35: Book of Raphael (1)

Severe content warning: R*pe.

Part IV: Book of Raphael

To fear Hell and crave Heaven is to doom the road to light, laying every step with sin. – Raphael

The day Lucifer ordered the assault on Heaven, the Demon Realm’s royal palace was thrown into the greatest chaos it had seen in millennium.

Apart from the straightforward demon knights, satans, ministers, nobles, and magistrates alike were dressed in courtly garb embroidered with Kriyan gold thread and crowned with headdresses shaped like black swans. They had waited in Pandemonium for Lucifer all morning. They appeared solemn and majestic, but every one of them harbored secret schemes. As the French would say, it was like the whirlpool of Charybdis facing the cliffs of Scylla. In truth, not just the upper ranks, all of demonkind was steeped in unease.

You can’t keep paper from catching fire. The scandal of a Seraph disguising himself as Michael to assassinate Lucifer had already spread like wildfire. Most demons were outraged, cursing the divine race’s despicable behavior. And yet, whispers casting doubt on Lucifer himself had also begun to circulate. He was the Sovereign of the Demon Realm—how could he possibly fail to notice that the one sharing his bed was an angel? So, some began to speculate: perhaps after Michael, Lucifer had taken a new lover and, to avoid discovery, ordered the angel to masquerade as Michael. The two had carried on a secret affair, and when things soured, the disgrace of Valentine’s night had erupted.

Native demons were always different from the divine race, languid like reptiles, cynical like liars. Some scoffed, saying Lucifer’s taste hadn’t changed in a hundred years, still obsessing over angels. In truth, they all hated Michael to the bone. In this moment of turmoil, many who had long planned rebellion stirred to action. Protests and strikes were whispered into motion. But once news spread that Lucifer’s strike would head straight for Parnor, the atmosphere shifted dramatically.

The Seraph’s dagger had been imbued with pure Light. If the target had been any demon other than Lucifer, they would surely be dead. Now, Lucifer, enduring the searing pain of a wound to his side, sat upon the high seat in Pandemonium’s Grand Hall, delivering orders to his war council.

“This time, we strike the Third Heaven. Victory is the only option.”

His voice was faint, weakened by his wounds, but every word was clear, his cadence deliberate.

“How much damage we deal is irrelevant. What matters is that this surprise attack proves to them that we remain unbroken. At the same time, gather any critical intelligence or documentation.”

“Sire, what of the troop types and numbers?”

“Ten thousand Archdevils. Fifty thousand Fallen. Two hundred thousand Horned Beasts and Minotaurs each. Three hundred thousand Devils.”

A hush swept the chamber. The scale was staggering. An all-in assault.

“Sire… since the ceasefire, we haven’t deployed either Archdevils or Fallen. Might this be reconsidered?”

“We’ve never been at peace with Heaven.”

“Understood. And the vice commanders?”

“Three: Beelzebub, Mephistopheles, and Sariel.”

As one of Lucifer’s three personal swordsmen, Sariel’s inclusion came with surprise.

“Understood. And the commander?”

“Mammon.”

The room fell utterly silent.

To use a human analogy, a ten-year-old child and a grown man of twenty differ in strength by a staggering margin. It was even more so with Archdevils. Mammon was the most renowned among the native demons—arguably the most physically powerful of all Archdevils under Lucifer’s reign. Even in his youth, he could take on a hundred enemies alone. Back then, Michael had still been a worthy rival. But once Mammon reached maturity, the difference was monumental. Since then, Lucifer had never sent him to the front again. Physically-speaking, he might the strongest being in all three realms.

No one had expected that Mammon’s first deployment as an adult would be to seize the commercial district of Parnor.

But immense strength often comes with limited intelligence. Mammon never concerned himself with such calculations. The moment he received his orders, he was alight with excitement, mind full only of “leading troops to battle.” Before departing, he proudly assured Belial of certain victory.

Belial, finally given a chance to act alone, slipped out of the academy as soon as Mammon left.

He was heading to the legendary Source of Sin.

