After Reynor and Alice’s wedding, Ruthfel and I didn’t touched again, but the stiffness that once haunted our relationship had softened.
When he wasn’t busy, he would often come to the Sanctum to find me. He no longer made capricious confessions or unreasonable demands, but instead shared with me the things he had recently discovered: a small town in the southwest corner of the Third Heaven that brewed a rich, full-bodied black rye whiskey, which paired exquisitely with the region’s fresh meats and vegetables; an aging painter living on the eastern bank of the Tigris River who could capture otherworldly beauty beyond the imagination of most angels; iridescent insect found only in the molten rock beneath the volcanoes of the Demon Realm, creatures that immolate themselves in eruptions like moths to flame.
He tried every way imaginable to persuade me to join him on these excursions. At first, I demurred with all manner of excuses, saying that I had the Eye of the Divine, that there was nothing in the world I could not see. But he argued that no matter how sharp the Eye, unless I experienced these myself, I could never truly understand how wondrous they were.
Ruthfel’s restless pursuit of freedom made him quite an atypical archangel. And his gift of speech, so vivid, so evocative, could paint whole worlds from words alone. After agreeing to meet him at a designated place once, I soon found myself unable to resist his persuasion again.
It was also during these journeys that I came to love the feeling of becoming an angel. Yet red-haired Seraphs were nearly unheard of, and I dared not take to the sky carelessly for fear of drawing too much attention.
One time, we met by the river outside Shima, and he mentioned that the place we were heading to would only reveal its beauty if approached by air, soaring over the forest canopy. I refused without even thinking.
“Here, wear this,” he said, draping his golden cloak over my shoulders and pulling the hood up. “No one will recognize you. Walking with me, they’ll assume you’re Azazel or Sariel.”
“Then I’ll just change to blond.”
“Blond is dull—half the Seraphim have golden hair. And red is the color you naturally chose when you shifted forms. I like you best that way.”
“My natural color is silver.”
“That’s your divine hair as the Creator. But the world of your emotions is red. That’s your true color.” Ruthfel smiled gently, like an older brother indulging a younger sibling. “I know that, in truth, my Isar is a passionate soul.”
“Say one more thing out of line and I’ll go back right now.”
“Don’t be so prickly,” he said, his arm wrapping loosely around my waist in a calming gesture. “Don’t frown. You’re not God right now so your scowl doesn’t scare me.”
Even as the Creator, you never feared me, not even when you were a little ball of fluff—so I muttered inwardly. But outwardly, I simply adjusted the hood in silence. “Let’s go.”
And the moment I spread my wings, something surged through me. Wild, exultant.
With one stroke, I launched into the air.
The feeling was nothing like teleportation. I could see the river and treetops falling away, see myself rising closer and closer to the sky, see the vast layout of Shima unfolding beneath me like a living scroll, ancient history inked in buildings of shimmering silver and crowned with brilliant light.
It was a joy and anticipation I had never known, not as the Creator, not as God.
It was my first time truly becoming an angel, my first time sensing the weight and power of wings, my first time soaring through open skies on the strength of my own body.
Ruthfel followed. His long hair streamed like golden silk in the wind, his Seraphic Wings of Light radiant, even his smile was clearer than usual. “I was going to say I’m the expert when it comes to flying, and you’d have to rely on me. But it looks like you’ve outmaneuvered me again.”
For once, I allowed myself a hint of pride. “Do you even know who I am?”
“So full of yourself,” he teased, challenging me with a look before beating his wings harder to overtake me. “Then show me what the great Creator can really do.”
This man was becoming more and more shameless.
I narrowed my eyes and flew toward him. But the hood slipped off my head, tugged loose by the wind. The hair I had so carefully tucked away now unfurled like it had grown wings of its own, dancing wildly in the air.
Ruthfel turned and saw me—then froze. I felt a wave of panic rise and instinctively reached to pull the hood back up. But he flew to me and caught my hand. I reached with the other—he held that one too.
“No one flies this high,” he said. “Let’s go even higher, then we won’t be seen for sure.”
