The memory fragments ended. The Lord released the seven-petaled snowflake from His palm. It danced upward against the wind like a butterfly, soaring into the air.
Snowmoon Forest was the cradle of moonlight, as if a dreaming spirit had carelessly spilled his armful of brilliance across its silken canopy. The snowflakes tangled with the cold air—at times intimate, at times resisting—before falling, one by one, upon the Lord’s ice-like skin.
To the current world, all these were already a thing of the distant past. If one calculated carefully, Michael had already passed through the Gate of Time and Space into infinite reincarnation ninety-nine times. And those fragments just now were but a small part of the Demon Sovereign Lucifer’s memories.
Lucifer had shattered his complete memories and shaped them into the form of seven-petaled snowflakes, hiding them within the time-space tunnel in the Snowmoon Forest, mingling them with ten-thousand years of frost and snow. It was all done with such secrecy that hardly anyone would discover the truth.
But by chance, the Lord’s divine power was disturbed above the forest. Detecting such an intense energy source from a mere snowflake puzzled Him, so He descended in person—and uncovered the secret.
That snowflake had accidentally fallen from the time-space tunnel. The others still lay undisturbed in the twisted folds of space. He retrieved them all, recovering countless moments from the Demon Sovereign’s past.
Memory is dead. It has no will, no future. Even the strongest energy cannot resurrect a whole Lucifer.
Even if one were to fashion a similar body and implant the memories, it would only be a vessel, nothing more.
Even if that body had thought, it could never be the same person. Life cannot be copied. Like the leaf on a tree, nowhere in the universe would you find an exact duplicate, even at 99.9% similarity.
Lucifer, what were you thinking?
Did you preserve these memories hoping that Michael, like you, would find a vessel, and fall in love with a shell for another thousand years?
Still as arrogant as ever.
Do you think everyone is as obsessed as you?
Besides, Michael has already entered infinite reincarnation.
Inside that dead loop, he will never again have the chance to discover your memories.
The Lord sighed helplessly. He had planned to turn and leave.
But as He turned, a thought struck Him—so unexpected, it even startled Himself.
He turned back toward the time-space tunnel…
No, life cannot be copied.
Memory cannot resurrect the dead.
But these memories, all of them, are of Michael.
And with every cycle of reincarnation, Michael misses Lucifer more and more…
…intensifying the power of the memory fragments.
And when the strength of the fragments accumulates and merges—enough to distort space and time—
Then even a loop that should never be changed… might begin to bend.
As He reached that realization, the Lord suddenly noticed something strange.
His memory of sending Michael into the cycle had begun to blur.
Sometimes, it seemed Michael had entered the gate.
Sometimes, it seemed He had watched him disappear in tears.
Sometimes, it felt like Michael had hesitated two days before going in.
And sometimes, it was as though the whole thing had never happened.
How could that be?
Had history been altered?
He thought harder. Had the events in Fragment Five truly happened?
Michael challenging Lucifer, that was monumental. How could He forget such a thing if it had happened?
And Fragment Six—He clearly remembered that had been only a dream Michael once had.
When had it become real?
It was unbelievable.
Even history within a closed time loop had changed.
The Lord stood still for a long time, then suddenly laughed.
Lucifer, you are truly bold. No longer the impulsive youth once called Ruthfel.
Time and hardship had shaped you into someone who knows how to wait and made you far more terrifying.
Will the outcome grow worse? May God be with you both.
So thinking, the Lord cast one last glance at the memory clusters, snowflake-shaped and glowing like constellations within the time-space tunnel, and turned to leave the Demon Realm.
—
Berduth 8731 .
Two years after the end of the Holy War.
A new year was about to arrive.
I was attending a gathering at Metatron’s estate with many seraphim.
A cool wind swept across Jerusalem, quietly swallowing the laughter echoing from the castle.
Outside the garden, two rivers, Gihon and Pishon, crisscrossed through the woods. Their shimmering surfaces caught the light like stardust falling into ripples, sketching a nocturnal painting over the waterside grasses.
Lean forward a little, look slightly to the right, and you could see Jerusalem. Spired castles clustered around the statue of Hanniah, as stars would encircle the moon.
