Trying to blow me off me like some elementary brat? You’re seriously underestimating the great Li Bin, King of Chaos. I shut my eyes and launched myself like a damn rocket—legs pumping, wings flaring—two hundred meters of track-star speed later, I was right beside him, hand clamped on his wing.
“Enough! Let me go already!” Caro howled as he pointed to a little wooden cabin floating in the clouds. “Let’s just—go inside and talk!”
I hovered at the tavern entrance, reading out loud: “Lucy’s Tavern.”
Then I stepped inside, only to backpedal out just as fast, double-checking the sign above the door.
Yep. It still said “Lucy’s Tavern.”
But what kind of cursed chicken-scratch was this?
Everything Caro and I had been saying this whole time wasn’t Chinese. Or English. I’d apparently been speaking some brand new language without even realizing it.
I plucked out one of my own feathers. It hurt a little.
Am I in a dream or not?
I blew the feather away and drifted slowly into the tavern.
It was a cozy wooden hut done up entirely in warm coffee tones, dimly lit. Each table was draped in rose-colored velvet. The bar and every booth were packed, with angels.
These angels were not the solemn, mechanical icons of plastered-on smiles and wind-up toy wings. No, they were lively. Sitting on wooden chairs, drinking and chatting like any group of friends at a bar, just with wings. A row of high stools lined the bar, each occupied by an angel. Their wings weren’t perfectly uniform—some a bit more off-white, others closer to snow, but they lined up in a neat feathered row. The female angels were especially animated, chatting with both hands and wings. Excited, they’d flap up into the air with a quiver, hover mid-laugh, then settle down lightly.
Caro had already claimed a seat by the bar. He ordered a tall mug of golden liquor, slammed it onto the table, then crooked a finger at me. Just as I settled in, a girl—an angel—caught my eye from the next stool over. She smiled, friendly but casual, then turned right back to her drink. Didn’t give me more than a second of her attention. But that single glance knocked something loose in me. Even if I ignored the four wings gently fanned out behind her, the way her golden hair shimmered under the bar lights, the too-perfect features, that porcelain skin, none of it felt human.
Just as I was getting lost in my own head, something jingled next to me. Caro fished a pouch from his belt and shook out a few coins onto the table.
I leaned in, curious. “Is that… money?”
I picked one up. It was reddish copper, warm to the touch. One side had a lightning bolt etched into it, with what looked like sunlight bursting right out of the strike.
Lightning and sunshine?
What’s this, Harry Potter getting a tan?
“Dumbass. How could you forget this?” Caro scoffed. “Currency in Heaven. Simple math: 1 gold coin = 10 silver coins = 100 copper coins = 1,000 iron coins. Got it?” He dumped his belt out onto the table with a clang, a small pile of coins spilling everywhere. He picked out three, holding one up that matched the one in my hand, a gray one barely the size of a fingernail. “Iron coin. Front side with robe and laurel—symbols of Sandalphon, Angel of Light. Back side, breastplate and feather—that’s Tyrael, the Warguard.”
So in times of peace, the Angel of War’s job boiled down to gatekeeping and wing repair.
Caro flipped over the coin in my hand—it was a bit larger than the iron one. “Copper coin. The lily up front—symbol of Gabriel, Angel of Water. Lightning bolt on the back—that’s for Uriel, Angel of Thunder.”
A silver coin was about the size of a beer bottle cap. Caro gave it a little shake, then quickly slipped it back into his pouch. “The front with the Flame and the Eye —for Metatron, Angel of Fire, and on the back the serpent, symbol of Raphael, Angel of Wind. Aside from Lord Lucifer, by the way, Lord Raphael is God’s favorite.”
That pile of names was giving me a headache. I sipped my drink, miserably.
“Gold coins don’t really circulate down here,” Caro continued, making an OK sign with his fingers. “That’s upper-realm stuff. About this big. The front has the Seraphic Wings of Radiance —symbol of Lord Lucifer, and the cross on the back, for Lord Jesus.”
“All four coins reflect divine light on both sides,” he added, “the supreme glory of our Creator.”
Isn’t the cross a thing because Jesus was nailed to it? But if Jesus is still alive, then how does that make any sense…So I asked, “What’s the connection between Jesus and the cross?”