I looked at him without answering. Still holding both my hands, he guided me upward. And he hadn’t been boasting—he truly flew with more stability, more speed, and greater force than I could. To be pulled through the sky by him like this gave me the illusion of being towed by a vast power, restrained and yet protected all at once.
Perhaps that was why I resisted getting close to him.
The more I came to understand him, the more I felt threatened. I didn’t know if this instinct was born from the growth of his power… or my growing dependence on him.
But I quickly tossed those thoughts behind.
As the wind rushed past and tossed my red hair into the sky, I felt, for the first time, a desire to fly higher, to see farther. Not from a divine vantage, peering down with the eyes of God, but as a being full of life, trying to feel this world, to belong to it.
The world beneath us grew smaller. We soared through banks of white cloud. The forests surrounding Shima fanned out in vast emeralds; rivers within the jungle shimmered like silver ribbons, threading through the trees in tender embrace. Angels in armor flew low above the canopy. Cloaked hunters crept through the underbrush, clutching spears. Maidens with crowns of wild white roses sat in slender boats, drifting down a galaxy-like river and glimpsing the floating isles of the City of Light reflected beside their own youthful forms.
I looked up from the view—and saw a face more arresting than any of this scenery.
Ruthfel said nothing. It was obvious from the start that he hadn’t been paying attention to the landscape. His unrepentant gaze, so blatant in its rudeness, lingered on my hair, my eyes, my lips.
That was when I realized: he hadn’t forgotten his earlier confessions. He had only changed tactics, trading youthful impetuousness for something more subtle, more cunning. He was setting a trap, and leading me into it one step at a time.
So sure of himself. As if I could ever be shackled by him.
The universe was mine. And so were my feelings. No one could control them but me.
“Stared enough yet?” I frowned and turned away.
“You look beautiful right now.”
My breath caught. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. How could he say such mushy and unscrupulous things? That expression, so completely enthralled, made me feel far too exposed.
“Enough,” I said. For some reason, refusing to meet his gaze made me feel even less confident. Even my usual commanding tone felt strangely hollow.
To my surprise, he obeyed. He didn’t tease me further. He simply pointed toward something in the distance.
I followed his gesture and saw it: a waterfall cascading from green cliffs, veiled in white mist. The rush of water sounded like ocean waves in midsummer. Golden gryphons circled above.
“I can’t believe I didn’t know this place—”
Before I could finish, my whole body was yanked toward him. His fingers threaded through my hair and cradled the back of my head, swift and seamless.
He lowered his head and whispered, “Alright. I won’t say anything more.”
Then, drawing a fraction closer, he kissed my lips.
I truly was no good at flying.
The moment our lips met, I froze—so completely I forgot to keep flapping my wings. My body began to fall. He caught me, held me tighter, then leaned in again…
Maybe it was the sound of beating wings, or the roar of the distant waterfall, but the world seemed wrapped in noise.
I could feel his breath, fast, restrained. My fists, pressed weakly against his chest, gradually loosened and clutched at his collar instead.
I didn’t kiss him back. Not exactly. But I didn’t resist either.
Somewhere along the way, he had become like a virus, expanding, invading, eroding my immunity, breaking through my final defenses.
I wasn’t even sure if that final line of defense still existed.
It ended quickly.
He clearly wanted to continue, but in the end, he stopped. With lingering reluctance, he kissed my cheek and the corner of my eye, then silently led me toward the waterfall.
Somehow, it felt like I’d been infected by him. Though we were surrounded by some of the most breathtaking scenery in Heaven, I couldn’t see any of it, couldn’t hear any of it. I kept feigning indifference, casting glances at the landscape, only to sneak a look at him each time my eyes passed over.
If we just held on like this, maintaining the current distance, avoiding any reckless words or actions, letting nothing go further, it should be fine.
But even though he never brought up marrying Evangeline again, it was something I could never forget.
So from then until just before Berduth 6000, we went on like this—tense, restrained.
During that time, the climate of the universe warmed, and the average temperature in Heaven rose by the day. Many species teetered on the brink of extinction. The divine race, by contrast, multiplied at an accelerating rate. Low-ranking angels proliferated like a flood, and within a few years, they had overwhelmed the First to the Fourth Heavens.