The boy was clever, but when he grew anxious, he lost his sense. During class, the students had once again been whispering, conspiratorially discussing the Ninth Hell. They speculated on what was truly hidden in the so-called “Soul of the Demon Realm.” Some claimed it held the elixir of immortality. Others swore it was the lair of Hell’s most dreadful monster. Some said it was an altar Lucifer built to save Michael. Others insisted it was a bottomless abyss. Belial had no interest in any of that.

One obscure answer caught his eye: those who reached the Ninth Hell could grow another pair of wings.

Traveling downstream along the Solor River by boat would bring him to the edge of the Ninth Hell. But boats couldn’t linger there, those that did would mysteriously break apart, swallowed by the waves. The Ninth Hell was strictly forbidden, the most mysterious and terrifying place in the Demon Realm. It was said that, apart from Lucifer, anyone who entered would vanish forever.

When Belial reached the shore and asked to go to the Soul of the Demon Realm, he was met with flat rejections. Eventually, he offered a high price to rent a blackmarket ship—and finally succeeded. The boat carried him downstream, past the Eighth Hell, where he saw the Hanging Gardens.

The buildings there were Heavenly, designed in the style of Shima. At its center stood a palace modeled after the Hall of Splendor, drifting with clouds and hung with portraits of Michael in his youth.

Then the river plunged. The sky grew oppressive, and starlight vanished into darkness. At the landing, the boatman kicked Belial out and fled before he could even protest.

The river turned black under the dying light. Not a blade of grass lined the cracked stone banks. Crows passed overhead, their yellow eyes scanning the forbidden land below with malicious curiosity. In the distance stood a jagged tower on a stone slope, its surface so pitted it looked as though eaten by worms. Its few windows cast a weak outline, making the rock behind it look like a row of bald old men’s heads.

Undaunted, Belial pressed forward, following the river.

Half an hour passed—he had made it barely halfway. The thunder of water now filled the air. Compared to it, even the mighty Eagle Falls was a whisper. Reaching the tower, he found the road ended there. On either side, waterfalls cascaded endlessly, their frothy torrents vanishing into an unseen abyss.

Spanning the chasm between the twin towers was a stone bridge, its far end lost in mist. The land beyond was gray and lifeless.

The bridge looked far too dangerous. He knew he should turn back. But something irresistible called to him from across the way—something that promised the extraordinary. Swallowing hard, trembling with dread and longing, he crossed the tower’s threshold and stepped onto the bridge.

The stones were crumbling, more like a slum alley than a path of kings. There were no railings. Walking it felt like walking a tightrope.

He lifted his head, forcing himself not to look down, and moved steadily forward. Halfway across, his foot struck a pebble. It tumbled into a crack, bounced—and vanished into silence.

He paused, fingers slick with sweat. Then: two-thirds. Three-quarters. Four-fifths…

Just as he neared the other tower, the ground beneath him shifted.

He slipped. Nearly fell.

He clutched his chest, heart pounding. One foot down. Steady. He exhaled in relief and lifted the other—

The world lurched.

Stone blocks fell like rain. The bridge trembled. Belial stumbled, dropped to his knees, clinging to the bridge with all his strength.

It shuddered wildly, flinging him about. Distant behind the far tower, a plume of red light and shadow shot skyward. A final tremor, and he was thrown into the air.

He flailed. His wings did nothing. He clawed at the cliff face, caught a crevice with both hands. His wings fluttered frantically. His fingers bled. His body shook.

But there were no footholds. Nowhere to climb.

One hand gave out. He slid four or five meters. Sobbed. Gripped again. His hands were now bloody pulp. Still, his survival instinct burned bright.

But strength alone wasn’t enough.

His nails cracked. The abyss opened its maw—dragging him down like a black hole.

He screamed as he fell.

And then—

The miraculous happened.

Though he had already lost consciousness, his falling body suddenly halted in midair—as if someone had lifted him by an invisible thread—and drifted back toward the entrance of the Ninth Hell.

At that very moment, at the heart of all converging lights, a massive silver core burst outward in blinding beams. Crimson entwined with shadow. Shadow latched to red. Dark-red tendrils coiled like dragon claws, gripping tight.

At the core’s center, two swords were thrust into an amber base—one gleaming with light, the other cloaked in darkness.

