Belial’s days were growing harder by the minute. His entire hand had begun to rot.
Each night, under the light, he would be forced to look at his two hands: one whole, the other disfigured, mismatched in size, uneven in color. Every evening, he practiced transformation magic just so he could someday appear whole after dark. But the spell was deeply impractical. For every minute of disguise, it drained a minute’s worth of intense magical energy. If he wanted to keep up the illusion all night, by morning, he’d be nothing but a husk of a person, the texture of beef jerky.
Meanwhile, Jenny’s classes advanced like a speeding chariot. In the blink of an eye, the whole class had been hauled off to the foot of Mount Laim for field training. Between her dark-magic drills, his self-study in transformation spells, and his frantic search for a new job, Belial hardly had time to sleep.
And it all came back to one stupid sentence, one misplaced phrase, that had given Mammon the perfect excuse to move in with him.
The day Mammon arrived had caused quite a stir across the academy. As Belial watched the crowd gather, he kept backing away, but Mammon simply threw all his belongings in front of Belial’s dorm room and barked, “Wait here. I’ve got things to finish.” After that, he never left. From that day on, Mammon was part of his life, in his tiny little room that felt utterly unsuited for someone who looked like they belonged in a palace where even the fireplace was made of gold.
That morning, after hours of spell repetition, Mammon was lounging on his bed in an absurdly long pair of trousers, bare feet swaying in the air. Belial’s patience was legendary so he only rubbed his temples and turned his back, continuing his practice in silence.
“My dear, you’ve been at it all night,” Mammon said with a lazy yawn, hands tucked behind his head. “You always act like a slouch, but who knew you could be so stubborn?”
Belial ignored him, repeating the same spell over and over.
A nearby candelabra cast a golden light on Mammon’s cheek, making the curve of his face glow like a lotus petal. He grinned even brighter. “You should really rotate spells, sweetheart. One trick over and over just fatigues the brain.”
Belial turned, then sent a burst of dark energy flying at him.
Mammon yelped and ducked behind a pillow.
“How could you be so cruel to a defenseless magic illiterate!” he whined, peeking from behind the cushion like a spooked ghost.
Belial didn’t answer. He was in a foul mood. Mammon had paid the full rent. When Belial offered to pay his share, Mammon refused. When Belial insisted, Mammon replied, “Fine. Treat it like a loan. Pay me back double.” In a moment of pride, Belial had foolishly agreed. Now that he’d thought about it, the deal meant Mammon had effectively moved in for free.
Worse, Mammon had dragged in some kind of springy bed and left it untouched by the wall. If Belial didn’t kick him out every night, that arrogant peacock would get on the only comfortable bed.
Every night was suffering. His classes weren’t going well either. The others were making terrifying progress. Only he was lagging, struggling, wasting time. Whenever they practiced, Belial could feel the subtle shifts in everyone’s gazes, curious, dismissive, pitiful. And it was his own damn fault for stubbornly choosing the path of a pure mage. What had he been thinking? Living off scholarship money? What a joke.
That evening, returning home from the volcano field in a foul mood, Belial sneezed the moment cold wind hit his face. Muttering under his breath, he felt something settle on his shoulders. A cloak. He turned to find Mammon fastening it tighter, even pulling a second hat over his own.
“Next time, take it off inside and only wear it out. Silly child.”
Belial blinked in surprise and nodded.
Anra descended from the sky, crouched down before them. The two climbed on, and the great beast launched into flight.
“Still cold?”
“No, thank you, Your Highness.”
“We live together now. Just call me by name.”
Belial shook his head. “You’re older than me. Should I call you ‘uncle’?”
“Uncle? Am I that old?” Mammon looked stricken. “I’ve just come of age, thank you very much.”
“Then I’ll stick with ‘Your Highness.’”
“‘Big brother,’ then.” Mammon’s smile curved, revealing two dainty fangs.
Belial frowned. “That’s too intimate. Try something again.”
“Then how about ‘darling’?”
“Hey, brother, are we going home right now?” Belial cut in.
Mammon nodded and pulled him into a back hug, holding him tightly. “That should keep you warm.”
“Mhm.” Belial was clearly flustered, mind darting to places it probably shouldn’t have.
“Oh, right. Tomorrow’s a day off. I’ll take you out.”
“Up to you.”