Caro shook his head. “I’m not too sure. The prophecy just says the cross is deeply tied to Lord Jesus’s future.”
“…”
More than a little grim.
“So what’s the deal with the Seraphic Wings of Radiance then?”
“You forgot the Seraphic Wings of Radiance?! I don’t even know what to say anymore!” Caro shook his head with dramatic resignation. “Do you at least remember how angel ranks are identified?”
“Uh… more wings means… stronger?”
“And also, colors go from gray to white, then blue, gold, and Seraphic Radiance. The further you go, the higher the rank.”
“So two gray wings… is basically the bottom of the barrel?”
Caro nodded.
I glanced back at my own wings, counted them again, and said, half-desperate—“Well… mine aren’t that gray, right?”
“Mhm. There are worse ones.”
For the next few minutes, I stared at him, and he stared right back at me. Finally, he smiled a calm little smile and said, “All the archangels have six golden wings—except Lord Lucifer. So, the Seraphic Wings of Radiance became his sign. It’s the symbol of the highest level an angel can reach.”
I planted all ten fingers on the table, overwhelmed by the urge to just flip the whole damn thing—I wasn’t asking for Seraphic or anything, but couldn’t I at least get a pair of golden wings?! I’d crossed over to this world, and not only was I not some chosen hero, I was a trash-tier peasant!
Still smiling, I nodded along, pushed aside the coffee pot, sugar jar, wineglass, and plates, cleared a neat patch of table, gave it a wipe with the tablecloth… then aimed, and slammed my forehead down with everything I had.
Just before I passed out, I heard a chorus of horrified gasps around me. But I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to go back—even if it meant going gay for Yang Lu, I’d take it. Just send me back! Let me go back!!
“Isar, Isar, Isar…”
I was being shaken awake, and the first thing I saw—again—was Caro’s face. I immediately turned my head to the side, done with life.
“Ah, you’re okay. Good. Something urgent came up, so I gotta go,” Caro was already getting ready to leave.
I kept my eyes closed, head tilted away, but reached out and grabbed one of his wings. He glanced at my hand. “Dear Isar, I really must tell you—grabbing someone’s wing is very rude.”
My hand froze and I let go at once. “My bad, my bad.”
Caro shrugged. “No big deal. We’re buddies. But I did just get them fixed, you could at least spare a thought for my poor feathers… Oh, right—why don’t you come with me? I’m headed to Jerusalem in the Fourth Heaven. I’ll be passing through the Second on the way, so I’ll drop you off.”
Just then, the beautiful bartender Lucy suddenly poked her head out. “Poor Isar, try not to do such… mm, undignified things next time. Being imprisoned for that is just tragic, though I guess, as a silver lining, you do get to see the person most revered by pilgrims?”
I looked at Caro. He leaned in and whispered, “She means Lord Raphael.”
“Wait, undignified things? I did something embarrassing?” I whispered.
“So many people here—quit talking already, let’s go.” Caro hurried toward the door.
Everyone was staring at me. So I turned and gave them a friendly, classicly angelic smiled that seemed to be the standard around here and received a completely unexpected reaction. Everyone turned away in unison and went back to drinking their beer.
Lucy shrugged, looking helpless.
As we walked out of the tavern, I stopped in my tracks when I saw a white horse with a horn pacing lazily in front of the door.
“Unicorns are all over the place once you get to the Third Heaven and up,” Caro said, tossing me a look that screamed, Seriously, bumpkin.
I crept toward it.
The way it emerged from the clouds was downright hypnotic: sharp, chiseled hooves, long legs built like springs, lean muscle traced in smooth, clean lines, its mane rippling silk, and those clear eyes practically glowed with spirit…
“You like the kind of mount girls are into?” Caro scoffed, “Real champs would at least go for a pegasus.” He thought for a second, then added, “Pegasi don’t have horns, but they have wings.”
We kept moving, the path threading through denser clusters of architecture, the air shimmered with an almost tactile mist, a gauzy veil that softened edges and bent light in impossible ways. Even the smallest café or inn came with intricate carvings, every sign a different shape and material—marble, granite, wood, obsidian—coming together into one mastercrafted little city. Street vendors folded their wings tight against their backs, tending to their odd wares.
