Part V: Book of Mammon
Angels always say that true love means letting go at the right time. But angels have nothing to do with me. – Mammon
More than ten thousand years ago, Lucifer, Sovereign of the Demon Realm, once gave a speech in the city of Kriya on the Wars of Light and Darkness. He outlined Heaven’s most representative large-scale wars and objectively discussed the causes of both its flourishing and its decline. At the time, the Demon Realm was just beginning to rise. During the Q&A, a patriotic elder of the demon race stood up and said passionately:
“Your Majesty, when you first took the throne of the Demon Realm, I was still a little boy. You probably don’t remember me, but it was your army that rescued me from the hands of the divine soldiers. Though I was saved, my parents died at the hands of angels. All my life, I’ve dreamed of witnessing you destroy the Creator God before I die. I believe many here share the same hope. Our Demon Realm should march out at once!”
His fervent speech stirred widespread resonance among the demons. Some even grabbed their weapons, ready to charge into Heaven right then. But Lucifer merely smiled: “Do you truly believe now is the time to strike against the divine race?”
“If Heaven has fallen so low, why do we keep tolerating them? Your Majesty, you disappoint us!”
Faced with the elder’s rebuke, Lucifer didn’t answer directly. Instead, he responded with courtesy and poise: “Compared to Heaven’s radiant history, which stretches back to the beginning of the cosmos, the height of demon civilization is but the blink of an eye. If our own fleeting glory blinds you, then you and I are bound to become arrogant troops doomed to defeat.”
Lucifer’s cardinal sin is Pride—and this speech radically changed how many in the Demon Realm saw him. Naturally, these words were never widely circulated in Heaven. After all, the Demon Sovereign is God’s most taboo subject, and Heaven would never allow him to appear noble or dignified. Ever since his fall, Lucifer has been depicted to new angels as a monstrous being with three heads, six arms, and glowing red eyes, just as, to demons, angels are nothing more than long-lived trash.
In the theater of politics and war, very few can truly grasp the reality of their enemies. Everyone sees the world from their own vantage point.
And it’s only now that I’ve come to realize: the demon race perceives the world through a colder spectrum—just like the hues of their skin. To them, the tender green of grass leans bluish-gray. The ochre of cobblestones takes on a bluish tinge. The drink known as Ione, a pink liquor in a middle-aged man’s cup at the tavern, appears more like a pale lavender hue.
I’ve been to the Demon Realm many times before, so I immediately recognized the location here as the City of Laim, in the Fifth Hell. Amidst rows of Baroque buildings and orbs of magical flames bursting skyward, one can still spot the Hall of Ten Thousand Demons, Lucifer’s administrative center during the Silver Age of Heaven. The current lord of the city is Bruton, of Fire, and his mansion is the grand stone house at the city center. Laim is a city of pride and prosperity, once ruled by several satans and boasting a long, rich history and a thriving economy. Its citizens take great pride in this and look down on the people of Rhodheoga. Now it is the depth of winter. Though snow falls from the sky, the surrounding volcanoes still rage, spitting molten fury in a surreal fusion of snow and fire.
Now that I’ve taken on a demon’s body, even the colors of Laim seem to shift toward violet and crimson. The differences are subtle but enough to chill the heart. No wonder the demons are so harsh in temperament. Their bodies aren’t only anatomically different from ours, their eyes are built differently, and even their respiratory systems function in another way. Standing here in the forest outside the city, my sense of smell feels sharper than a wild wolf’s. I can detect the stench of rotting lizard hide beneath lava, the aroma of wild goat meat deep in the woods, the rich bouquet of wine cellars in Laim, and the fishy stink of dead fish beneath the Solor River’s midstream. Even the rapid movements of creatures hidden in darkness appear to me in vivid slow motion.
As I walked forward, I felt every step vibrant and powerful, so keenly alive. This was nothing like the divine power of Heaven, willing swords to move effortlessly. No, this was the raw, untamed strength of life.