But these lesser angels struggled to ascend in rank, so most of them tried to flock to Jerusalem, where one could earn divine currency the fastest. The city swelled to bursting. Ordinary citizens voiced bitter complaints, and unrest deepened across the realm.
After one such assembly, I asked Raphael to stay behind.
“The number of angels has become our greatest threat.”
“Yes…” He hesitated, then asked, “What does Father intend to do?”
“There’s only one way left—target the Tree of Life.” I paused, then said it lightly, almost casually. “Go cut it down.”
Raphael blinked, stunned. He opened his mouth, then finally said, “But couldn’t we simply slow the rate of reincarnation from the Tree of Life? That should ease the strain…”
I gazed past the doors of the Sanctum, out over the golden capital. My tone remained flat and administrative: “Cut down the Tree. We can restore it later. This task is dangerous and unprecedented, but when you complete it, I will elevate you from seraph to archangel.”
His posture straightened with sharply. His wide, watery eyes fixed on me, a mixture of longing and silent pleading.
Of course I knew what he was struggling with.
He had always held onto a flawed belief: that to possess someone’s love, one must stand at equal height. So he longed to stand shoulder to shoulder with Metatron. To him, the rank of archangel was irresistible.
But still, he said exactly what I expected: “Could we wait a little longer? I… I’d like to wait for Evangeline to be reborn first…”
“Which is more important—Evangeline, or all of Heaven?” I asked quietly, applying pressure with nothing but my calm.
One of the core doctrines of Heaven was reverence for life, because life, by its nature, is sacred and pure. To revere life is to revere divinity.
He left with his head low.
I propped my cheek against the back of my hand and narrowed my eyes.
If this world was my creation, if I was the supreme embodiment of divinity, if all life depended on my will to exist…
Then surely I could do with it as I pleased.
And yet my emotions remained eerily calm. No disaster followed in Heaven that day.
Only, above Sancta Faylia, dark clouds drifted in, blanketing the golden sky in a film of lead. The clouds pressed downward, heavy and filthy, swelling thicker and thicker. The last rays of golden light struggled to pierce through, only to be swallowed, silently and whole, by gaping, black mouths in the sky.
Only the banks of deep red heather behind the Hall of Splendor remained in bloom. Their intoxicating scent spread through the damp air like the blood of night made manifest.
That night, the Tree of Life, the cradle of billions of souls, was stripped of its divine aura and reduced to the most desolate ruin in all of Eden.
Raphael’s power was drained to the brink. He never recovered.
After that, I ordered a sharp reduction in economic trade with the Demon Realm and placed an additional hundred thousand divine soldiers to restrict the freedom of demonkind.
Plagues ravaged the lower realms. The people of the Demon Realm cried out in misery. With long-standing grievances and accumulated shame, they finally rose again.
In the Berduth 6731, year 5438, the Demon Realm declared the Third War of Light and Darkness.
Originally, Heaven should have been invincible against the Demon Realm.
But the felling of the Tree of Life stirred panic within the divine race. The moment the angels began to imagine what it would mean to be utterly annihilated upon defeat, even those who took to the battlefield did so with hesitation and dread.
Fortunately, Reynor had never feared death. He always believed in the virtue of relentless offense. With a will of iron, he formed a unit distinct from the rest of the divine armies. Fighting alongside Raphael, he charged into the fray with fearless resolve.
On the early morning of November 28th, year 5438, their forces dealt a devastating blow—over 52,000 demons killed or wounded, and 210,000 taken prisoner, including high-ranking officials and former generals.
Reynor drove them all beyond the Gates of Heaven.
Still, due to Heaven’s severe losses, the battle ultimately ended in a draw.
At 9:30 that morning, Reynor and Raphael returned in triumph to Jerusalem atop a military transport carriage. They wore sharply tailored herringbone uniforms, adorned with gold-and-silver valor medals personally awarded by Archangel Ruthfel.
Though the war had brought little glory to the angels, the two of them had nevertheless saved countless lives. To the people, they were heroes of the realm, and they were met with flowers and thunderous applause.