As we walked, Caro continued, “Any angel who’s had contact with the Lower Realm ends up with discolored wings. You can usually guess whether a merchant’s goods are straight from the source just by checking their feathers. But don’t take it at face value—even gray wings can lie. Some of them use Claris incense from the elves to fake that look.” He shrugged. “Think about it. No self-respecting angel would want to trade their noble wings for a few scraps from demons. Sure, some of that Lower Realm stuff is tempting, but it’s not worth it. Just look at our own poor wings.”
A pegasus soared past us. Clouds drifted like silk across its body, its wings stirred the air with such quiet grace, carrying it straight for the sun.
“Hey, Isar, you know who’s the fakest of all in the Heavens?” Caro asked, eyes still on the pegasus. He didn’t wait for me to answer. “Gabriel.”
“Gabriel?” That pretty angel?
“Seraphim are the highest class of angels, which means they’re technically supposed to be pure consciousness, no body, no feelings. But to communicate with lower-order angels, they all project as six-winged forms. God’s seven archangels? All went with male appearances. All except Gabriel. What does that tell you? That she’s not some lofty, emotionless being—she’s a second-rate angel with a third-rate brain and a full-time crush complex, who spends her days daydreaming about hooking up with male archangels. And don’t even get me started on her being such a ‘princess’, apparently unicorns and pegasi aren’t not good enough, she just has to ride a gryphon. People say she’s into Raphael now. I swear, angels like that are the worst… Isar? Are you even listening?”
“I’m listening, I’m listening. Gabriel’s shameless. She likes gryphons but rides Raphael.”
“…”
“Hey—Caro, wait up! What’s with the sudden takeoff—”
……
……
Ten minutes later, Caro, who had originally planned to punish me with silence, couldn’t hold it in anymore and resumed his role as the Celestial Tour Guide.
Of all the names he threw out in that whirlwind of angelic trivia, the two that came up most often were Raphael and Metatron. As for Lucifer, he said the guy was too lofty and mysterious to even bother talking about.
The Angel of Wind, Raphael, was one of the Archangels of the Sanctum. According to Caro, he looked quite androgynous, maybe even intimidatingly so (à la Caro: “his beauty that of a blooming white rose”). He was known for his compassion and was deeply revered by pilgrims. On top of that, he ruled over the Second Heaven. Which meant, at present, he had enough authority to order every imprisoned angel to off themselves—and we wouldn’t even be allowed to complain.
Metatron was the Chancellor of the Heavens, the highest-paid of all the Archangels. Well, aside from Lucifer, of course. The entire Celestial Treasury was basically Lucifer’s personal ATM.
Metatron, Raphael, and the rest of that Archangel crowd all got their outfits custom-made from “Lucifer’s Grace,” the most luxurious boutique on the most extravagant avenue in the Seventh Heaven. The price: Two hundred and seventy-five gold coins per square centimeter.
At the time, I had no real sense of what money meant in Heaven. It wasn’t until I started working part-time for a measly four silver coins an hour that I looked back on those gold-splurging maniacs and the outrageous cost of everything and thought just one word: rubbish.
Despite his wealth, Metatron was famously quirky. He had this habit of explaining everything with cryptic life mottos that only made sense to him. His excuse? “When you reach my level, it’ll all make sense.”
Besides all that, he was also Heaven’s number one playboy. Legend says Metatron’s lifelong ambition was to sleep with every beautiful being in existence. Supposedly, every year on his birthday, he’d throw a massive champagne banquet at his estate—practically every guest ended up having something with him, yet he couldn’t remember a single one of their names. Someone even wrote a book titled Sins of the Imperial Libertines, and guess who it roasted the most? Yep—him.
As we kept chatting, Caro and I finally arrived at the Place of Confinement.
What came into view was a bluish-gray castle, fronted by a vast square, flanked by endless gray lawns on either side, and in the center, an enormous square mirror, its frame entwined with thorns and roses. Everything in sight was muted, except for the roses curling around the mirror’s frame, so vividly red they seemed ready to bleed.