The worst part came when I passed through the city gates and spotted a demon woman in the tavern smiling at me with sultry intent. My whole body surged with heat, and my gaze involuntarily slid to her chest and hips—how rude! I quickly averted my eyes. In doing so, I caught sight of a decorative, shattered mirror on the tavern window. Reflected in the broken glass was the street bustle and the figure of a demon man:
He was handsome, broad-shouldered, with deep rose-colored hair draping over his tense chest. Above his pointed ears curled two sharp ram’s horns. Though not flying, his black skeletal wings hung dumbly at his sides, and a long, scale-covered black tail trailed behind him like a forgotten thread…
Were it not for the ocean-blue eyes, I would never have realized that this was me.
My eyes truly are the strangest part of me. All Seraphs can shift their forms at will, even changing the appearance of their eyes. But I alone, no matter how I change, always retain these same blue irises.
And so… I had become a Caprid. A ram-horned demon.
Though Caprids far outnumber archdevils and don’t draw as much attention, I still had to be extremely cautious and construct an entirely new identity. As I pondered how best to pass as an orphan, I found myself unconsciously drifting toward the window display of a toy shop.
The shop was decorated in soft lavender, full of whimsy. The seats were round, cartoonish six-pointed stars, and every toy cabinet was adorned with glowing-eyed black dragon illustrations. On the shelves sat all manner of toys: lava beasts, evil angels defeated by demons, ferocious monsters, satans, hellhounds, hydras… On the one side, there were fashion dolls of ten-headed, statuesque demonesses. Among them, the most expensive doll with purple hair came with tiny black pearl earrings, a gothic lace gown, a mansion-like home, lifelike furniture, an adorable baby dragon pet, and a prince doll to match.
I studied the “prince” for a long while. Though his name wasn’t Mammon, his wavy black hair, sly smile, delicately handsome face, and seven earrings on his pointed ears left little doubt that the toymaker had banked on Mammon’s commercial appeal. One of the accessories even included a red-gemmed hat featured in Agate Afternoon Tea. The manufacturing industry of the Demon Realm really was something.
Just then, a small silhouette caught my eye. I turned and was startled to see a little girl, also a Caprid. Her horns weren’t strong and sharp like mine, but soft and curled like a lamb’s. Her tail was barely one-eighth the length of an adult’s, wagging weakly like a puppy’s. She pouted as she stared at me, tears brimming in her scarlet eyes.
Even if demons are detestable, children are innocent no matter the realm. I crouched before her and looked up. “Little one, why are you here crying all by yourself?”
I quickly noticed that due to the change in my respiratory system, I now spoke from the lungs instead of the throat so my voice sounded far deeper. The main difference between the Heavenly Language and the Demonic Tongue wasn’t in vocabulary, but in the organ used to produce sound. That’s also why most of the divine race couldn’t mimic demon speech.
“I want that one…” she looked at the doll and, using a doubled slang term only demon children use, added, “want prince…”
“This one?” I pointed at the Mammon-like doll.
She nodded, and my heart sank. I didn’t have a single coin. God had sent me here with nothing but a Demon Realm residency booklet. This was trouble. I’d need to find a job first. After a long moment of thinking, I finally said, “Your parents won’t buy it for you, huh? Alright then, you come back here in a week. I’ll buy it for you, okay?”
Her eyes sparkled. “Really?”
“Really.” I smiled, patting her shiny bangs.
“Yay! Thank you, big brother!”
B-big brother? I broke into a cold sweat. An old man like me with several kids of his own—what did I do to deserve being called “brother” by a child? I was about to correct her and say “uncle,” but she threw her arms around my neck, kissed me hard on the cheek, and then ran off. I sat there dazed for a long time, marveling at how much more forward demon children were than their heavenly counterparts.
I glanced at the doll’s price again and sighed. Demon inflation truly was out of control. A thousand years ago, that amount could’ve bought a suit of dragon-scale armor. Still pondering how to earn money and infiltrate Pandemonium, I looked up—and caught a reflection in the display glass.