The Holy Sword, Flame.

The Infernal Sword, Abyss.

The cosmos breathed. The black night pulsed like a living beast. Veins like vines trembled from heel to skull. Shivering, pulsating. Everything else lay hidden, like the wilderness beyond the tent. A quiet world, dark and unknowable.

“Belial, no more games like this again.”

From the high watchtower, the Sovereign of Demon’s crimson eyes stared toward the place where the twin swords rested. He paused, then smiled coldly.

“Isar… war is about to begin.”

In Metatron’s residence in Sancta Faylia, a portrait of Michael hung on the corner bookshelf. The background depicted the rainy outskirts of Jerusalem, faded with time so that the entire painting appeared shrouded in gray, casting Michael’s scarlet hair into a shadowy rose-red. Only his eyes remained unchanging—a sea-blue eternal and untouched, as if time and space themselves could not alter them.

The dining table gleamed from polishing, and above it, a coffee pot hovered gently up and down. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the room. Metatron lounged idly on the sofa, the towel he used to dry his hair now wrapped around his neck like a scarf. In front of him sat an empty glass of white wine, a mostly finished bottle, and a scatter of fallen hair strands laid across a divine-tribe newspaper.

Raphael, unable to bend due to lower back pain, half-knelt on the floor to retrieve the newspapers Metatron had tossed around. His sleeves were rolled neatly to the elbows, revealing pale and delicate arm. Though Seraphs could shape their physical forms at will, making their beauty proportional to their strength, Raphael had seemingly never bothered to adjust his. Compared to the statuesque, David-like physiques of other Seraphs, he was clearly more slender. Metatron glanced at his wrist—thin and sharp-boned—and suddenly recalled the days when Raphael had still been a lower angel. Back then, even without golden hair, the way little Rafe gazed up at him from beneath distant trees, gentle and reverent, often stirred the softest corners of his heart.

Now, seeing Raphael’s calm, downcast gaze again, Metatron felt only the urge to seize that fragile wrist, strike him to the floor, and slap him hard.

“Mammon won’t be easy to deal now that he’s come of age,” Raphael said mildly, his voice as placid as his expression. “I just hope war doesn’t break out too soon.”

Metatron reached for the floating coffee pot to pour himself a cup, but Raphael beat him to it, taking the pot and pouring for him with a trace of obsequious intent. Metatron accepted the cup without thanks, and remarked, almost offhandedly, “I wonder who it is He truly trusts. Apparently, it’s not Michael.”

Raphael’s hand paused mid-motion. “Who God trusts is His business. Ours is to serve with all our heart.”

“Indeed. And you, especially, are quite devoted.”

Raphael waited in silence for the rest of the sentence. But Metatron had already moved on—he sipped his coffee, donned his glasses, and began leafing through a random newspaper. Raphael waited a long while without a reply, then muttered bitterly under his breath, “What did I do wrong this time?”

“It’s not that you did something wrong,” Metatron yawned lazily. “It’s that you’ve never done anything right.”

Raphael stood up, hesitated, then slammed the paper onto the table. The teacup on it nearly shattered; dark liquid spilled across the sofa like a stain. He turned to leave, then came back, rare fury blazing in his voice. “Metatron, no matter what I do for you, you never see it!”

“What am I supposed to see?”

“You saw when God summoned me the other day. You knew I was the one being sent to the Demon Realm, and you didn’t try to stop it. You didn’t even ask! You don’t care at all!”

“Why should I stop you? You were having such a good time.”

“I was risking my life, and you call that having a good time?!”

This was the first time Metatron had seen Raphael lose his composure. So the man did have a temper after all. But he showed no surprise, only raised an eyebrow. “If God sent you to assassinate Lucifer, I doubt He would’ve told you to linger until dawn.”

Raphael fell silent.

“Lingering that long—why make it sound so dramatic?”

“I couldn’t help it. Lucifer is charming in bed. At least he knows how to treat someone with respect.”

A flicker of awkwardness crossed Metatron’s face, but he quickly burst into laughter. “That’s because he thought you were Michael. You still don’t understand that? If you were Michael, I’d treat you ten times better than he ever could.”

