of meters.
Even demon soldiers whispered among themselves:
“Why is Lord Mammon so worked up? It’s not his first war.”
“You didn’t know, didya? He hates the divine race. Before the attack, I heard him bet Lord Sariel he’d sever 50,000 angel wings today. Lord Sariel tried to convince him to focus on siege strategy, and he said, ‘That hypocritical, treacherous species deserves to be wiped out.’…”
The battle dragged on for days.
The demons, brimming with stamina, never seemed to tire. The angels, by contrast, began to falter. If demons got close, angels were often struck down before they could cast a single spell. The disparity in numbers weighed heavily on divine morale, and resistance weakened.
Gabriel and Randekiel hovered slowly on their gryphons, casting high-level magic with unnerving composure, slaughtering enemies by the dozens.
It was an eyesore.
Mammon frowned and casually flew his dragon toward Sariel as if strolling through his own estate. “Didn’t I tell you to capture Gabriel? Got cold feet?”
Sariel shook his head.
“Go negotiate. Demand steep terms. I hate that angel stench.” He glanced and pinched his nose in disdain.
Gabriel witnessed the gesture and shot Mammon a venomous glare. Sariel put away his bow and flew to her. His black wings moved with caution, almost stealth, as if afraid of being noticed. His pale golden eyes curved as he smiled gently.
“Lady Gabriel. You’ve lost.”
“They say you got uglier after your Fall.”
Sariel remained unfazed, still smiling. “I don’t quite follow, Your Grace. You’ve lost.”
“I don’t think you’ve changed though,” Gabriel murmured, then quickly added, “Fine. We’ve lost. And?”
“From First to Third Heaven, all territories must be garrisoned by demon troops.”
“First and Second Heavens only.”
“Should we kill Randekiel, too?” Sariel still smiled.
Gabriel drew a deep breath and bit her lip. Beneath their feet stretched a field of corpses. Behind him, a victorious army; behind her, shattered remnants. Sariel grinned again, boyishly.
“The three Heavens. Including Parnor.”
Gabriel clenched her teeth and forced out the words, “From this moment on, you are forbidden from harming any more of the divine race.”
Sariel drew out the prewritten contract and pen and handed them to her.
She lowered her head and signed. Perhaps due to age, most golden-haired angels had strands of silver. But hers remained a vibrant, radiant, and beautiful, like a woman of ancient Rome or Andalusia. It gave her the look of a living porcelain doll. As she signed, her sky-blue eyes flickered uncertainly. He stood inches away, watching the eyes he once longed for day and night.
He tucked away the contract and teased, “My Lady Gabriel, your handwriting is still so pretty. You remind me of when I was just a boy…”
“Sorry. I have no interest in remembering,” she interrupted, and left.
In that instant, the demons had won.
But no one could have guessed the next moment’s victor would be the divine.
A white-robed mage appeared, silver hair glowing like starlight, green eyes dimmer than before. Raphael gazed at the demon army of a million with chilling calm. The Gates of Heaven stood not far behind him, aged by centuries, yet unyielding. Not only the demons, but even Gabriel and Randekiel involuntarily froze at the sight of him.
Frossebina and Bruton exchanged glances. Mammon patted Anra’s back, ready for the next clash.
Yet Raphael’s face looked numb, as though the nerves had long since died. Even his smile—barely a curl at the corner of his mouth—seemed like an action entire separate from the rest of his face, detached and out of place.
Then he lifted his hand. Just that single motion, and the world was overturned.
All that remained was silver light.
Nine hours later, Lucifer received the news of the Demon Realm’s defeat. He demanded to know why the report had arrived so late. The messenger replied that nearly everyone was either dead, maimed, or unconscious from serious injuries. No one was in a state to deliver the message.
“How could this happen?” Lucifer took a sip of coffee and rubbed his temples. “And what about the other side?”
“At first, the two archangels were essentially hostages. But after Raphael appeared, they didn’t lose a single soldier. Lord Mammon was also gravely injured…”
“Raphael couldn’t possibly be that powerful.”
“But the one who appeared was undeniably him.”
“What were his distinguishing features?”
“They say… his hair had turned silver.”
Lucifer tightened his grip on the coffee cup. “So that’s it. I understand now.” He paused, then asked, “How many survived?”
“Twenty… nine.”