At first, I thought it was just a transparent poster for the doll. But the hostile look in those eyes made me spin around and nearly stumble backward in shock.
It was Mammon himself.
We stood on a stretch of ancient stone road in the center of Laim. Seven centuries ago, during Azazel’s reign as Lord of Laim, the path was expanded, causing quite a stir. Now, snow fell thick from above as we stood there, and the old stones bore an even more solemn and historic feel. Mammon, a young aristocrat with a flippant temperament, didn’t seem out of place at all in this painterly setting. The Demon Realm rarely saw sunlight, and its light sources came from eponymous lanterns. The crystal chandelier above the toy shop bathed him in two tones—one bright, one dark—like a character out of Goya’s paintings: pale, noble, and brimming with a deadly, cold, poetic allure.
He wore a black suede coat, arms crossed, looking down at me as if peering into a bottomless lake.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m called Miller, Lord Mammon,” I replied quickly, head bowed, reciting the name from my residency booklet—but immediately realized that even God had gotten lazy with naming. (Translator: “Michael” is 米迦勒 [mi-jia-le] while “Miller” is “米勒” [mi-le]. There is only a one syllable difference, hence Michael’s comment)
“You’ve got some nerve,” he sneered.
It was as if the whole world had fallen into a silent freeze. Aside from the expressionless demons on the street exhaling white breath as they strode past, only the falling snowflakes shimmered with a dreamlike glow, spinning in this blackened world. My evolved senses caught the sound of ice cracking on the eaves as it expanded—perhaps it was the heightened perception of my demonic body that made me more acutely aware of Mammon’s overwhelming presence, or perhaps he had truly grown into a mature, dominant archdevil. His voice, layered over the snapping of ice, carried a natural authority, no longer reliant on the seductive charm of his youth to project danger and dominance.
“I’m not sure what I’ve done wrong, Your Highness. Please enlighten me.”
“You know very well what you just tried to do. Do you really need me to spell it out?”
I thought back carefully. Aside from speaking with that little girl and admiring Mammon’s doll in the shop window, I had done nothing even remotely disrespectful. Surely I hadn’t made any improper expression? I was confident there was no ill intent. But as the air grew increasingly tense, I had no choice but to ask, “I really don’t th—”
Wait. I realized where I went wrong.
I was a demon now—specifically, a Caprid with a Sekuma Index of 9.1, ranked second across the three realms. That kind of being wasn’t supposed to feel any affection toward children. When I saw the little girl earlier, I hadn’t felt the familiar tug of tenderness I used to as an angel. Clearly, my new body had already sounded the alarm. And yet, out of angelic habit, I had committed such a basic blunder. Mammon must’ve assumed I harbored some perverse attraction to young girls…
I quickly glanced up at him, then dropped my gaze and mimicked the lazy, irreverent tone common to Caprids. “Yeah, well, I didn’t actually go through with it, did I? Since it’s my first offense, how about letting me off the hook, Your Highness? I swear it won’t happen again.”
I heard a mocking chuckle, then felt his hand clamp hard on my cheek. He twisted my face upward with such force it felt like my jawbone might shatter. Yet his smile was syrup-sweet, and his voice was light and easy: “Make sure you remember what you just said…”
But then, his words abruptly stopped.
Those narrow crimson eyes, lifted at the corners, were suddenly filled with shock. His mouth hung open slightly but made no sound. For a moment, he seemed to have lost the ability for speech. And in that silence, his face—the face that had matured, sharpened, and grown so cold—finally overlapped with the arrogant, unrestrained boy he once was.
He slowly loosened his grip, brushing aside the bangs on my forehead. He stared at my face for a long while, and then muttered with disdain, “Blue-eyed demons always look so fragile.”