Belial’s “up to you” obviously meant “no chance.” Sure enough, the next morning Belial left early to look for work. Mammon, pampered as he was, hadn’t slept well on the makeshift bed. He stirred at the slightest noise and got up shortly after.
Belial had just finished washing up, drying his face with a towel, drops still clinging to his hair. Looking into the mirror, he paused. Mammon was behind him, brushing his teeth blankly, shirtless. He finished, dunked his head under the faucet, shook out his hair, then wandered around the room drinking his own coffee.
It was only then Belial noticed: Mammon was wearing nothing but a tiny pair of shorts.
“Do you always sleep in that?”
“Nope.”
“Then why wear it here?”
“Usually, I don’t wear anything.”
Belial fell silent. After a moment, he tossed a shirt at Mammon’s head.
“Put this on.”
Mammon, unusually obedient, set down his cup and slipped into his shirt. “You going out?”
“Yes.”
“You promised we’d go out together.”
“I changed my mind. Problem?” Belial threw on his coat and headed for the door. He’d barely cracked it open when Mammon blocked the way, shirt buttoned haphazardly—only one clasped, and even that was the wrong hole.
“Unbelievable,” Belial muttered. “Can’t even dress yourself. How do you function?” He undid the buttons, redid them properly, and smoothed out the collar, only to meet Mammon’s ambiguous, half-lidded grin.
Belial recoiled as if electrocuted, swatted him aside. But Mammon blocked him again. “Wanna go to the History Museum? They’ve got a whole section of forbidden grimoires.”
“I was going to train at school today—”
“They also have my father’s annotations on magic from his time in Heaven. Limited access. Only those with a medal of war can borrow them. I have one.”
Two hours later, the two of them arrived at the History Museum. At the entrance, Mammon stiffened as he saw the bold red inscription on the stone tablet: 10, 50. —Fallen angels and archdevils, please place 50 Oris in the right basin. All others, 10 in the left. This, indeed, was the particular agony of the noble class in the Demon Realm.
Mammon behaved quite admirably this time. He hesitated for a long while, then bit his lip and dropped one Anra coin into the right basin. He turned just in time to see Belial flicking a 50 Ori coin between his fingers, offering it to him.
Mammon pushed it away. “I invited you. I’ll pay.”
“Respect me.” Belial didn’t even glance back as he strode through the entrance.
Mammon rushed to catch up. “They’ve got necro-armor and hex tomes inside.”
“Necro-armor doesn’t attack demons, and as long as you don’t meet the eye of the flying tomes, they won’t hurt you.”
That calm intelligence—that natural affinity for the realm’s arcane rules—was something that other person had never possessed. Mammon faltered a step, then quietly walked beside him.
They made it to the restricted archives without issue, quickly locating a volume under the “Golden Age” section. It was the cleanest book in the cabinet, perhaps the only clean one. Mammon pulled out a golden badge, slipped it into a hidden slit beneath the shelf. The panel glowed faintly. He slid out the book and tossed it to Belial.
Lucifer’s Notes on Magic.
Belial couldn’t help but smile.
“Top shelves in every cabinet are full of Divine Codex editions from each era. All penned by my dad. That one’s the famous one—it’s the backbone of Celestial theory. But it’s limited in scope. Best to treat it as supplemental reading.”
Belial nodded earnestly.
Mammon gave him a sidelong look. “You really admire my father, huh?”
“I do.”
“In that way?”
“Not even slightly.”
Mammon scoffed. “Liar.”
“Most demons admire His Majesty Lucifer. Are you saying they all harbor that kind of feeling?”
“You’ve met him. Spoken to him.”
“Oh, sure. Every normal male demon who’s spoken to him falls in love.”
“You’re not a normal male demon.”
Belial snapped his head up. “What’s that supposed to mean? That just because I’m gay, I fall for any good-looking man? Is that it?”
“No. I’m just saying your odds are—”
“You’re mocking my orientation, aren’t you? At least I don’t obsess over a man I’ve only met a few times…”
“‘Man’? Belial, do you really think you count as a… ‘man’?”
Belial was about to explode when he noticed Mammon staring at the floor. He followed his gaze—there, a thin patch of dust revealed something unusual. They stepped closer.
“A keyhole?” Belial asked.
Mammon nodded.
“Something used to sit here.”
“A skeleton. Of an archdevil. It was moved to the Cathedral of Bones.”