They passed down countless streets, surrounded by angels filled with gratitude and demon captives muttering bitter resentment.
Raphael, like Reynor, wore a white feather plume in his hair, a size smaller than Lucifer’s, the first mark of an archangel. His back was straight, bearing the dignity unique to high angels, his lips gently upturned with practiced civility.
But his eyes, deep and unfocused, were like twin voids… until they passed a pair of demon prisoners.
The man wore leather armor and boots. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with only four fingers on his right hand. His skin held a bluish undertone, and with violet hair and eyes, he was unmistakably an archdevil.
The woman beside him had a delicate face. Even without seeing the black wings on her back, her gentle curves made it easy to guess she was a fallen angel.
But in this moment, both husband and wife were staring at Raphael with unfiltered hatred, their eyes glowing demon-red, the color born of deep emotion in their kind.
The man said nothing. The woman mouthed something in the angelic tongue.
Even without sound, Raphael could tell from the mouth movements that she was speaking in a regional dialect used by low-ranking angels. Informal, unrefined, nothing like the official speech of Sancta Faylia.
That dialect had filled Raphael’s childhood. Now it seemed foreign, yet it stirred a sharp, ghostlike ache.
It reminded him of who he had once been. Of his original name.
Of the demon blood that still made up fifty percent of his veins.
The words she mouthed were:
“Go to hell.”
Those two prisoners… were his father and mother.
That night, he didn’t come to see me. He didn’t return to Sancta Faylia either.
Instead, he went alone to the doorstep of his old home in Jerusalem.
It was a decrepit building, so old that the name of its architect and its construction date had long since been forgotten.
Located in the cheapest district of the city, its first floor had been converted into a dessert shop, and the upstairs rooms were all rented out to impoverished newcomers from the Fourth Heaven, low-ranking angels just like he had once been, all clawing their way upward.
Now, two months’ rent for a one-room apartment in that building couldn’t even buy a single button on his uniform.
The rest of the angels were still out watching the prisoners. The street was nearly empty, just a handful of elderlies with failing sight, their voices slow and broken as they reminisced about past wars and the snacks they used to eat as children, just a Berduth ago.
“You haven’t been back here in a long time, have you?”
The voice that broke through the silence was startling in its restraint, nothing like its usual exaggerated tone.
Raphael turned, startled, and saw Metatron standing beside him.
The most fragile part of his heart lay exposed beneath the sun. His first instinct was to answer with trembling sincerity, to say, “Yes, it’s been a long time,”
—but when he realized what Metatron truly meant by that question, the blood drained from his face.
“You haven’t been back in a long time, have you… my friend?”
The eyes behind Metatron’s glasses held no warmth. His smile, too, was nothing like the youthful cheer it once had.
“Why are you looking at me like that? What is it you’re so afraid of?”
The chill that had started in Raphael’s hands now seeped into his chest, then down his spine.
His voice trembled. “When… did you find out?”
“Find out what?” Metatron asked softly. “Who you used to be—or that you cut down the Tree of Life before Evangeline’s rebirth?”
It was like a boulder slammed down onto Raphael’s skull.
He stumbled backward and struck the cold stone wall behind him.
Metatron didn’t flinch. He simply stared, calm, slow, and cold.
“Rafe,” he said, each syllable carved with ice.
“You thought that by tacking on the ‘phael,’ you could cut ties with your past?”
“You will never compare to Evangeline. You’re not even worthy to touch the ground she walks on. She is the purest of the divine race, of the noblest blood. And you, no matter how golden your hair, no matter how many wings you grow, no matter how ornate the robes you wear—you are still, to your bones, a lowborn of no worth.”
He left those words behind, abandoning Raphael to sit alone in a damp, deserted corner.
In the long annals of Heaven’s history, Metatron has been written about more than once. Around Berduth 6731, public opinion about him had splintered into two extremes. His fall from heroism into elitism seemed to happen overnight. Later, Metatron became no different from Ruthfel: extravagant, decadent, flitting through lovers and champagne parties. Worse, perhaps. Ruthfel, at least, still clung to a private sense of justice and never touched men. But Metatron, he took both men and women, and the soul that once stood up for demons and lowborn angels vanished entirely.