Caro pointed to the mirror and said, “That’s Lord Raphael’s Mirror of Wind. The front faces the castle, the back faces outward. The back shows what you look like now; the front shows what you’ll look like a hundred years in the future. There are three other mirrors just like it—Fire, Water, and Lightning. The Mirror of Fire shows what you most want to become, Water, who you were in the past, and Lightning, the person who’ll influence you the most.”
I nodded and slowly walked toward the reverse side of the Mirror, Caro following close behind. In the glass, I saw the reflection of two figures—the one behind me, a silver-eyed young man with tousled gray hair, like an underripe apple. And in front: a slender, tall youth. His wavy chestnut bangs hung low over his forehead, and beneath them, a pair of sea-blue eyes. Aside from slightly deeper eye sockets and a more prominent nose bridge, he looked nearly identical to how I had been in the mortal world—maybe even a bit younger.
I was dressed in a silk white shirt, but my still-developing frame didn’t quite fill it out, leaving it hanging loosely. My limbs were bare to the air, lengthy, ending in a pair of short brown leather boots.
I slowly turned. The young man in the mirror turned as well.
With a subtle motion, wings tinged with gray unfurled gently from his back.
At that moment, Caro, standing on the other side of the mirror, let out a soft sigh.
“Ah… does this mean I’m going to waste another hundred years?”
I stepped forward, just about to say something to comfort him—
Then we both froze.
Because we saw the Isar in the mirror.
I slowly opened my mouth in shock; the figure in the mirror did the same.
Before I could snap out of my daze, Caro suddenly threw an arm around my neck, practically shouting with excitement:
“You’ve become a six-winged angel! In just a hundred years! You’ll become a Seraph! Do you know what that means? Do you know what the white feathers on your head stand for? Archangel Commander! In a hundred years, you’ll surpass Gabriel, Raphael, even Metatron—and take Lord Lucifer’s place as the highest Archangel of them all!”
“Archangel Commander?” I deadpaned. “You’re saying even Lucifer won’t be as powerful as I am in a hundred years?”
“No, the Vice Regent will always be the highest authority among the Celestials—second only to God. So no, you won’t surpass him. But what more do you want? You’d be beneath only three, and above ten thousand…”
“That’s not the point!” I cut him off. “The real issue is—this mirror is broken.”
“Isar, the Mirror of Wind can’t be wrong.” Caro murmured. “Isar…”
I glanced again at the figure in the mirror—and for a moment, even I wasn’t sure anymore.
Since it was the Mirror of Wind, the surface bore a faint golden hue, making the six golden wings on the figure within shine all the more brilliantly. The angel reflected was no longer a young man, but someone taller, far more striking than Isar himself. His long, crimson hair cascaded down, and nestled within that vibrant red was a single white feather inlaid with gemstones. A soft breeze stirred, sending his hair and the feather gently adrift.
He wore the ornate accessories typical of a seraph, yet what stood out most was a single silver chain around his wrist. It looked a bit too simple—honestly, it would probably look better with two or three.
But he only wore one.
I slowly clenched my fists. In the mirror, the angel, hands in white gloves, mirrored the motion. The silver chain caught the light, glinting like a string of linked tears.
I smiled and the angel smiled too. With his garments, wings, and bearing transformed, he looked truly noble, every bit the archangel.
And yet, something felt missing.
We had seen quite a few four-winged angels earlier, and I realized that the greatest difference between them and us wasn’t just the two extra wings or the purer colors.
It was their eyes. They seemed to lack… some spark of vitality.
Caro had explained that the closer an angel drew to God, the more abstract they became—eventually existing as pure beings.
The angel in the mirror rested his hand on a sword radiant with holy light. He was smiling too, but even his gaze was unfocused, as though he wasn’t truly looking at anything or anyone. Just like the angels from human lore, those serene, otherworldly figures devoid of desire or passion, or even emotion itself.
A hundred years from now. Will I still be here?
Or is it that, sometime within that hundred years, I’ll return to the mortal world, and this gaze in the mirror belongs to Isar, not me?
Just then, three words suddenly popped out of Caro: “Why is it…”
I kept watching him through the mirror.