Belial crouched, inspecting the hole. “Looks like the bones were sitting on this box.”
“Yeah.”
“Shame it’s locked. Would’ve been fun to look inside.”
“I have the key.” Mammon held up a jingling chain, crouched, and opened the box.
Inside was a single sheet of paper. On it was written:
“The one you love most shall bear the curse: from the center of the palm it shall begin to rot—first the hand, then the arm, then the chest, until the whole body decays. By day they may mask their form with magic. But at night, once touched by light, the truth shall be laid bare…”
Belial instinctively clutched his own fingers.
“That’s the Curse of the Blood of Loyalty,” Mammon muttered. He pulled a book from a nearby shelf, flipped to a marked page, and pointed:
“The seer’s prophecy was undoubtedly a threat to the Vice Regent. To prove his loyalty to God and the Vice Regent, Reynor performed a ritual at the altar and swore eternal service to God. He infused his body with the Blood of Loyalty. From that point on, any divine being bearing the bloodline of House Arterra must serve God for life, or suffer divine punishment. For the men of Arterra, betraying the divine race would result in the loss of power and universal disgrace. For the women of Arterra, she would…”
The next page was completely garbled. Mammon placed the loose paper beside it. The lines fit perfectly.
“Michael was a seraph so both curses applied to him. That’s why my father’s body broke down too, back then.”
Belial’s eyes flicked to the text again. The curse described rot beginning from the palm. His had started from the fingertips. Still… there had to be a connection. His transformation into a skeletal hand couldn’t be a coincidence.
“I think so too,” Mammon murmured. “The skeleton was moved a month after Michael and I inspected this room. Maybe it was misdirection.”
“You’re saying the real secret might be on the skeleton?”
“Most people would find the keyhole, see the note, and think that’s the big reveal. But if the key was so easy to find, and this many questions remain—whoever falls for that must be an idiot.”
“Where’d you find the key?”
“Here. In this room.”
“And you already knew what the note said?”
“I did.”
“And yet they didn’t move the bones back.” Belial crouched, gazing at the box again. “Maybe the person who hid the paper wanted us to believe the real secret was with the skeleton.”
“You really think backwards.”
Belial ran his fingers along the edges. “It’s just a possibility. Most people don’t obsess like I do. What kind of bricks are these?”
Mammon shrugged. He pulled out a pipe and tapped it on the nearby floor tiles. One cracked. Beneath the fragments, the same paneling—same brick pattern, same seams.
Belial examined it again.
The seams were pitch-black.
“Give me the pipe.”
He prodded into the crevice. Hard resistance.
“Give me one of your buttons.”
Mammon popped one off—it was crystal, convex on the back, shiny as a mirror. Belial pressed the button face-down against the edge of the box. Casting a glow spell, he used the back of the crystal to reflect the surface just above the side of the box.
It was still blurry. But now, an extra shadow had appeared.
“There’s something inside.” Belial tossed the button back to Mammon.
Mammon caught it and reached into the crack. But the gap was too narrow, only fingers could fit. Unless they had chopsticks, they weren’t getting anything out. The two of them fell into a moment of silence. Beliar let out a long sigh. “Turn around. I’ve got a way.”
Mammon obediently turned his back. Behind him came only the sound of cloth rustling. Time passed. Belial said nothing. Mammon, bored, began flipping the button in the air. Its polished surface reflected the image behind him: Belial had pushed not only his fingertips, but his entire skeletal hand into the crevice, sweat beading across his brow.
Mammon froze. After confirming what he saw, he quietly stashed the button away. His emotions churned too violently to process all at once, so he lit a cigarette and pretended nothing had happened.
Eventually, Belial retrieved the object. “Don’t turn around yet,” he said once more. Mammon casually grunt in response. Belial calmly pulled his gloves back on and tossed the item in front of him: a journal. Deep red leather, creased from the pressure of stone, two silk bookmarks still tucked between the pages.
Mammon flipped it open. “It’s in the Heavenly Language. The ancient kind too. I can only read bits. ‘The son… went to the Hall of… Light’… ‘Today we chatted… I and…’” He read off a few random lines, utterly confused.
“Give it here.” Belial snatched the journal and read fluently, “‘My son went again to the Hall of Splendor.’”
Mammon looked at him, surprised. “You can read it? Guess all that bookworming wasn’t for nothing.”