Only perfection is eternal. Life, by its nature, is flawed. Life dies.
In this most recent War of Light and Darkness, how many had I killed through Raphael’s hand? I wasn’t sure I could even count them anymore.
I closed my Divine Eye and stood beside the altar, gazing into the pool at my own unchanging reflection. Then, in the water, I saw another reflection: Ruthfel’s eyes watching me. His irises were a shade lighter than mine, pale as glacial frost, and yet, in their gaze was an even firmer resolve.
“The war is over,” he said softly, as though afraid to disturb the stillness.
“Wars never truly end.”
“No. I mean, the war between us. It’s over.” As he spoke, he slipped his arms around me from behind and buried his face in the hollow of my shoulder, breathing deeply.
“Isar, I love you just like this.”
“What do you mean?” I raised my head sharply.
“I never cared about Evangeline. Never intended to marry her. She’s no different from any other woman to me. But then again, you would’ve never minded an ordinary woman, would you?”
His breath was steady, but it poured hot against my ear. “To see you jealous, to watch you do such awful things for my sake—It made me so happy.”
“I didn’t do it for you!” I pushed his arms away. My voice was loud, but my body trembled.
“Ruthfel, don’t forget who I am! Life—life is just a toy to me! You’re all under my control! If I truly wanted Evangeline dead, would I need to go through all that trouble? The universe belongs to me. Why would I fear little Evangeline?!”
Ruthfel smiled faintly, the sound of it laced with an almost indulgent fondness.
“Of course you’re not afraid of her. You’re just afraid to admit you love me.”
I instinctively took a step back, my eyes flying open. My throat caught as if pierced, dry, raw, aching, and not a word came out.
“I know what you’re going to say. You’ll claim I’m delusional, won’t you? That your feelings for me are just ‘divine love’, pure and impersonal. But Isar, I’m not silly like you. From the moment you moved Snowmoon Forest into the Demon Realm, I knew. I just didn’t force the issue then, because it would only scare you away. But now things have come this far. What else can you possibly say?”
He was smiling, but it was a smile filled with a terrifying kind of detachment.
I was frozen, unable to move. I felt his presence closing in, and only then did I try to pull away. Guilt spread like ivy in spring, erupting from cracks in stone, winding through every vein, into every beat of my blood.
But he left me no room for atonement, no space for retreat. He pressed on, merciless.
“You’re right, though. You are the Creator. All life bends to your will. Every angel is an inherited slave to your throne. Even when I sit beside you, I’ll never be your equal. Which is why… this isn’t yet the moment I take you completely. But I will surpass you one day. So Isar, sit adorably on that throne of yours—and wait for the day I conquer you.”
“There will never be such a day!” I snapped. “As long as I exist, you’ll never surpass me. And if I cease to exist, you won’t remain either!”
“Is that so.” He chuckled softly, turned and took two steps away, then glanced back over his shoulder.
“We’ll see.”
Two hours later, I sat motionless on the Throne, gazing out over Sancta Faylia.
There stood the golden tower designed by a famed architect, built to store jewels and precious metals bound for the lower layers of Heaven. There stood the newly converted clocktower-turned-library, its spiral staircase suspended in cloud, where six-winged angels alighted like birds. There stood the weaponsmith’s shop, hung with silver shields and steel swords, each shield bearing Sancta Faylia’s gold crest, each hilt carved with olive-branch motifs and gleaming in the light…
These were the proud symbols of the divine race in this age. And this golden city, this summit of the universe, was the lifelong dream of billions of angels.
Its Sovereign enjoyed supreme glory.
But I could no longer take pride in any of it.
All I felt was utter defeat, so complete it buried me in the dirt.
My Son stood at my side like an ancient bronze statue, expressionless, emotionless.
He never defied me. Anything I rejected once, he never mentioned again.
But I still knew what he wanted to say. Because… it was what I wanted to say, too.
“Do you remember? Over two thousand Berduth ago, you asked me to give up my Original Sin.”
“Father, You are the Creator. You have no Original Sin.”
“There’s no need to keep up the pretense now.”