He was standing beside me, and against the light of the reflection, his wings looked even grayer.
“Why is it that you changed,” he said, “but not me?”
I froze. And understood what he meant.
Caro turned to look at me, his eyes holding something tangled I couldn’t quite name.
I stepped up in front of him.
“Caro, this—the me right now is who I really am. Just because the Wind Mirror says I’ll become an archangel… does that mean I will? What if I went and slammed myself into a tree and died, would the mirror still be accurate?”
“Would you really slam yourself into a tree?”
“I was making a point. From now on, stop obsessing over Wind Mirrors or Water Mirrors. Destiny’s in our own hands. If I really do become an archangel, how could I possibly not help you?”
Caro looked a little relieved. He patted my shoulder and started toward the castle.
I glanced back one last time at the seraph in the mirror. His wings were vast and radiant, unfolding in the air with astonishing beauty. Even the way he turned his head as he walked was a quiet sort of spectacle.
And he, too, looked back at me, still smiling, the silver chain on his wrist swaying gently with the movement. His eyes seemed exceptionally…lonely.
The castle corridors were wide but dim. The ceiling arched high overhead, so high that even soft footsteps echoed back endlessly. Every few meters, side passages branched off. Caro simply pointed forward and said, “Straight to the end.”
The sound of my own footsteps became unbearable, so I lifted into the air, gliding down the hall. From far ahead, I could already hear chanting coming from the main hall:
Trust in the Lord, and do good;
dwell in the land and befriend faithfulness.
Delight yourself in the Lord,
and he will give you the desires of your heart.
Commit your way to the Lord;
trust in him, and he will act.
He will bring forth your righteousness as the light,
and your justice as the noonday.
Be still before the Lord and wait patiently for him;
fret not yourself over the one who prospers in his way,
over the man who carries out evil devices…
Caro and I stood at the entrance of the grand hall and looked inside. It was at least ten times wider than the corridor we had just passed through. A broad staircase descended to a lower level, where the seats were filled with grey-winged angels. Down the center ran a wide aisle draped in a crimson carpet.
Places like this always made my skin crawl. I instinctively drifted back—only to bump into something behind me.
Turning around, I saw a man in a white cloak. He had no wings. A hood shadowed most of his face, but a few strands of golden hair fell across his forehead.
“Lower-ranking angels are expected to enter immediately,” he said. “Don’t loiter at the entrance.”
He raised his head and looked at us. Though the brim of his hood hid much of his face, it was still obvious—classic golden hair, emerald eyes. The kind of beauty carved into cathedral arches. Skin like porcelain, eyes dewy and bright. And all I could think of was what Mei had once said:
—Binbin, you’re as pure and clean as an angel… but I like wicked men, the type who burn like demons.
Without warning, a nameless rage erupted like a tiny volcano inside me. Was this what I also looked like in her eyes? A dainty porcelain doll with no grit?
“How long are you going to stand there?” the golden-haired person asked.
“AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH—!”
After being dumped, harassed by a creep, hit by a car, reborn as a low-ranking angel, then sentenced to confinement—one psychological trauma after another—I finally lost it.
I punched the golden-haired pretty boy square in the head, then bolted to the edge of the corridor, grabbed a wooden chair, and smashed it over my own skull.
As splinters of broken wood rained down around us, Caro dove forward to catch the man whose face I’d just smacked sideways. Flustered, he cried, “He—he ate a Forgetfruit! That’s why he doesn’t remember anything! Please, Lord Raphael, forgive him!”
Raphael?
Raphael??
…
…
I froze mid-motion, turned, and shot up into the air.
Hovering near the stone wall, I wiped off of it with my sleeve, exhaled a breath of mist onto the bricks, took careful aim—
Then again slammed my forehead against the wall with everything I had.
Like a suicidal sparrow flying full speed into a windowpane, I slid down the wall in a daze and crumpled to the floor, limbs splayed, utterly done with life.
“…Forget it. He’s clearly been through too much lately. I won’t hold it against him.”
Through my blurred vision, I saw Raphael pressing a hand to his head and disappearing into the chapel.
Author: Tav
Translating
The Right Wing of God, the one seated at the right hand of the Most High.
~