“As expected.” Lucifer pressed his hand to his forehead, silently calculating the number of troops lost. “It’s fine. If even He couldn’t hold back, then this doesn’t count as our loss. Take good care of both the commander and deputy commanders. I’ll issue the rest of the orders tomorrow.”
News of the divine victory spread across Heaven like wildfire. With God’s aid, Raphael had single-handedly quelled an army of hundreds of thousands, and now stood as Heaven’s most revered warrior. Yet amid the cheers, flowers, and applause flooding Square of Sacred Life in Sancta Faylia, the great archangel’s humble smile never appeared.
Raphael had vanished.
Word of his marriage had long circulated among the upper ranks of angels, so many suggested heading to Abello to bring back him and his wife.
Since Raphael had accepted the divine command, Metatron had been deeply uneasy. He knew Raphael wasn’t one to boast or flaunt his accomplishments, nor would he ever skip the victory celebration without a word. He volunteered to retrieve Raphael himself and brought a few attendants to Abello.
Sure enough, Raphael wasn’t home.
Metatron began asking around, but unlike the battle-hardened soldiers of Sancta Faylia, the residents of Abello were ordinary angels who found war and death terrifying. In the aftermath of the storm of war, they seemed like broken bricks shaken loose from the rooftops, startled even by a single new face. On the street, a deaf old man read the newspaper, his aging dog sprawled lifelessly at his feet. Nearby, a woman smoked a cigarette at a wooden table in an outdoor café. When she saw Metatron approaching, she stubbed her cigarette, down to the last fifth, into a buttered bread roll and gave him a somber smile.
“Looking for Raphael?”
Hearing her say that name directly, Metatron felt a flicker of irritation. He couldn’t pinpoint the source of his displeasure. After a moment’s pause, he simply raised his chin and adopted a courteous, aloof, yet charming demeanor. “I am indeed looking for Lord Raphael.”
“No need to look. He left with my sister. Of course, he left a message for you—ah, I suppose you’re curious who my sister is. She’s his wife.”
“Please, madam, go ahead.” Metatron raised an eyebrow with composure, though his mind was completely blank.
“My poor sister has always been in weak health. Honestly, she doesn’t have long to live. She knew he didn’t truly love her, so she planned to find a quiet place to wait for the end. But just a few days before the war broke out, we discovered she was pregnant.” As she said this, she studied Metatron’s expression and saw that he still wore a calm smile.
“Since the Golden Age, our little town has only ever produced four six-winged angels. One of them is my sister. But even among them, the highest rank reached is Throne. When she learned she was pregnant, do you know how happy she was? Do you know what that means? Her child might very well be the first Seraph born in Abello in thousands of generations.”
Metatron’s smile didn’t change. “So your town believes that one day, Abello will rise like a chessboard piece, your sister moving it to right beside Sancta Faylia.”
Metatron’s classism was as deep as rumored.
The woman sneered, lighting another cigarette with complete indifference. “Men like you are utterly devoid of charm. No wonder someone like my sister, a mere Throne, was able to steal the one you love.”
“I don’t understand what you’re implying.”
“Raphael told me to pass along a message: his wife’s wish is now his own. The reason he still carried out God’s final command was to resolve the remaining matters of the Sanctum, so he could be responsible to her and their child. He said he no longer cares for the Sanctum, the six-wings, or the title of archangel. And because he didn’t want you to hate him, he decided the best thing was to never appear before you again…”
Metatron cut her off: “Where did he go?”
“You think he’d tell me?”
“He’s still in Heaven, isn’t he?”
“I really don’t know.”
What a joke. Heaven may have vast territory, but it’s impossible for anyone to completely disappear. When Metatron himself hid away in grief after Evangeline’s death, Raphael still found him in the end. Where could that foolish man possibly hide now?
What Metatron hadn’t realized was that back then, he had never truly erased his traces. He still hired servants, interacted with people, registered his residence, all without concealing his identity. He had been so vulnerable then. Deep down, he had hoped someone would come find him. He hadn’t imagined exactly who that someone might be or what they looked like, but when he saw Raphael’s swaying face through a haze of drunkenness, he’d known the answer with perfect clarity. And he hadn’t been disappointed.