“I-is that so?” Raphael faltered, like a deflated balloon. Even his shoulders drooped. He forced a smile. “Makes sense, I suppose…”

“You were quite forward-thinking, weren’t you? Eliminating Michael ahead of time, just to make way for this day?” Metatron scoffed, wiping his hair with the towel around his neck. “The moment I expressed affection for him, I should’ve seen this coming.”

“…Who told you that?” Raphael’s voice was pale as ash, trembling just beneath the surface.

“Hanniah is reckless, sure, but there’s no way he could orchestrate Michael’s ambush alone. We all know who Michael was—Archangel, unkillable. Even if he wanted to die, he’d have to start with suicide and take three days to finish. The one who wanted him dead the most wasn’t a mob of fanatics, but a certain low-born angel. Isn’t that right? It’s not like this is the first time either. Every time I grow fond of someone, that person ends up miserably dead, thanks to you.”

Raphael said nothing, only raised his head instinctively to look at the portrait of Michael. The white military uniform wrapped a tall, noble frame. Upon his head rested the feathered crest of the Archangel Commander. His face was austere but beautiful, with a touch of commanding grace. Those clear eyes reminded Raphael of how he looked just before death—blue eyes veined with red, bloodshot and clouded, like a drunkard in disgrace. When he saw Michael’s desperate plea for help, Raphael suddenly remembered that Michael was still so young. He might have seemed weathered at times, but he was still the boy he had watched grow up.

And yet, all he could do was kill him.

When he had acted, Raphael’s pain far exceeded what he had once felt when facing his own death. He hated taking a life, yet the Father always cast him as the villain. “Michael never recovered all his memories,” the Father had said. “If he lives on as he is, one day he will rebel like Lucifer. Better he die a hero now than fall in disgrace later.”

“Yes, I killed him,” Raphael said, laughing as if he’d given up entirely. “I killed Evangeline, too. All my attempts to atone were lies. I wanted them dead. That’s the answer you wanted, isn’t it? Well, now you have it. Do you want to kill me, too?”

For a moment, Metatron’s expression froze—full of shock and something indescribable. But he soon shook out the paper again and muttered without looking up, “I won’t kill you. You’re too filthy.”

That must be what it feels like to be pierced by a thousand arrows. Metatron’s words grew crueler with every exchange. Raphael stood silently, looking drained, nearly lifeless. Metatron gave no thought to how he felt. He just went on, casually:

“Is every lowborn creature like you? As long as someone has power, you’ll lick their boots or warm their bed—whatever gets you ahead. I guess that’s a talent too. Worth studying.”

“And?”

“You slept with Lucifer. That should keep your heart fluttering for a hundred Berduth.”

“What else?”

“Look at us. Who would think we’re equals? You’ve done everything a servant would do. The way you moan in bed, one would think I paid you.”

“What else?”

“Lord Raphael, is that all you can say now?” Metatron shrugged. “I’ve said everything. And no matter how many times I tell you to get lost, you never leave. A man with no pride, what’s left for me to say?”

Raphael closed his eyes and spent his last ounce of strength on a deep breath. The golden light of Heaven Prime lit his face, glinting on his brow, fusing into his hair, and falling softly on Michael’s portrait opposite him. Many things became clear. He finally understood where he had gone wrong.

When Michael died, he’d shamefully hoped he might finally have a chance. Maybe, just maybe, he could soften Metatron’s heart. After the night at Lucifer’s, he’d felt too ashamed to face him again. But now that shame felt absurdly one-sided. Metatron had never cared who he was with.

Raphael refilled Metatron’s coffee cup, his expression blank, his movements numb. Then he set the pot down and said quietly, “I’ll head back.”

“Don’t let the door hit you.”

To Metatron, it was just another ordinary, dull afternoon, the kind where he might see Raphael. The thought of him and Lucifer irritated him, adding a layer of restless agitation. What he didn’t know was that when Raphael pushed that door open, the latter had already made the decision to give up the most important thing in his life.

That night, Raphael flew alone toward the Seraph Palaces.