I pressed a hand to my forehead and let out a weary sigh. I was utterly exhausted.
“You’re right. I’ll abandon it.”
My Son’s eyes widened, stunned. In them shimmered a rare sorrow and dawning realization.
Then, suddenly, he dropped to his knees before me, bowing his head so low it nearly touched the floor.
He had always been a being of mercy. Since his birth, he’d been true to our ideals—spreading love, peace, and goodness throughout Heaven. So perhaps, what seemed to me a natural sacrifice, was to him an immeasurable gift.
“Father!” His voice trembled. He pressed his forehead to my feet, reddened eyes wet with emotion, as if searching for words—yet nothing came but a sob.
“Don’t act like I’m about to die,” I muttered. “Leave me. I want to be alone for a while.”
After he left, I remained in the Sanctum for the better part of the day.
I found myself thinking about Ruthfel, from the moment of his birth to now, we’d known each other for over six thousand seven hundred Berduth. That was hundreds, thousands of angelic lifetimes.
Over such a span of time, he’d matured more slowly than anyone, and yet had changed the most.
I’d seen him go from a harmless, clueless child, to a proud and willful youth, and finally to the confident, refined man he was now.
He had learned to command his emotions, to conceal all his desires and aggression.
But a beast is still a beast, no matter how long you’ve raised it from infancy.
And in these same six thousand Berduth—what had I become?
Nothing. Except for these irrational, weakening emotions, I had not changed at all.
I could no longer control him.
If this continued, I couldn’t predict what worse things might yet occur.
Giving up this weed-like Original Sin, this unnecessary growth, was the wisest choice.
Yet… for some reason, the thought of destroying it filled me with not only regret, but fear.
Because it meant returning to who I was before Creation:
No birth. No death.
No emotion.
Never having lived at all.
To live—it’s such a revered, terrifying verb.
And it would never belong to me.
Or perhaps it had, briefly.
Perhaps I had lived, for a short and stifled span of time.
And now, I would extinguish it with my own hand.
Night in Shima was brief, but it always held a heartbreaking beauty. Stars scattered across the sky like a shattered bottle of Bohemian wine, spilled out upon the firmament. Their glittering trails formed a long silver Milky Way, illuminating the cross atop the Ruthfel Cathedral.
It was a night of rain. Those trails became ten thousand falling diamonds, drenching the City of Light in shimmering rainfall.
I used no magic, no covering cloak, only walked alone, in the form of a red-haired angel, through Shima’s narrow and mist-veiled alleys.
Along the leaden horizon, water shimmered beneath pale silver buildings, and the towering ancient structures on either side pressed the skyline into a narrow slit.
I looked up with eyes nearly blinded by the rain.
The cathedral’s lights flickered in the downpour like a lone lantern tossing on the sea. Its spire pierced the dark sky.
It was a world drowned in rain.
Alone, I entered. The water soaked through my robes, dripping from the hem with every step.
Thousands of paintings hung inside.
Magical lights glowed upward from beneath golden frames, illuminating scenes of history and significance:
—the first ship to cross into the Demon Realm in the year 778;
—my Son holding the Scriptures, overlooking his angels;
—the earliest prototypes of the elemental Mirrors of Wind, Thunder, Fire, and Water;
—the former home of the Angel of Fire at 74 Mass Street in Jerusalem;
—Ruthfel, as a child, encircled by angels and stars;
—the flaming sword Reynor wielded to conquer the demons…
I walked slowly past each image, until I reached the corner archive room.
There, I removed a second silver chain from my wrist, placed it into a small box, closed the lid, and set it within a chamber that held the personal tokens of thousands of historical figures.
Ruthfel Cathedral had eighty such vaults.
Rainwater dripped from my hair to the floor, each drop ticking like an ancient clock’s second hand.
Just as I stepped outside—
A white silhouette entered through the main gate.
I immediately backed into the shadow of a nearby column and peeked out cautiously.
It was Ruthfel.
I watched him quietly unfurl his wings of light, gliding soundlessly to the base of the cathedral’s grand crucifix. Then, before a row of prayer benches, he folded them away, leaving behind a scatter of translucent, glowing feathers. He sat in a far-off pew, tilting his head up to gaze at the crucifix above.