Yet he never truly believed he had loved Raphael. He had always known: the one he loved was Michael. Michael stood out so much, so vibrant in color. Whether he was lifting the Holy Sword before legions to stir their hearts, reciting sacred hymns before the Throne, blurting out idiotic comments with a face too beautiful to scold—“Let the Vice Regent stick to war, not thinking”—or drunk with longing for Lucifer, collapsed in the rain upon the steps of the Ruthfel Cathedral…
That vivid soul who laughed and wept and roared, though long gone, had left a mark in his heart far deeper than anyone else.
Raphael, for all his beauty not subpar to Michael’s, paled in comparison to that fire. Compared to Michael’s blaze, Raphael was ever docile, devoid of will, pale and weak, always lingering behind like a servant. He was willing to be a follower, an accessory. Even when angry, a few sweet words would calm him. Even married, he endured violation in silence. He had always been like air: dry, dull, and easy to forget.
Metatron had never imagined a day would come when he would lose that man. And now, it truly felt like losing air itself.
He couldn’t breathe. The suffocation only worsened.
And he could never have foreseen that while he would one day see Michael return, he would never see Raphael again.
If Heaven’s natural defense against foreign invasion was its altitude, then the Demon Realm’s was its climate. Aside from the lava-filled Fifth Hell, the rest of the realm was unbearably cold. Often, even before winter set in, dipping a quill in ink would cause the ink to freeze into dark blue crystals. So while Heaven used divine-powered pens and the human world used ink cartridges, the pens in the Demon Realm all had small magic spheres at the nib to keep warm.
At that moment, Belial had just crushed several of those enchanted spheres in frustration, glaring at a group of handsome young men. They were classmates from the Imperial Academy. Openly flamboyant since childhood and fond of gossip, they’d quickly sniffed out that Belial was one of them. After a bit of teasing, they declared that Belial must have something going on with Mammon.
And so this scene unfolded: they were forcing him to write a love letter to confess his feelings, then launch a full pursuit.
“Don’t you see how perfect Lord Mammon is? The strongest in the Demon Realm, peerless among archdevils, and with the most irresistible face. Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about him?”
“Just looking at his arms sends me spiraling. Belial, if he treated me half as well as he treats you, I’d throw myself on his bed!”
“Lord Mammon is a total sex icon.”
“Wait, wait—what does this have to do with me?” Belial shook his feathered pen, splattering ink on a nearby classmate, who let out a shriek.
“He really treats you differently. We all think he likes you.”
“You’re adorable too! You’d be the dream couple of our whole circle!”
“Be bold! Let him know how you feel!”
“If you don’t confess soon, he might be snatched up by some woman. Think about Jenny—she’s clung to him nonstop, and they’ve known each other for ages. Aren’t you even a little worried?”
“But I…” Belial finally let his feelings slip, hesitating as he looked at the blank page.
“Don’t overthink it! Man up.” The classmate snapped his fingers with theatrical flair, signaling the others to grab Belial and shove him out the door.
Surrounded by peer pressure, Belial clutched his skull ring and summoned Mammon: “Brother, where are you?”
“I’m in Professor Chilo’s studio.”
Just as Mammon replied, the setting sun cast a sharp ray into the room. Outside, a tour carriage filled with first-year students clattered down the cobblestone road, its wooden wheels jostling with a nostalgic rhythm of those bygone Ages. Demon students sat under the canopy at the back, cradling a stringed instrument called an ilabella, singing old ballads like young pirates about to set sail. They whistled into the chill wind of the Seventh Hell as if savoring the sea breeze of first-time freedom.
The vitality of the scene vanished as quickly as it came, like youth itself.
Inside the studio, stillness returned. Oil paintings had yet to dry; some sketches bore smeared fingerprints from mischievous students. From the moment Mammon saw the row of plaster busts arranged in the corner, he couldn’t look away. Neatly lined on a white cloth, beside sculpting knives and pencils, the busts—mostly unfinished—already bore recognizable visages.
The set was called The Seven Angels: portraits of the most powerful enemies of the Demon Realm during the Silver Age. From left to right stood Gabriel, Raphael, Raguel, Metatron, and others. At the far end sat a life-sized statue of a Seraphim. Because of anatomical differences between the divine and the demonic, these busts made ideal references. Student sketches covered the surrounding walls, most of them of Michael.
The plaster in the golden light was lifeless, yet the contours stirred memories he couldn’t suppress.
Mammon gently traced the lines of the sculpture, following its rigid curves as if outlining a memory, and at last, bowed his head and pressed a kiss to its cold, unmoving lips.