Beliar shot him a look and continued:
“Today I spoke with all the Seraphs who fought in the battle of Light and Darkness. We discussed Heaven’s future. Some say that which grows too strong must decline. I remember a book once said Heaven is a mountain—vast, magnificent, solemn and weighty. God is the great pillar that bears the lives of all beings, unwavering in storm or sun. We continue to challenge hardships and enact myths. Yes, Heaven will never collapse. In God’s embrace we grow, bathing daily in light and hope.”
This was clearly a relic from thousands of Berduth ago. At that time, Fallen Angels were far fewer, and demonic tongues had yet to influence the Heavenly Language. Belial couldn’t understand every line, but the sheer clarity and age of the writing stirred a reverent awe in him. “In the Demon Realm, only the oldest Fallen Angels still read this. I’ll ask around, maybe someone can help me decipher more.”
“Looks like a diary though,” Mammon noted.
“It is. Hidden this deep yet unsealed by magic. Must be something about the paper.”
“The paper?”
Mammon rubbed a page between his fingers. “This is Basscow parchment, used in Heaven for monetary transfers. Expensive stuff. Black magic would destroy it, so sealing it wasn’t an option. Which means whoever hid the journal knew what was in it, but didn’t want it destroyed.”
“Then you should take it, copy the content, and put it back.”
“I’ll work on that. For now, we should leave. Not the safest place.”
“What, the great Dark Knight scared of a few books?”
“I’m scared you’ll get bitten by them.”
“I’m not that dumb. Thanks.”
Belial turned on his heel. Mammon exhaled lightly and followed.
That day, the Demon Realm felt unusually rosy, as if everything were wrapped in a haze of pink. Mammon brought Belial back to the Fifth Hell, hopping down toward a treehouse. They descended a spiral staircase made of vines. After a long silence, Belial finally asked, “Why aren’t we just flying back to Rhodheoga?”
“Anra’s not feeling well today. We’ll walk.”
In his feline form, Anra glared daggers from the treetops. Below them stretched a sea of green. Not far away stood the fog-shrouded windmills, their battered wings whispering through centuries of solitude. Between grasslands and ashen stone, it was like walking through the dreams of dead souls.
Winding around the tree trunk, they finally reached the base and walked along the riverbank. Crossing roots and meadows, they passed one humming windmill after another, moving ever farther from the bustling tribes. Long before they emerged from the forest, they could already hear the roar of water and feel the mist on their skin.
Their path was cut by the Solor River. By dusk, the current surged and plunged from a cliff into the deep basin below. Rock and water clashed in a deafening crescendo, birthing a veil of mist and phantom shapes. They had arrived at the Demon Realm’s largest waterfall, the Eagle Falls.
Far below, couples sat nestled together barefoot by the lake. Belial walked to the edge and looked down. The sheer drop was dizzying. The thunder of the fall stole his breath. He instinctively stepped back.
Mammon appeared behind him, shouting into a communicator: “No, I’m busy today! Rain check—okay, okay, come now. I’m at the top of Eagle Falls!”
Even so, only fragments of the call could be heard. Belial glanced back. “You have something going on today?”
“Not really. My subordinates finished crafting black pearl studs. They’re insisting on delivering them now because they’re busy tomorrow.”
“Oh.” Belial returned to gazing at the falls.
Mammon took his hand and tugged. “Let’s fly down together.”
“No. We’ll die.”
“Not if I’m holding you.”
He gave Belial a playful nudge. Beliar flinched and grabbed him instinctively. “That’s not funny, Your Highness.”
“Then call me properly.”
“Big brother.”
“Good boy.” Mammon flashed a grin, his fangs just visible. “Belial, do you like big brother?”
“…”
Another push.
“Okay! I do!”
“Then promise me—if you don’t call me ‘big brother,’ I’ll drag you into a crowd, pull down your pants, and spank you.”
“Fine, fine, fine, big brother! Let’s just go!”
“Promise to gain ten pounds this month.”
“I can’t gain weight! Don’t ask the impossible!”
“Then add half again as much food at every meal.”
“Fine!”
“Sleep early. Practice magic in the morning.”
“Okay!”
“And no more cold shoulders. Listen to everything big brother says.”
“…Oh.”
Mammon tugged Belial’s cheeks. “I said no cold shoulders!”
“Alright, alright, big brother! Just stop standing here—let’s go back!”