Outside, the night and the rain blanketed the world. The shimmer of rainfall softened the sky and blurred the outline of his profile.
I kept still behind a stone pillar, maintaining the same long silence as he did.
The beige column behind me was thick enough for four or five people to encircle with their arms, and above us, a dome stretched a hundred meters high, making the surrounding space feel cavernous. Looking up, I could see the stained glass rose window over the side gate, beside a vast mural of angels enduring baptism through suffering.
“Couldn’t take the guilt anymore? Come to confess?” I asked my Holy Spirit to send the words to his ears.
“No.”
“Is that so? Makes sense. After all, you’re just an angel. You’ve done nothing wrong. The one who should be confessing is me.”
“The only thing you’ve done wrong is refusing to face your true self.”
I was already too tired for this topic. Ignoring his response, I continued, weary and low:
“Ruthfel, I have sinned.”
Sensing the wrongness in my tone, he immediately looked up, eyes serious. “You haven’t.”
“I’ve already spoken to Raphael. I’ve told him to revive the Tree of Life within three thousand Berduth. So, just as you said before, when Evangeline is reborn, go ahead and propose to her.”
I took a deep breath behind the pillar. My red hair was soaked and disheveled, and the rain pooled around my boots like unshed tears. “I’ve done too many terrible things. I can’t be saved anymore.”
His expression grew more and more anxious.
“You didn’t do anything wrong! You just… love me. That’s not a crime!”
I didn’t have the strength to reply. I only closed my eyes, struggling not to cry.
But he grew angry.
He stood up and shouted toward the crucifix, his voice ringing out:
“What do you take me for? Your pet? Someone you can simply give away, like a gift? If you insist that loving me is a sin, then what about me—me, born the first of the Seraphim, me, fated to never win your love—am I not even more sinful?! Where are you?! Come out now! Say it to my face!”
The heavy rain poured over Heaven outside. Even the great stained-glass windows were blurred now.
I tilted my head back. After holding it in for so long, I finally shut my eyes and let the hot tears fall.
Life—how beautiful a thing it is.
So fleeting. So radiant.
I heard Ruthfel calling my name, calling “Isar,” a name only he knew.
The ache in my heart reminded me, vividly, that I was still alive.
If I weren’t the Creator… if I were just an ordinary angel… I could’ve stepped out from behind that pillar and walked to him, and this story would have its blissful fairytale ending that children dream of.
But, regrettably, I couldn’t even speak another word to him.
Because I knew: one more word, and I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from doing something I’d regret again.
I used to think we’d grown closer. But in truth, nothing had changed at all.
Just like the 6,731 Berduth we’d spent side by side.
Heaven had moved from the Age of Chaos to the Age of Redemption. The civilization of the divine race had evolved rapidly in time’s torrent, and wars between Light and Darkness had flared and faded like the tides.
For nearly seven thousand Berduth, he had always been right beside me.
We watched lives begin and end. Watched the pages of history turn, one after another.
Each day we saw each other’s faces, heard each other’s voices.
But never once did we truly face each other, heart to heart.
Just like now.
Like how I am here, leaning quietly behind him, only a few dozen meters away, hiding alone in the shadows, watching him in secret.
Yet I couldn’t walk forward. Couldn’t say even a single “I love you.”
Ruthfel… there’s one thing I’ve always wondered.
If one day, I became a new being, free from the chains of duty— How would I look at you then?
Four years later, on a clear morning in Jerusalem, a child named Michael was born.
A plump little baby Seraph, with six golden wings.
His father was Reynor, an Angel of Fire with brown hair and brown eyes. His mother, Alice, was a renowned seer with flowing red hair and eyes of emerald-green.
He inherited Reynor’s high-bridged nose, Alice’s beautiful crimson locks, and a complexion like nobility, but his eyes were a deep ocean blue.
Neither side of their lineage had ever produced a child with blue eyes. And according to the laws of divine inheritance, green was a dominant trait, while blue was recessive, so it couldn’t have been the result of betrayal.
Everyone thus believed the child to be a gift from God. After all, the very fact that Alice, previously barren, had conceived, was already a miracle.