And all of it—the truth—unfolded before Belial’s eyes like a prewritten script.
Mammon heard a sound at the door and turned. The boys who had shoved Belial out saw the awkward scene and quickly slipped away. Belial stood silently in the doorway.
Mammon showed no sign of alarm. He simply beckoned with a smile, “Belial, come. Look at this.”
Belial didn’t move.
Mammon smiled again. “Don’t you think you look a lot like him? You probably learned in class already. This is Michael.”
Belial still didn’t move.
The world seemed to stretch into an endless corridor. Everything was hollow. It was as if Mammon no longer stood there, only Belial’s quiet sobs echoed.
Belial’s story felt all too familiar.
Mocked since childhood. Insecure, yet always pretending to be fearless. Deep down you knew how small you were, but kept lying to yourself that you were invincible. You hated yourself for it. Hated loving without being loved in return. Again and again, you’d swallowed your pride, begged, but what you received wasn’t love. The person of your affection could be gentle to ten thousand others, but would never offer you their heart.
You faked happiness just to keep the guilt away from them; you didn’t want to be a burden. You acted out only to get attention, and only made yourself more disliked. Immature. Selfish.
And you couldn’t even say it aloud.
You would feel utterly alone. A loneliness that seemed like it would last forever.
You had always walked alone—until you finally found a glimmer of light in that dark cave. But that light… never belonged to you.
What a pity.
Now that I’ve regained my complete memory, I realize my life was never whole to begin with.
Lucifer had fallen asleep beside the war map, propped against his hand. He had gone more than forty hours without rest, and half an hour ago, exhaustion finally overtook him. Strands of his long hair spilled to the floor, and the shifting interplay of light and shadow carved deep hollows across his face.
To countless others, he was the dignified Sovereign of Demons, the traitor of the divine race—a man who, whether in light or in darkness, would always stand at the pinnacle. Even in sleep, his presence remained noble and untouchable.
And yet, as I slowly awakened to my own consciousness, as all the most beautiful and most painful memories dragged me out of the ether, his sleeping face became something achingly familiar, suffused with emotion.
That emotion came from me. Because every time I survived another night of nightmares, it was this profile I longed to see when I opened my eyes.
Lucifer—that name, layered in meaning and heavy with history—had ever only one definition in the dictionary of my heart: Lover.
And now, I called upon the power that could reshape the world to move the blankets in his room, and gently drape them over him.
Lucifer, I am looking at you now.
Even now, I still believe you love me.
We both know the truth: that I have been playing a ridiculous and devoted one-man show inside my own story.
But still, in my self-deceiving arrogance, I tell myself that you have always loved me.
Someone entered the Sanctum.
When I saw the figure of my son—now taller, more mature—I found myself momentarily unaccustomed to the sight.
For these past four thousand years, I had been observing the world in omnipresence. So this is what it feels like to be God, not boundless power, but the total absence of self.
“You summoned me, Father God?” he asked, bowing with humble grace.
“Hanniah…!” I stared at him in astonishment.
“Huh? Someone else is speaking… Who is that calling me?” Hanniah’s eyes widened. “That voice…”
In an instant, the self that had once fused entirely with the world was gone.
It was as if I had fallen out from some infinite vastness, now drifting before Hanniah, suddenly a person, suddenly myself again.
“No… no, this can’t be,” Hanniah shook his head slowly, pressing his hands to his face. “Fa… Father…”
I moved my limbs, my wings, but nothing felt quite real. It was similar to the feeling of a Seraph dissolving into nothingness, accompanying others as spirit, yet without the overwhelming power I once held. My whole being felt like air, something without presence. Hanniah rubbed his eyes hard until they reddened, still refusing to believe what he saw. “It’s impossible… You’re alive again… I—I…”
“It’s not resurrection. I don’t think I ever died,” I tried to explain, though even I wasn’t sure where to begin.
But he threw himself into my arms and broke into sobs. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… Father, I’m sorry!”
At first, I had still been angry with this unfilial child. But over these four millennia, he had suffered more than enough. Though still a youth, he looked far older than his years, stripped of the tender glow he once had. I sighed and patted his back. “You were deceived. It’s alright. I don’t hold it against you.”
He clung to me, weeping in my arms. And then I realized something. I turned to look at the Throne.