My racing heartbeat finally slowed. So he hadn’t seen through me. Still, no man likes being described that way. I pushed his hand away, annoyed. “I wouldn’t say I’m any more fragile than you, Lord Mammon.”
I hadn’t meant to speak my mind, but my emotions were clearly more difficult to control now. Mammon didn’t get angry; he laughed.
“Well, then I’d like to see just how strong you are.”
With that, he flipped my wrist behind my back, trying to pin me in place. I quickly ducked the move and countered, swinging a punch at his abdomen. Even such a simple exchange sent heat flooding through me; everything in my vision flared with sudden intensity. He caught my fist and shoved it backward. The gap in strength between us lit a fury in me. I lunged forward with all I had, my power surging by what felt like hundreds of times. If I didn’t destroy him right now, it felt like I’d explode.
I wanted to defeat him. Humiliate him. Crush him beneath my heel and tear him to pieces!
We exchanged blows. He took a few hard hits but quickly recovered, seizing my wrists. With barely any effort, he forced me to my knees.
I couldn’t believe how quickly I’d lost despite fighting with everything I had. What kind of useless body had Father God given me?
Breathing like a beast, I looked back at him, eyes burning. He just shrugged helplessly, like a grown-up humoring a tantrum-throwing child.
“You’re like a kid,” he said. “A few punches and you’re already going full demonic.”
His words snapped me out of it. I shook my head and tried to calm down. This body really was hard to control. Even in battle, I’d rarely felt rage this intense.
“Your strength isn’t great, but your technique has potential. And I like that fighting spirit.” Mammon looked down at me. “What’s your story?”
“My family was from the First Hell. My parents are dead. I want to go to Rhodheoga to look for work, but I’m still drifting.”
“Looking for a job?” He gave me a boyish grin. “How’d you like to be my guard?”
“…Huh?”
“Not interested? Fine.” He let go and turned to walk away.
Becoming a personal guard meant gaining access to Pandemonium. But that didn’t guarantee I could reach Lucifer’s private quarters anytime soon to recover my body. So the best shortcut, for now, was to become friends with Mammon. And simply serving as a guard wasn’t enough to earn that status.
I stayed where I was and replied with deliberate ease, “Thank you, Lord Mammon, but I have other things I’d like to pursue.”
I knew Mammon well enough to predict his curiosity would be piqued. Sure enough, he asked, “Oh? Like what?”
“I want to travel across Rhodheoga, not stay cooped up in the palace.”
“I’d love to see what kind of job you think is better than serving in the royal court,” he said, lifting the skeletal ring on his finger. “Here.”
His gesture meant he wanted to exchange contact info by tapping our rings together. Since demons lack divine magic, they can’t communicate through enchanted letters like angels do. Instead, they’ve poured as much research into developing communication rings as we have into strengthening elixirs. Of course, I didn’t yet own such a ring, which he mustn’t know.
Feigning nonchalance, I said, “I forgot mine at home. Just tell me the incantation, I’ll contact you later.”
After noting Mammon’s ring incantation, I quickly made my exit before risking further exposure. I’d been surprisingly lucky to run into Mammon directly; things had gone smoother than expected. My appearance was altered, and I was experienced enough at mimicking demons that even a racial scholar might not catch on unless they looked closely. The only troublesome detail was my eyes, which might remind certain people of Michael.
Those eyes—unchangeable—must be because I am part of Him.
Perhaps it’s because He, from the moment He was with the cosmos, possessed a heart as vast as the sea. His eyes were the color of that sea. He once used those sea-blue eyes to see the loveliness of young Ruthfel, the rebellion and longing of the grown Lucifer, and even His own future—where He would one day overturn the world for that man. And so, after casting off His Original Sin, those eyes would remain with me.
He left behind the sea’s breadth, and gave me its depths—the darkness where light could never reach, the stillness where oxygen could never exist, and a crushing pressure of millions of pascals.