Mammon thought a moment. Having run out of threats, he finally stepped aside. Belial lunged toward the ground, glowering at the grass like he wished it would wilt under his glare.
Just then, two subordinates arrived with a sleek silver case. Belial sat off to the side, probably in a foul mood. Mammon opened the box: inside lay eight black pearl studs, arranged from large to small. Under starlight, they shimmered like drops of midnight. Pure luxury.
Mammon’s face quickly soured.
“One, two, three, four five six seven… eight.” He counted a third time. “I told you. I only have seven piercings.”
“We realized that too, but by the time we noticed, it was done.”
“What a waste,” Mammon murmured.
“Apologies, Your Highness.”
“It’s fine. Just don’t let it happen again. The pearls are very pretty. You may go.”
“Yes, Your Highness. Happy Valentine’s Day.”
After they left, Belial suddenly looked up. “Valentine’s Day?”
“This type of black pearl comes from the black-lip oyster,” Mammon explained, flaunting the gems as he elaborated. “The black base tone shimmers with other hues. Look—this one’s peacock green, this one’s deep violet, and this one, sea blue. And see? When you turn them, the metallic sheen shifts with it. No color-treated pearl could ever compare.”
Belial had already been drawn in, his eyes fixed on the gleaming black pearls, unable to look away.
“Sigh. What a waste. These black pearls only yield about two thousand pieces per year. Forty percent go to the annual auction in the Capital. They’re rare. I only have a few dozen myself, and they just wasted one like this.” Mammon sighed dramatically, removing his seven earrings. He started with the largest pearl at the bottom and worked his way up, each one slightly smaller than the last. But just as he was about to fasten the last earring, the backing slipped from his fingers and flew off.
“Ah—!”
They cried out in unison.
“It fell down the waterfall!” Mammon rushed to the edge and peeked over, then quickly turned back, inspiration striking. He plucked the pin from the smallest pearl, fitted it on his ear, and said, “I was thinking of getting another ear piercing, but looks like I won’t need to. The backing’s gone.”
“You could ask them to make another.”
“Too much trouble. And this tiny one’s useless on its own. Even if I sold it, it wouldn’t fetch much. Might as well toss it.” He made a show of raising the smallest pearl toward the cliffside.
“No—don’t!”
“It’s a priceless treasure. I wouldn’t want it to fall into the hands of someone who doesn’t deserve it. Better to throw it away.”
“It’s so small and if you don’t wear it every day, you’ll lose it.”
“I’ll have you keep it for me then. That way, it won’t go missing.”
“Huh? …Not a bad idea.”
Mammon sat down in front of Belial, studying his face closely. Then, without warning, he removed the small glass stud from Belial’s nose and replaced it with the black pearl. “Let’s leave it here. When I want it back, I’ll come find you.”
Belial stared at him in a daze, then slowly nodded.
Mammon’s eyes curved with delight. “Black pearls symbolize wisdom. Only those with extraordinary intelligence are worthy of wearing one. Like you.”
“I’m not wise.”
“Fools can’t learn magic. Magic and wisdom go hand in hand.”
The cold mist of the waterfall saturated the air around them. Far in the distance, windmills turned gently, singing in the breeze. Belial brushed his fingertip across his nose. “But… how long am I supposed to keep it?”
“Until I ask for it back. Or… until we never see each other again.”
“…Oh.”
Belial rose and walked to the edge of the cliff, a subtle smile appearing on his face. The stubborn pride of youth was written all over him: delighted, but afraid of letting it show, therefore turning away on purpose.
Meanwhile, Mammon’s two subordinates were drowning their sorrows in a tavern.
“Valentine’s Day without a date. What hell.”
“What was His Highness thinking? Just to give away one pearl stud, he had us make seven more as decoys. Who’s the real fool here, him or us?”
“Psh, as if Lord Mammon would ever waste anything. The other seven were fakes.”
When Belial returned home, he immediately retrieved a dictionary and began reading the diary. Given he was relying on a dictionary, the pace was understandably slow. But he remained patient and carefully translated its contents:
Berduth 6731, Year 5442, September 29 — Jerusalem — Sunny.
I suddenly felt the urge to write. What has happened is too much to bear. I must put into words what I can never tell another soul, in hopes that someone, someday, might discover it, and prevent such tragedy from unfolding.
Yesterday was September 29th. Just as my wife foretold, Sirius turned red. She said it was both a blessing and an omen.