Hanniah cradled the Holy Scripture with closed eyes.
The youthful face now bore the desolation and solitude left behind by the great war.
A crescent moon hung over his head.
Now, he sat on place in Heaven, close to God.
All around, the silence remained. As though the world itself had paused. The stars above shimmered faintly, like countless eyes fluttering open and shut.
Suddenly, someone patted my shoulder. Startled, I turned around.
The man behind me wiped his neck and grinned:
“Archangel, if you keep letting your guard down like that, I might stab you one day.”
“I just felt like being quiet today,” I smiled.
After chatting with him for a while, I returned indoors and received two books from Sandalphon:
One titled Sacred Traces, and the other, Eternity.
The first page of both read the same thing.
Later, I stood on the balcony, wind brushing past me as I gazed at the sparkling sky.
From the corner of my eye, I caught a figure.
Looking down, I saw a white-haired man standing among the trees. Branches and shadows concealed most of him, making it difficult to see his face. I grew wary. My hand moved toward my sword, ready to confront him. But looking closer, I saw no killing intent.
He was simply leaning against the tree, cautiously peering at the group of archangels on the adjacent balcony.
A moment later, he dared to step into the moonlight.
And I finally saw him clearly. It was Raphael.
I rubbed my eyes, but there was no mistake.
His hair was no longer dawn-gold, it had truly turned snow white. And even his eyes… were becoming translucent.
At this very moment, those sorrowful eyes looked up toward, at the balcony across from here, where Metatron had just stepped out and waved at me.
“Hey, little Michael! What are you daydreaming about?”
At the sound of his voice, Raphael panicked. He glanced at me, saw that I had noticed him, and made a “shh” gesture.
Then he folded his wings and ducked back into the forest.
I hurriedly greeted Metatron, intending to cover for Raphael.
But for all his years, Metatron’s ears were still sharp as ever. He turned sharply toward the woods, spread his wings, and swooped off the balcony—
pulling Raphael out from within.
Raphael struggled, then shrank beneath Metatron’s astonished gaze, as if wishing to hide inside his own collar.
“What happened to you?” Metatron gripped his shoulders tightly. His voice was harsh. “Is… is your lifespan ending?”
“Don’t ask. I shouldn’t have come.” Raphael, for once, pushed back.
“You came just to see me one last time before you die, right? Truly noble of you, Lord Raphael. Still playing the kind and merciful role when you’re really selfish and cold.”
Metatron smiled broadly, but the smile was frightening.
“Let me go. I’m leaving,” Raphael said, yanking at his arm.
Metatron held tighter, dragging him forcefully closer.
“What kind of joke is that? I’m never letting you go again.”
“Metatron, you…” Raphael’s face was deathly pale. “Don’t you think this is bad enough already? How much longer are you going to keep tormenting me?”
“I’m taking you back to the Sanctum tomorrow and ask Father God to reinstate you. And then, your real suffering begins.”
“No! I’d rather die!”
The two struggled, tension high, neither willing to yield.
Suddenly, Metatron shouted, “Raphael, do you still love me?”
“…What?”
“No, that’s not what I meant to ask. What I meant to say is—”
At this, Metatron suddenly dropped to his knees.
Raphael covered his mouth, stunned as if struck unconscious. He couldn’t form a single word.
Metatron took off his glasses and lowered his head. “I’m sorry. I never knew how to treat someone who truly cared about me. From the beginning, I didn’t even understand what I felt. Being with someone like me—someone like this—must be so painful. But…”
Before he could finish, Raphael knelt before him and gently pressed a hand over his lips.
“It’s okay if you don’t love me,” Raphael whispered. “Just… please don’t hurt me anymore. Let me stay by your side in peace.”
His smile, as always, was gentle as snow.
And beneath the moonlight, his silver-white hair shimmered, just as beautiful as frost.
Metatron looked up, and like a child learning to speak, he shook his head with utmost seriousness.
“No. I do love you.”
Raphael’s hand froze. His expression didn’t change, but the smiling face was slowly rendered in tears.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