The next day, I found work at the Faru Transportation Division in Rhodheoga, rented a studio apartment, and bought a communication ring. Once home, I contacted Mammon. He answered quickly, but in the background I heard a woman’s playful voice. He said only, “Meet me at the Ghost Tavern tonight,” and hung up.
I thought maybe I’d imagined the woman’s voice. But when I arrived at the bar, I realized the truth was even worse than expected: Mammon was sprawled on the sofa of the VIP section with a group of young noblemen, each flanked by a beautiful noble lady. Mammon himself was surrounded by a whole circle of gorgeously made-up beauties. Demon ladies, with their heavy pigments and sharp features, were practically born to wear bold makeup. Their thick black lashes could make anyone’s heart race. Angelic ladies, by contrast, only ever wore light makeup and white garments; if they tried these flaming looks, they’d resemble monsters.
Any man with poor self-control would’ve already passed out from bliss in such a setting. But Mammon seemed used to it. He played tabletop games with his friends, acting as if the ladies were invisible.
I walked over and tapped his shoulder. “Lord Mammon.”
He glanced at me and, with his long smoking pipe, gestured for me to sit beside him. I did as he asked, only to spend the next few hours bored out of my mind.
The games they played were beyond anything I’d ever seen. Young demons were even more outrageous than their predecessors. I had no interest in joining. In Heaven, men my age usually already had children. Our gatherings were among peers, and though we could envy the youth, we didn’t try to join them. Tagging along only made things awkward for everyone. Watching their chaotic revelry, I kept checking the time and finally decided to tell Mammon I wanted to head home.
But just as I stood, a stylish archdevil boy, clearly drunk, stumbled and spilled his cocktail all over me. He apologized in a hurry and walked off to raise his glass to Mammon.
“A toast to the most desirable prince in all Rhodheoga!”
Mammon, pinned by a throng of girls, couldn’t even move. The ones who didn’t reach him followed suit, standing and saluting him.
Then the boy added, “Tell me, Your Highness—besides your own mother, is there any woman in the Demon Realm you haven’t seduced? Share your secrets! How are you always so irresistible?”
Before Mammon could reply, a girl chimed in, “Yeah, tell us! How did you charm us like this?”
Mammon had clearly had a few bottles, but his eyes gleamed brighter than ever. He flashed his sharp teeth and said in a faux-innocent tone, “I didn’t charm you. You charmed me.” He twirled a finger near his temple, feigning dizziness.
I couldn’t help but twitch a smile. The kid had grown taller, but somehow he was even more insufferable than when he was little. Not only was he more flirtatious, he was also much more shameless. I had to fight the urge to smack him as I watched the clock tick through their nonsense.
But his friends weren’t satisfied with his answer. “That’s too weak!” one shouted. “Right?”
“Yes!” the girls echoed.
“I’ll tell you what I like best!” said the girl on his left, poking his lips. “These lips.”
“I love his lashes!” said the one on the right, kissing his eyelid.
“I like his face—and this little chin.” Another girl stroked along his jawline with a hungry glint in her eyes.
“You liars!” shouted a mature woman in a plunging dress, red-faced from drink. “Eyes, lips, chin—who are you trying to fool? What you really love is his—”
Before she could finish, her boyfriend clamped a hand over her mouth and dragged her away.
Demons had no shame. Instead of embarrassment, the other girls were thrilled, clinging to Mammon like gum. Then, a cold beauty rested her chin on her palm and gazed into Mammon’s eyes.
“I think what’s most attractive about him,” she said slowly, “is how he balances dominance so perfectly. And he knows just when to create that spark. You never know when he’ll suddenly grab you and kiss you. That kind of unpredictability, women live for it.”
The boys all nodded solemnly, like disciples receiving gospel. The girls began chanting for him to demonstrate it live.
Everyone agreed—except for the issue of who he’d kiss. The boys proposed drawing lots, dice, rock-paper-scissors, but the jealous girls rejected every method. They insisted Mammon had to choose someone himself.