Michael is unspeakably beautiful. Soft, curled red hair, snow-pale skin, and eyes the color of a calm blue sea. His tiny hand clung to my finger, unable to let go, the grasp of a child desperate for security.
When he lowers his head, his round little chin folds into a soft layer of baby fat. He was born with six pale golden wings, not yet full-feathered, their hue tender and new, like all newborn life. No infant should be this lovely. But Michael was different. God would never allow him to be less than beautiful.
His birth drew a great many guests, even Lord Ruthfel himself. I still refuse to call him Lucifer. The name “Ruthfel” was divinely bestowed, an unparalleled honor, and yet he resents it. But that he would attend in person, means that surely no one would dare mistreat Michael now.
Gabriel is usually sullen, and rarely smiles. But beneath that, she is tender-hearted—she wants to do right by everyone, and it shows. Lord Ruthfel is her opposite. He smiles at you, yes, but you’ll never know what he’s truly thinking, especially now that he’s become the Vice Regent. Behind closed doors, more and more refer to him as “the arrogant Vice Regent.”
But… with children, he’s different. The younger they are, the more they draw his warmth. For this reason, many women who’ve shared his bed speculate: if they “accidentally” bore his child, perhaps they could tether him for good. But, for reasons no one understands, none have succeeded. Despite being not yet fully matured, Lord Ruthfel remains astonishingly composed—even in the bedchamber, where men are said to be at their weakest. No wonder God favors him so dearly.
Michael, for his part, was wholly attached to him. He couldn’t take his eyes off His Highness, and would burst into tears the moment he left Lord Ruthfel’s arms.
And yet Lord Ruthfel surprised even me in showing no affection towards him. No matter how hard Michael cried, he sat silently by, unwilling to glance at him. I can only think it’s because of Michael’s origin. If Alice’s calculations are correct, the road ahead for this child will be cruel indeed.
But for those of us who know the secret… how long can we even hope to live?
Berduth 6731, Year 5442, November 9 — Shima— Sunny.
For our son’s first-month celebration, Lord Ruthfel did not come. Yet he had promised to give him a nickname, and sent word through his attendants.
He named him ‘Isar’.
In the Heavenly Language, ‘Isar’ means ‘Radiance of the Sun’.
Alice was overjoyed the moment she heard it. She said it fit perfectly—Michael, after all, was born on the fourth day, the day of sunlight, the day that gave birth to Jerusalem, the radiant city.
Isar may not be a rare name, but only Michael is truly worthy of it.
Tomorrow, I will go to the altar and inject the Blood of Loyalty into his body.
God will protect us.
Still… Isar.
What a beautiful name it is.
Berduth 6735, Year 43392, September 29 — Sancta Faylia — Sunny
Michael is growing painfully slowly. And yet no one can deny how endearing he is. When he lost his baby teeth, his smile revealed two tiny gaps. Paired with that red hair, he looked irresistibly sweet. The very image of Alice.
I often feel this: Michael is both God’s gift, and a burden far too great for us to bear.
The thought of what kind of soul resides in that innocent shell robs me of sleep. I cannot rest.
Berduth 7213, Year 123810, March 13 — Jerusalem — Rain
Today, I watched Michael beg once again to visit the Hall of Splendor and see Lord Lucifer. My heart was unspeakably heavy.
His obsession, his mad devotion, it torments Alice and me day after day.
O Lord, I beg You, guide us.
What are we to do?
Father in Heaven, You have always been the beacon of our faith. And yet… You’ve burdened us with this most forbidden of sins.
If Michael were to die one day, he wouldn’t even be able to reincarnate. He is not of the divine race. He is but an abandoned soul, the naked Original Sin.
If one day his life comes to an end, he would simply vanish from this world, without a trace.
With an origin like his… do we even have the right to keep him?
If we could, Alice and I would rather die in battle, just to bury this secret forever.
Belial flipped a few more pages. And then… sat frozen at his desk.
He had uncovered a secret.
One that touched the Sovereign of Demons, Lucifer, the Archangel Michael, and even the Creator Himself.
How… could this be?
No matter how much he speculated, he never imagined the truth would be this.
Meanwhile, the grandest palace in the Demon Realm gradually fell silent after a night of revelry.