In the City of God, forever bathed in golden light, the only way to distinguish night from day was the faint darkening of the lower skies beyond the cloud barrier. The Seraph Palaces crowned the heights of Sancta Faylia, led by the Sanctum, a massive stone symphony of divine architecture. It was a monument to the divine race’s legacy, as sacred and irreplaceable as the Scriptures. The first to lay its foundation was the former Vice Regent, Ruthfel. Back then, Creation had barely passed its thousandth Berduth, and Ruthfel was just a small bundle of wings. God looked upon the child with compassion harboring for the first time, the thought that a child ought to be warmed by a home. So He took his hand and guided him to lay a small stone tablet at the very center of the universe.

And how fitting that ten thousand years later, after Lucifer fell from the Mountain of Creation, after the Lord had ordered the Holy Wings of Light to be removed from the face of the Hall of Splendor—that it was Michael, newly adorned with the Archangel’s crest, who laid the final stone.

Through towering colonnades, Raphael entered the main hall and knelt reverently.

“Father,” he said.

“My child, what brings you here?”

“I want to return to my old world,” Raphael said, bowing his head at last.

“Your old world – You mean the world of ordinary angels?”

“Yes, Father.”

“You would give up the glory of defeating Mammon?”

“Yes, Father.”

“I see. Go, then.”

Though His voice was as gentle as ever, it no longer held the warmth of earlier days. In the Age of Redemption, the Father would’ve asked why and tried to dissuade and mentor him. But after the Golden age, He had become something else, a being of boundless power and cold decree. Raphael suddenly understood. The Father’s transformation, from mercy to rigidity, might all stem from that wayward child, Ruthfel. Like a mother who forever favors the child that wounds her most.

But Raphael no longer cared. After thousands of Berduth, he had finally learned: equal love may be the most likely to reach a happy ending, but equality does not guarantee love.

Michael and Evangeline were completely different individuals, but they shared one quality—purity. And in Michael’s case, it shone even brighter. He was the strongest angel after Lucifer. Yet once he fell in love, he gave himself wholly, even if it meant being broken beyond repair.

Raphael, too, was an archangel. But he had done too many things that could not withstand the light. No wonder Metatron called him filthy.

Compared to Michael, he could never even measure up.

He looked up at the sky above Sancta Faylia. The golden wings of seraphs soared overhead, brilliant and untouchable.

Once, he had dreamed of having six golden wings just like those.

A few days later, Raphael was married. The wedding took place in Abello, a small town in the Third Heaven, and the bride’s hometown. God had not stripped Raphael of his rank, so when he arrived with his betrothal gifts, nearly the entire town crowded into the streets to catch a glimpse of a man they’d only ever seen in print. He had invited only Gabriel, Randekiel, and a handful of other high-ranking angels, then hastily proceeded with the ceremony.

Though the wedding itself was simple, the crowd made it lively. Polite and empathetic as ever, Raphael quickly won everyone’s affection, and the townspeople were full of envy toward the bride, who seemed plucked from a Cinderella tale. Her dress resembled something from the Dresden Shepherds, and the wide-brimmed hat with its bow cast soft shadows over her curled brown hair. Clutching a bouquet, she held on to Raphael’s arm, her eyes brimming with tears. Raphael gave her hand a gentle pat and smiled encouragingly, then waved toward Gabriel in the crowd.

But the gesture froze midair—standing just behind Gabriel was Metatron, his eyes shadowed and fixed on Raphael. Panic flashed across Raphael’s face, and he quickened his pace with the bride, trying to push forward. Too late. Metatron’s voice rang out, clear and cutting through the crowd:

“Lord Raphael, does everyone here know about your affairs with men?”

In an instant, the noise of the crowd fell silent.

Raphael hadn’t expected this. That even now, Metatron would humiliate him. On his wedding day. He lowered his head, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to endure. He decided to ignore the man entirely, to simply finish the ceremony. The bride, perhaps out of deference or fear, asked nothing, and the others were still reeling from the shock of seeing the Chancellor of Heaven himself. But Metatron wasn’t finished. He pressed on, relentless:

“You don’t love this woman. Marrying her—isn’t that doing her harm?”