Naturally, the silver-tongued prince wouldn’t risk offending anyone by picking.
Then Mammon finally looked at me. “Miller, go to the next table and invite a lady over for the demo.”
I was already nauseated by the syrupy flattery and stood up quickly, ready to escape. But the girls near him rose as one and grabbed me.
“You can’t go! You want him to kiss a stranger?”
“Yeah! No cheating tonight, Your Highness. You have to pick your favorite girl!”
The girls were chattering noisily, the commotion unbearable. Mammon stood up and walked around the table, as if planning to pull someone from the neighboring group himself. I sometimes think he really can’t see the obvious, that this kind of situation could be solved with a simple refusal. Instead, he always chooses the most awkward path, making it hard for himself to back out gracefully, and worse, he ends up directing all the resentment toward the girl he chooses to kiss…
Wait. What is he doing?
Why is he pushing aside the people next to me?
Something was wrong. I instinctively backed up and hit the wall behind me. Mammon braced one arm above my head, his tall frame casting a shadow over me.
Then his lips pressed to mine.
I gave a muffled gasp and turned my head away. But he caught my chin, tilted my face up, and kissed me again.
After two soft pecks, he stared at me for a few seconds… then leaned in again—and this time, parted my lips.
The surprise shattered. His aggressive kiss was so overwhelming it made my chest ache. A shred of reason told me this was madness—I tried to push him away. But he didn’t budge. His pace was merciless, his tongue invading deeper and deeper until I could barely breathe—
By the time it finally ended, the bar was deathly silent.
Leaning against the wall, I tried to hide how my legs had gone weak. I cleared my throat awkwardly.
“…That was a very committed demonstration.”
Based on past experience, after kissing for that long, Mammon’s eyes should’ve turned blood-red by now; he might even be on the verge of pinning me down. After all, I could feel my own corruption level rising. But this time, he didn’t.
He simply lowered his head, gazing into my eyes with a sorrow I’d never seen in him before.
He said softly, “Why…”
Then he bowed his head again, as if confirming something. His lips lingered on mine for a long moment before he turned away, thoughtful.
All around us, the bar erupted in shouts and laughter, as if the performance had ended and the crowd had burst into applause.
“No objections now, right?” he said, quickly slipping back into that buoyant, mischievous persona, flashing an almost innocent smirk as the crowd encircled him like stars around the moon.
It was the first time since meeting Mammon that I felt he was truly hard to understand.
That night, I felt unsettled. My mind swirled with chaotic thoughts, and Mammon among them. I tossed and turned in bed, unable to sleep. I suddenly wanted to talk to him. But it was so late—he was probably already asleep, maybe even in the arms of one or several of the pretty girls from earlier. So, I told myself: whatever it is, I’ll say it tomorrow.
Just as I closed my eyes again, I heard a tapping sound on the window. It was loud. Was it hailing? I rolled over and looked out. It was still snowing, but the tapping came again, louder this time. I threw on something and walked to the window.
—Mammon was standing downstairs.
At that moment, he was bent down, picking up another stone to throw. But as soon as he saw me appear, he tossed it aside.
Rhodheoga gleamed under the night, vast and dazzling. Snow fell in thick, silent layers, slowly blanketing the immense black city with patient persistence, like water carving stone. Mammon, dressed all in black, stood in the snow and looked up at me, smiling faintly. “Hey, are you asleep?”
“What do you think?” I pointed irritably at my pajamas.
“Let’s have lunch together tomorrow.”
“Sure. And?”
“That’s all.”
“That’s all? You came here just to tell me that?”
He didn’t answer and only smiled brighter.
I grew more confused. I opened the window wider despite the cold, stuck my head out, and immediately shivered. “Did you lose your skull ring or something?”
He shook his head.
“Then see you tomorrow.”
“Miller.” He was still smiling an innocent smile. “I want to make love to you.”
I nearly smacked my head on the windowsill. No matter how sweet he smiled or how elegantly he dressed, Mammon was still Mammon!