Few had ever seen the true face of God. But many of the high angels had heard the stories, that Father God possessed eyes the color of the sea.
On the day of Michael’s birth, many Seraphim and Intelligences flew to Jerusalem to bless the divinely gifted child.
The Archangel was invited by Reynor and Alice as well, but he offered no reply.
Because several years prior, he had blown the Seraph Palaces to ruins with magic, his fury scorching every river in Shima.
By then, he had long cast aside the “fel” suffix—once a symbol of divine pride—and chosen a new name, a new life.
He was the most exalted of all the divine race, the most beloved of the Father. So this public renunciation of his name was, in a sense, a declaration of severance from God Himself—a prelude to what would later become one of the most infamous events in the history of the Three Realms: The Divine Punishment.
But at the time, no one could have foreseen what was to come. In every paper across Heaven, in every alley and conversation, only one name echoed, his new name: Lucifer.
The date was September 29, year 5442 of Berduth 6731.
With Lucifer’s renaming, Michael’s birth, and the rapid ascent of the divine race, historians would later mark this moment as the transition between two ages.
The Age of Redemption closed its curtain, and the most resplendent Golden Age of Heaven began.
I hadn’t made the wrong choice.
To abandon a trivial emotion, so that I, as a leader, could guide the divine race into a future blazing with light, was not just right, it was necessary.
I had once played out countless imagined scenarios in my mind.
But only in that moment, when my Original Sin severed from my shell, could I relive them full.
To God, such feelings were insignificant.
But to me, to Isar, who belonged only to you, there were words I had kept buried for thousands of Berduth… that I would now never have the chance to say.
If I, too, could enter the cycle of rebirth—
If I could become an ordinary angel, even just for a day…
I would want nothing more than to hold you quietly.
To lean on you.
To clasp your hand.
To look into your eyes and watch your pure smile.
To listen to your gentle voice.
To do nothing else… but stay like that for an entire day.
You’d never guess, would you?
That’s all I ever wanted.
Four years ago, after our final conversation in the cathedral, Lucifer sought out my Son to demand where I had gone.
My Son told him, “Father is here.”
Lucifer grew agitated.
“No—I mean Isar. Where is Isar?”
My Son said he didn’t know who Isar was. But if Lucifer sought Father God, then Father is right here.
Indeed, my corporeal form still sat on the throne. But that body is a fusion of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit’s divine power, the sinless entity now 1/6 stronger than Lucifer: the Creator of All.
But Lucifer refused to believe I had become a new being.
He told my Son he had to find the whole of me.
He searched every corner of the world, desperate enough to turn over every speck of dust in the universe if he had to.
I had never truly understood him.
And yet, in that final moment before my Original Sin was pulverized—
I finally heard the voice at his deepest core:
When I was a child, I once told you I loved Shima.
I loved the City of Light.
Because Shima was the color of your hair.
Because Shima’s night sky was the color of your eyes.
And now, you are gone.
Or rather, you have become omnipresent.
Is this what you were trying to tell me?
That you are everything.
That when the wind becomes your voice,
when the night becomes your shadow,
when sunlight becomes your smile,
when rain and snow become your tears,
when the mountains become your embrace,
when the great trees become your hands,
when the sea becomes your pulse—
and when the brightest stars of all the cosmos become your eyes…
When the sky grows ever higher, ever farther—
and becomes the silhouette of you walking away,
because you’ve finally let go of me—
When I soar beneath the endless blue of Shima…
and can no longer find you…
When you are in every corner of the world…
I am left with no choice but to love the world itself.
So tell me, Isar…
is that what you meant?
But I am not so merciful.
I waited behind you for nearly seven thousand Berduth, hoping that one day, you would turn back and really, truly look at me. I was willing to become a sinner for you, willing to be the dark reflection of Heaven itself.
But in the end, what you left me with… was a world without you.
Isar, I’ve finally made up my mind.
If you don’t want what we had—then I don’t want it either.
From this day on, in this world, there will be only Michael and Lucifer, strangers to one another.
There will be no more God,
And no more Ruthfel.
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