Raphael could bear no more. He turned his back and replied, “Sorry. We’re not familiar, so please don’t presume to judge my relationship with my wife.”

“I’m not presuming anything,” Metatron replied, “but shouldn’t you be honest with her? Lovely bride, do you know what kind of man your groom used to be?”

Raphael’s face turned ashen. There was no way to salvage this. It was his own punishment, wasn’t it? For all the ways he’d hurt Metatron. Now the man had come to corner him completely. And still, what Raphael felt most at that moment wasn’t guilt, but hatred. Not for Metatron’s revenge, but for the fact that a man who didn’t love him would still want to destroy his marriage.

But then—something wholly unexpected happened. The fragile, dainty bride turned around and faced Metatron head-on, her voice steady, her gaze fearless.

“I’ve followed Lord Raphael for years. I know exactly the kind of man he is. I’m even well aware of everything between the two of you, so we have no need for your concern, Lord Metatron.”

Metatron was stunned.

Raphael could feel her trembling beside him, but her voice remained composed and unshaken. “Now that he’s chosen me, I hope Lord Metatron will show some dignity and let us go in peace. Thank you.”

The moment her words fell, thunderous applause broke across the town of Abello. In all of Heaven’s long history, it was the first time since Isar’s Uprising that a lower angel received louder applause than one of higher rank. Metatron stood there, dumbfounded. To crash Raphael’s wedding was already wildly out of character. To be rebuked by a subordinate of Raphael’s—he was left speechless.

And yet, as if possessed, he launched himself forward, grabbed Raphael by the arm, and dragged him back with a laugh that dripped sarcasm.

“Raphael, stop kidding around. Marrying a woman? You? Come on.”

“Let go of me.”

Raphael’s whole body shook with fury. His voice dropped low, barely controlled.

“Don’t deceive another good girl. End this farce.”

“Let go!!”

“Oh, you’re angry now? Why don’t you kill me, like you did Evangeline? Like you did Michael?”

The faces of those two returned like ghosts to his mind. Raphael’s expression twisted in agony. The hatred he felt for Metatron peaked—if not for this man, would his life have fallen so far?

He struggled, but couldn’t break free. At last, he raised his hand and uttered an incantation.

A violent wind descended from above, and a fireball slammed into Metatron’s chest.

He hadn’t braced himself. The moment the blow landed, he coughed up a mouthful of blood.

“Lord Metatron!” Gabriel and Randekiel cried out in unison, rushing to catch him as he collapsed.

Raphael didn’t spare him a single glance. He turned and left with his bride, her face full of worry.

Beyond the hills, a mortal sunset cast red light over the fields outside the town. Even the irrigation trenches flowed with a ruddy warmth. In the countryside beyond, white horses that couldn’t fly grazed alongside unseen flocks, poking their heads through wooden fences to nibble on wild grass. Everyone here spoke the local dialect, their clothing modest, almost too plain. Places like this were the kind Metatron had always sneered at, “too vulgar” for him to to approach.

But Raphael made a point of visiting towns like this every year, or inspection, for prayer. Metatron had always thought of it as an act, a way to win hearts with false humility. And yet, for a fleeting second, an unsettling thought crept in.

Maybe Raphael had always belonged in places like this. Maybe he had always been most at home here.

And maybe, all his struggle upward had never been about vanity or immortality—maybe it had always been about something else.

Metatron didn’t dare follow that thought any further. He could only stand there, watching Raphael walk away.

On the night of Raphael’s wedding, it wasn’t just Lord Metatron who lay awake. So too did the children of the demon world.

That same night, something terrible happened. Belial awoke with a start and discovered that the rot in his body had crept up to his chest.

Silver moonlight poured across the Demon Realm, framed by the window into a neat, pale square, etched like a charm onto the floor of the dormitory. Mammon’s Scythe of Destruction stood slanted against the window, its platinum skull grinning eerily in the dark. Belial had never feared ghosts, nor skeletons, but at that instant, he wrapped his chest tightly with his clothes, curled into his blanket, and bumped into Mammon.

Irritated and depressed, Belial kicked him. “Don’t sleep in my bed!”