I pressed a hand to my forehead and sighed. “Sorry, I’m not into guys. Try someone else.”
“I’m not either. But I still want to do it with you.” He paused. “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure you come around willingly.”
I stared at that pretty, smiling face for a long time before silently closing the window.
Even though we no longer share any blood relations, I can’t help but sigh. Mammon really is Lucifer’s son. Both love the “late-night wait-under-your-window” routine. But seeing Mammon always lifts my spirits, even if he says the most outrageous things.
Whereas seeing Lucifer… that brings joy, yes—but more than that, fear. Fear that I might lose him.
Tonight, I finally made up my mind to let him go. But when I think back on the brief time we spent together in Berduth, those fleeting moments still feel like heaven.
On the nightstand sat a newspaper. Lucifer, as always, appeared the image of an ice-cold monarch, that flawless face addressing the infernal press as he announced newly passed legislation. Even in magically-animated photos, only his lips ever seemed to move.
I suddenly found myself wondering: when you let go of a hand you once held tightly, does the person begin, deep in your consciousness, to drift farther and farther away from you?
For over four thousand years, it wasn’t that I hadn’t seen him by my corpse. It wasn’t that I hadn’t seen him weep. But the one he kept vigil for—the one he wept for—who was it, truly? Was it the cold, distant God He had become? Or the Creator who had once loved him?
Because I loved him so deeply, even without being loved in return, I knew him well enough.
And whichever version of Him it was, that person was never me. Never Michael.
If I didn’t have memories from the time I was his Favored Angel, maybe I could’ve still fooled myself—told myself he was slowly warming up to me, that he was beginning to care.
On February 2nd, Berduth 8731, Year 6014, I became the Favored Angel of Archangel Lucifer.
The concept of Favored Angel had become popular because of Lucifer himself. Long before me, there had been countless suspected candidates. Still, Lucifer was the Vice Regent, and every potential candidate inevitably attracted public attention, becoming, for a time, the face of a trend, like royal consorts in the empire.
Typically, in the early days after the announcement of a Favored Angel, the host would be inseparable from their Favored—taking them everywhere, doting on them like a newly acquired pet. Then the heat would fade, and things would quiet down. Though the host held the right to abandon them, it rarely happened; Favored Angels were usually low-ranking, with lifespans that passed in the blink of an eye compared to a Seraph’s. Most pairings simply ended with the Favored Angel’s death. It gave these brief and twisted loves a tinge of tragedy, and over time, those poignant stories even began to erode some of the discrimination against them.
But everything was different when it came to me.
From the moment Lucifer chose me, he had me move into his estate in the Sixth Heaven. He made me quit all my duties. And from that moment on, he forbade anyone from approaching me. He didn’t reveal my identity to the media. He didn’t take me out on romantic outings. All the divine race knew was that he had a Favored Angel—but no one even knew my name.
And more terrifying still, after cutting me off from the outside world, he never once laid a finger on me.
He did come to the manor now and then, to spend the night. But he was always exhausted from official affairs, collapsing into bed as soon as he arrived. At most, he’d ask me to wring a towel and wipe his face.
Even now, I remember that life vividly: the endless, soul-numbing days, followed by nights spent watching him sleep beside me. I didn’t even have the courage to steal a kiss. I’d just sit at the edge of the bed in a daze until sleep overtook me, and then I’d curl up beside him like a little puppy.
Back then, I was so easy to satisfy. I often thought: if it could go on like this forever, that wouldn’t be so bad.
Until one day, he brought me to Gabriel’s birthday celebration.
Before leaving, he warned me over and over not to reveal that I was his Favored Angel. Only after I swore I wouldn’t breathe a word did we enter Gabriel’s aquatic estate separately. At the party, the Favored Angels of Metatron, Uriel, and other Seraphs swarmed together like gaudy little monsters, loudly flaunting the gifts their masters had given them, all the ways they’d been spoiled. To many of the divine race, such behavior was no different from a mistress bragging about her sugar daddy, only deepening the associated disdain.