The mighty Pandemonium slumbered beneath the weight of night. The gates of Kade Palace stood open, a dusky blue fire flickering within. Statues of fallen angels hung their wings low, arms cradling urns. Water splashed like the flight of skylarks into a pool, scattering droplets of shining rainlight that landed on the Demon Sovereign’s body. He held Michael in his arms, gently cleansing him.
Snow was common in the capital. Rain, by contrast, was rare. Now, a fine mist descended in graceful veils, like soft smoke unfurling a vast net, dimming the world to a blur. Lucifer sat at the water’s edge, Michael in his arms, their bodies immersed below the surface. Their forms pressed close, swaying gently with the ripples. Michael’s limp arm slipped into the water, raising a bloom of droplets. Startled, Lucifer gripped his hand, fingers interlacing with his.
The living clasp tightly. A corpse’s fingers curl stiffly upward, joints locking into unnatural repose. Lucifer’s face was damp, the ends of his hair dripping, lashes heavy with water, his majesty made strangely beautiful in this moment of sorrow. Light shimmered across the water. Black hair tangled with red like filaments from a silkworm’s cocoon, floating in the dark pool. Cold rain veiled the night. Never before had Rhodheoga witnessed such desolation.
Their bodies were tightly entwined, but there was no response. Whether out of shame or despair, Lucifer suddenly thrust into him. There was no pain—just a shudder through the lifeless frame. His movement halted. He gripped Michael’s neck and bit down on his lips in helpless rage. Shameful desire, senseless urgency. But Michael remained unresponsive. With a gasp, Lucifer pulled away, laying him gently by the edge of the pool.
The rain fell like gauze curtains, dimming the night and the blue glow within. The body slid slowly, unnoticed, back into the pool. Pale face submerged, turning deep blue; red hair darkened to violet, swaying like water grass. Lucifer did not stop him, but dove in too, leaving only their thin garments adrift at the surface.
The Archangel’s body was like an autumn leaf that had fallen to earth, ready to decay at any moment. The Sovereign of Demons followed close behind, refusing to let him go, even if it meant drowning. Silver light shimmered across water and sky alike. A hopeless entanglement consuming the rain-swept night.
It draped over the ages, the millennia that had passed, over the wishes that would never come true, over love that had never faded from its first bloom to its final breath.
The candle went out. The dream faded. Lucifer emerged from the pool, carrying Michael in his arms. Their soaked garments clung to them, trailing drops in their wake. He draped his cloak over Michael’s body. His eyes, washed by rain, could hardly stay open, but his face was calm. Michael’s beautiful hair was a tangled mess, head slumped against his shoulder, limbs limp. Lucifer carried him into the hall, leaving a path of water behind, like the lingering fragrance of a memory from the dawn of Creation.
Lucifer bore Michael back to the bedchamber. Their silhouettes, vanishing at the corridor’s end, were strangely tender. Lucifer dried both their bodies and sat on the bed, holding Michael close.
The only sound in the night was the rain’s weeping.
“Were you happy today?” he asked softly. “If you were, then don’t answer. But if not, tell me, and tomorrow I’ll take you somewhere else.”
“If you stay quiet,” he added with a smile, one rare and childlike, “I’ll bully you the whole night.”
“Alright, I won’t tease you anymore. Let’s talk,” he murmured, cupping Michael’s face and lying down beside him, face to face. “Guess who’s the most miserable person tonight?”
After a pause, he answered himself: “Of course you wouldn’t know, silly. It’s Azazel. He can’t spend time with any lover tonight or people would say he’s playing favorites. Mammon should’ve been the same, but I heard from Jenny that he planned to spend the night with her. Seems he really wants something steady.”
“And he’s getting along well with Belial, too. You don’t have to worry.”
“And you, Baby. When will you want to speak to me again?”
“Isar, Isar, you aren’t cute at all anymore. Always frowning, never clinging to me like you used to.”
He chuckled faintly.
“Just say one word, will you?” he whispered, brushing Michael’s face. “One word. Please?”
The room was cloaked in darkness. The moonlight had long been drowned by the storm. He clasped Michael’s hand, closed his eyes, and kissed each slender finger. “It’s been so many years since I last heard your voice.”
“Come on… be good. Smile for me, hmm?”
The rain battered the windows, louder and louder, swallowing the imperial capital in mist.
“Isar…” Lucifer pressed his forehead to Michael’s, his body curling. “I regret it so much……. Why didn’t I stop you back then? Why did I let that happen to you?”