Mammon, deep in sleep, murmured something incoherent and draped a leg across Belial’s narrow waist. Belial couldn’t breathe and shoved him off. Mammon rolled over, then rolled right back, wrapping all four limbs around him like an octopus and pinning him in place.

“Brother, can you sleep in your own bed? It’s too crowded,” Belial grumbled, finally relenting.

Mammon said nothing. Eyes still closed, he smiled faintly, like an angel, rested his hand beneath Belial’s neck, and pulled him tightly into his arms. Very tightly. Belial’s eyes, red and glimmering, lost all resistance. Pressed to Mammon’s chest, he drifted into a peaceful sleep.

The next morning, Metatron received a letter. Breaking the seal, he found Raphael’s familiar handwriting staring up at him:

Lord Metatron,

I’ve thought long and hard about what you said, that by marrying her, I’ve done her harm.

And still, I don’t believe I’ve done wrong.

You’re thinking like Michael, assuming that marriage must always be with the one you love. But not everyone has that kind of courage, or endurance.

You’re right. I don’t love her deeply.

But in her, I saw a reflection of who I used to be. That pain of desperately clinging to someone, trying every way just to stay near them, you’d never understand.

If happiness cannot be mine, then why not bless the one who truly loves me with hers?

Evangeline. Michael. Whoever you love now, I know you’ll never love me.

So maybe this really is best for both of us.

I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I had no choice. I hope you recover soon.

—Raphael

Raphael could never have predicted what came next, that Metatron would show up at his house.

As it happened, his wife had just stepped out to do some shopping. Raphael pressed himself behind the door, using all his strength to hold it shut—but Metatron smashed through the window and burst in. His actions were no different from a burglar’s, and his words matched:

“Trying to lock me out? Unless you can turn a gryphon into a sparrow, fat chance!”

Driven to a corner, Raphael, never Metatron’s equal in strength, could only ask bitterly, “What do you want from me?”

Metatron stepped closer, glancing around the room and eyeing the newly furnished home. “So you really got married,” he said. “Does your wife know you were still rolling around with Lucifer just a few days ago?”

“If you came all this way just to say that,” Raphael snapped, “then leave.”

Metatron adjusted his glasses and flashed a disingenuous smile. Raphael eyed him cautiously and attempted to step back, but was swiftly tackled to the ground. In a panic, Raphael pushed against him, but his pants were abruptly pulled down. “Metatron, have you lost your mind? I’m married now!” Raphael exclaimed.

“Does marriage make you forget who you were?” Metatron chuckled darkly, pinning Raphael down with his body. He unbuckled his own belt and lifted one of Raphael’s legs. “Remember this feeling?” Without waiting for a response, he thrust into him.

The sudden invasion without any foreplay sent waves of pain through Raphael. He clung desperately to Metatron’s arms, trying to pull away, but his waist was firmly held in place, subjected to relentless, rapid thrusts. Despite Raphael’s repeated reminders of his marital status, Metatron showed no concern. He even taunted, “You didn’t know I have a preference for married women, did you?” As the intensity grew, Raphael’s voice faltered. The pleasure of being filled by someone he once cared for made him want to hold Metatron close, yet he knew that once the passion faded, harsh words would follow.

“What do you want from me?” Raphael covered his eyes with his hands. In those few seconds, Metatron had thrust into him six or seven times. The overwhelming stimulation brought him to the brink of tears. “What… what do you want from me?”

Metatron paused for a moment. He frowned, lifted the back of Raphael’s neck, and kissed his lips. The tenderness of the kiss contrasted with the trembling pleasure coursing through his body. Raphael finally ceased resisting and questioning, surrendering to Metatron’s will.

Raphael didn’t realize this was only the beginning.

To Metatron, Raphael’s marriage seemed like a joke. Metatron would visit Raphael’s home whenever he pleased, always conveniently when his wife was away. Each visit left Raphael feeling violated and humiliated, by crude language, by cutting remarks. It was an existence was far more grueling than before.

This continued until Mammon led his army through the Gates of Heaven, marking the outbreak of the first Heaven-Demon War in the Age of Gray.

Author: Tav Tav

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