Mist swirled across it. God’s long hair cascaded from the seat like a field of frost. And then, His voice echoed through the hall, gentle and benevolent:
“Are you looking for Me, child?”
“Ah, yes.”
“I have already returned the first crystal to you. Do you need further explanation?”
The memory of being Lucifer’s Favored Angel suddenly struck me, flooding me with pain.
I lowered my voice. “Have I been on the Throne all this time? Existing… in Your form?”
“Yes. What I speak now can only be heard by you and Me. Myself, you, and my Son, any of us can observe every corner of the world as incorporeal presence, controlling all of Heaven, and parts of the mortal and demonic realms.”
“Then now… am I to return to my own body?”
“No. Your physical form was sealed by Lucifer deep within the Demon Realm. If I forcefully retrieve it, Heaven will be disrupted. This task must fall to you.”
Hanniah had been staring at us in stunned silence, but suddenly interrupted, “Father God, no! Father’s body is already damaged—he’s completely defenseless. If You send him to the Demon Realm like this, the skeletal warriors and wicked mages there will devour a divine soul!”
“Of course I won’t send him unprotected. Michael, I will grant you a new body—one of the Demon race. With it, you can infiltrate the Demon Realm and try to recover your divine form.”
“Father God!” Hanniah, uncharacteristically bold, interrupted again. “You… You know full well about Father and Lucifer… If he goes…he might never come back…”
He stopped mid-sentence, looking at me with visible discomfort.
Then God’s voice echoed once more. “It’s alright. Think of it as giving him a choice. Michael, the memories from all three crystal spheres have now returned to you. You are fully awakened. I will give you sixty days to decide. After sixty days, you may either choose to remain as a demon forever, or retrieve your divine body and return to Heaven.”
I thought for a moment and asked, “What if I fail to retrieve my original body in sixty days… but I also don’t want to become a demon?”
“You’ll find a way. You’re a clever child.”
“…I understand.”
“Come.”
God beckoned me with a wave.
I drifted up the steps and knelt beneath the Throne. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw His hand descend upon my head. Then a brilliant light surged outward from within me. My body felt like a ship burdened with heavy stones, sinking down against the steps. Yet at the same time, an overwhelming torrent of physical power erupted through me, one I had never experienced before. Though I had once been among the strongest in Heaven, I had always been able to restrain my strength. But this power—sinister, aggressive, teeming with destruction—was completely foreign. Even the divine radiance of Heaven, which I had always cherished, now made my whole body recoil. I squinted, chest heaving, breath ragged.
“Steady yourself,” God said calmly, as if He had foreseen my reaction. “A demon’s body is extremely difficult to control. You’ll need time to adjust.”
“…Alright…” I hugged my arms around myself, still kneeling. The suffocating sensation made it hard to speak. Hanniah stood stunned beside me.
“I will send you to the Demon Realm now. Are you ready?”
Before answering, I finally summoned the courage to lift my head and carefully look at our Father God. He had translucent, silver eyes, and hair as silver white as the first snowfall.
And so, I felt as if I were staring into a mirror dusted with frost, catching a glimpse of my own expressionless face.
His image faded slowly as I was swept into the teleportation array leading to the Demon Realm.
And in that instant, I remembered everything—those thousands of Berduth past. I remembered the gaze of that person, how each time it landed on me with burning intensity; I remembered those eyes, eyes always filled with blame and hatred toward God.
At last, everything came back to me.
How I had once knelt like a fool, begging for his love, only to be kicked aside without mercy. How I left, heartbroken, and tried to start a new life. Then, just as I had given up, he named me his Favored Angel. In such a fleeting span of time, he gave me hope, and despair; elation, and disillusionment; joy, and grief… Whether it was his cold stare or his emotionless smile, they would always ignite a storm within me.
I had been gambling with myself, betting that I would, one day, find happiness.
But I lost. In the end, all he gave me was despair.
And yet, Lucifer, how can you blame God? All that went wrong began because of me.
I am not the Creator God. I don’t even have a complete soul capable of starting anew. I can only watch as my one and only life is consumed by an unrequited love with no conclusion.
I am not God. I do not possess a complete soul.
I, am merely God’s Original Sin.
In the eternal coexistence between God and the universe,
I am His one small, inconsequential
mistake.
Translator’s note:
The full reason behind Michael’s reactions will be revealed.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