The wind wept through the hollow night. The rain sighed.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry. Isar, you once told me that if we tried our best, we could do anything. So please—just say one word to me. Just one. Please?”
No matter how many years pass, I will never forget this moment.
I always remember someone, so gentle, that even his softest words felt like divine decrees. I obeyed with trembling reverence, afraid to anger him. But the truth is… he would never get angry with me.
If he ever did sulk, he’d lie on my arm in his sleep. I’d retaliate by draping my entire leg over him. Then we’d wrestle under the blankets—me yelling first, him playing innocent. If I was at a loss, I’d straddle him and bump my head against his chest; he’d cradle my head, then we’d both roll back and forth over the bed.
He would always gather my fallen hairs from his shoulder. Even in crowds, we would exchange glances so sappy others would cringe.
He was always careful, catching me when I tripped, cooking for me until his hands were covered in burns, writing little notes to reconcile after a fight. He loved holding my hand, pressing our foreheads together. I always remember how when he cried, I couldn’t bear to look.
I remember his smile, but not his face.
And even though I’ve forgotten who I am, seeing Lucifer on the verge of tears stirs a sorrow in me. Suddenly I realize: all that has unfolded in Heaven and the Demon Realm, I’ve watched it with dispassionate eyes. But now… now there is something I wish to know. I miss someone, and I don’t know where he’s gone.
But I wish I could ask him: are you still as happy as before?
They say memory is a bridge that leads only to a prison of solitude.
I want to tell him: whatever you do, don’t become like Lucifer. It would break me.
Yet even in this state of detachment, a quiet voice within tells me:
Your story is more hopeless than theirs.
Go on sleeping. Don’t think anymore.
Lucifer said nothing. His eyes were bloodshot, nose flushed red. At that moment, anything could have happened. But not this. This, not even he could have believed.
A pair of hands cupped his face.
He didn’t move. Those hands traced gently from his forehead down to his chin. He looked up—and met a pair of deep blue eyes. Beautiful eyes. They blinked, curved into a smile, and shimmered with tears.
“Lucifer,” said the voice.
It was Michael. Awake.
Like someone flicked a switch inside him, Lucifer went completely still. Michael’s lips brushed against his, slow and soft. His hand slipped beneath Lucifer’s shirt—only to be caught.
“To hear everything, to feel everything, but never be able to respond… it was unbearable,” Michael’s voice broke. “Lucifer, I heard every word you said… everything you did, I—”
He never finished. Lucifer had lost control. No more talking—he pinned Michael’s hand above the pillow and kissed him like crazy. Michael, flustered, clung to him. His hand grazed Lucifer’s back, and Lucifer froze. Then the tears, long withheld, burst free and trickled into Michael’s hair.
Michael startled. “Don’t cry… I—I’m sorry,” he murmured, gently tucking Lucifer’s black hair behind his ears.
Lucifer couldn’t stop himself. He kissed him again and again, all finesse forgotten. Once he entered, he could no longer pull away. Michael moaned softly, but Lucifer didn’t back off.
Thunder cracked the sky. Rain surged into foam and fury. Their bodies moved in frenzied rhythm. Michael’s voice—melodious even in whispers—grew breathless with need. He wiped away Lucifer’s tears, pushed him back onto the headboard, hands roaming over him, hair swaying with every motion.
They were swept away by waves of desire, lost in storm and tide, trembling and reckless. Earthly sorrows vanished. Two souls, bared to each other, soared in boundless space.
Raindrops slid down the windows, quivering against wet flowers. They made love, then slept, then made love again, six or seven times before dawn. Desire burned through the palace air, once so cold, now heavy with heat. Time lost meaning. The world narrowed to just the two of them.
That night, Lucifer glowed triumphant. Before long, he caught his breath, pinned Michael beneath him, and whispered, “Are you really Michael?”
“How rude,” Michael pouted, swatting him away and turning his back.
“Sorry… It’s just been so long since you spoke to me so I just have the illusion that…”
No demon or divine being had ever seen Lucifer so humble. He embraced Michael from behind, breathing into his neck, murmuring apologies.
And then—without warning—a dagger glinted in Michael’s hand.
Before I could even react, the blade plunged into Lucifer’s chest.
Translator’s note:
That sudden “I” in “Before I could even react…” is not a mistake 🙂
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