But I, listening quietly, found myself overcome with envy.
They spoke of how their masters held them on their laps while reading, fed them fruit at night, woke them with kisses in the morning… Nothing like that had ever happened between me and Lucifer.
So I walked up and pretended to ask innocently, “Hi. I have a friend who’s also a Favored Angel. But his master just keeps him locked away in the suburbs. Never touches him. Just comes home and sleeps. What do you think that means?”
“Pfft—means he’s out of favor.”
“He’s never even touched him? Poor guy.”
“Well, it depends. I mean, Lord Lucifer’s had tons of flings, but he’s never fallen asleep in front of anyone. If he were acting like that with someone—keeping them locked away, refusing to touch them—it’d seem more like… really falling in love. Ah, tragic, despairing love.”
“Oh come on, you’ve read too many romance novels. That’s just what happens when you’ve been discarded.”
“That’s because your master’s a perv who only thinks with his—ugh, you don’t even know what love is anymore!”
“You’re a Favored Angel and you still want love? That’s hilarious…”
As expected, between a master and his pet, there can only be affection, not love. The moment the word “love” entered the conversation, the group descended into chaos.
But one angel’s comment planted a fragile seed of hope in me. I didn’t mention any of it to Lucifer when we returned. I just waited—with a bit more anticipation than usual.
I told myself: maybe, just maybe… if I wait long enough… he’ll come to me.
Back then, I couldn’t even imagine what it would feel like to be loved by him. Like all naïve youths, I dreamed of holding hands in a park, kissing beneath a sycamore, reading books back to back…
And when I realized how foolish I was, I’d feel so embarrassed I couldn’t even look at myself. Of course, none of those childish fantasies ever came true.
What came instead… was betrayal.
No, it wasn’t even betrayal. Because he had never been mine to begin with.
One evening, he returned from an event in Jerusalem dressed in luxurious white. When I took off his cloak, I caught the faint scent of perfume and found a strand of red hair.
That shattered what little I’d been clinging to.
Clutching the blanket, trembling, I asked him, “Your Highness… did you spend the night with a woman?”
He gave a nonchalant “Mhm.”
My mind went blank, buzzing. I forced myself to stay calm. “If I’m your Favored Angel, why won’t you touch me?”
“I’m just not interested.”
I nearly screamed, insane, Then why are you keeping me here?! But I held it back, forcing a shaky smile. “Then please… let me leave.”
“You can,” he said. “But if you leave, then don’t come back.”
I lowered myself, pleading, “I just want to go out for a month. Call it a vacation. Just one month, alright?”
He was silent for a moment, then blandly: “One month. That’s all.”
I’d had a few girlfriends before. But with every one of them, the most I ever did was kiss. People used to say I was a model angel, and I suppose it was true since I always believed, whether man or woman, we should remain pure for the one we love. Even if they didn’t love you back, you should still wait.
Since I loved Lucifer, I kept myself clean—for him. Waiting for him. Saving everything for him.
That was my conviction right up until that night.
Because that night, I finally realized: the only one who cared whether I was “clean”… was me.
Lucifer didn’t care at all.
So, not long afterward, I gave my first time to Metatron.
Even now, I still don’t fully understand Lucifer. Not then, not now.
It wasn’t until much, much later that I finally did, understanding that he wasn’t as strong as I’d imagined.
He had his own contradictions.
He didn’t dare touch me… because he was afraid.
Afraid that once something happened between us, he would never be able to walk away. That all his resolve would crumble.
All the distance and coldness back then wasn’t because he didn’t care. It was because he cared, cherished, too much.
But by the time I understood that, I could no longer see him. No longer reach him.
If, in the end, a person’s only remaining presence in someone else’s life is memory—then tell me: why does the world allow such a thing as memory to exist at all?
Author: Tav Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
