The Realm of the Damned, 6000 B.C
In the newly forged lowest ring of the realm of the damned, the disgraced Sin of Sloth hovered silently, her dark violet, furred wings beating lazily in the sulfuric air as she hovered above the violent churn of lakes filled with steaming, poisonous freshly spilled blood of the primeval Chaos-Monster, their surface bubbling with heat as echoes of lightning moved across it.
Gaseous winds spread the noxious stench and venomous ash of the recently slain monstrosities—it was her domain now, uncontested, with her self-proclaimed rivals having met their second and final death, merely months apart.
She hadn't sought power or dominion—it had fallen to her, like everything else in this forsaken realm. A ruler by default, not desire. The very essence of Sloth.
As she drifted past the mangled bodies of Nephilim now cut down in the chaos of the past weeks. These were not the remnants of the Rebellion of decades ago slain by angels. Those bodies were lost forever, whether by the Root of All Evil or by the Almighty's decree, no one seemed to know..
These corpses were recent, ripped apart, bodies twisted and souls shattered. She spared them only the briefest of glances. She almost pitied their futile defiance, wondering how hard it could have been to simply lay low, to accept their damnation quietly.
Was she truly such an anomaly for preferring peace to this endless strife?
All of it—these quarrels, the desperate scrambles for control over barren plots of Hell's landscape—seemed meaningless. Here, where nothing could grow, where existence itself was devoid of purpose, why fight? Their destiny had been sealed the moment they defied the Lord and lost. This wretched realm was a place of punishment, not ambition.
What value was there in ruling Hell when she would have gladly remained a mere servant in Heaven?
It was a question her fallen brethren, and the Monstrous Calamities that roamed this cursed underworld, seemed incapable of asking. With no Heaven to wage war against, they had turned their hatred upon one another, locked in an eternal struggle over territories that offered nothing but misery.
If only the Morningstar would hurry and quell these unmeaning scrimmages.
Belphegor—how many times had she had to remind herself of her new name, for what was a mere half-century compared to countless millennia—flew toward ground zero of the recent battle. Her four dark wings fluttered once before retracting as her hooves, no longer feet but hooves, landed atop the several-kilometer-wide corpse of a Calamity.
Majestic, crystallized scales shattered over bleeding wounds from a body whose soul had long since merged with Hell. Crags of magma, now cooled, emitted only faint smoke, turning the entire ring into an uninhabitable wasteland as the crimson boiling blood sunk its surroundings.
A few miles away from the decapitated body, the gigantic head of the strongest of the Three Beasts lay shattered, frozen in an expression of anguish. The back of its skull had been ripped open, and its core lay crushed inside.
The Behemoth was slain; its death was as violent as it was long-awaited-for. In the same brutal manner, she had found the Ziz months before—another fallen titan, reduced to a lifeless husk.
The trail of smoke not too far guided her along the corpse's back to the form of a man- a man of dust, not of smoke or light- sitting next to a small fire roasting chunks of meat of the beast he slew hours ago.
A progeny of Adam, alive in the depths of Hell. And not just any human.
"Quite the sight you are in these cursed lands, Son of Man," Belphegor called out as she approached, her voice smooth and measured. Though she knew well he would have sensed her long before, she announced her presence nonetheless.
"Whatever you may seek to offer, whether death or riches, I desire none of it," the man replied, his tone calm yet firm. "Remove yourself from my presence, lest you taste the fullness of my wrath, foul demon." He spoke without so much as granting her the courtesy of a glance.
"Is that what the Great Beasts of the Sky and the Land presented you with?" she asked, her lips curving slightly. "Were their offerings so disagreeable that demise was the only answer?"
"They'd slaughtered themselves with their own hands," he responded evenly, tearing into the tough, dark meat with little care.
"Oh? And how did such a thing come to pass?"
"They did not heed my warning to leave me be."
Belphegor raised an eyebrow, her dark lips curving into a smile. "Is that how you greet all creatures of this wretched realm, then? With a mere command, and if they fail to heed it, you reduce them to ruin?"
The man remained silent for a moment, seemingly unbothered by her presence. He chewed his meal slowly, as though savoring each bite of the beast he had slain. The fire crackled softly between them, and the venomous winds carried the scent of death across the desolate landscape.
Finally, without looking at her, he spoke. "I shall grant you five breaths, demon. Use them wisely, for after that, I will entertain your presence no longer." His voice, cold and indifferent.
Belphegor's eyes gleamed with amusement. "How generous of you, Son of Man," she remarked, her wings twitching slightly as she took a step closer, her hooves cracking the brittle scales beneath her. "But tell me, what would you do if I choose to remain beyond those five breaths?"
"Then you shall meet the same fate as the others." The man's gaze remained fixed on the fire.
"My apologies," she said, her voice softer, almost reflective. "I did not come to provoke your wrath, Son of Man. I simply wished to lay eyes on the First Murderer himself."
The man's gaze remained fixed on the fire, unwavering. He didn't flinch or shift, but there was a subtle change in the air between them, like a quiet tension building.
"You have seen me, and now you may go."" he replied, his tone devoid of emotion. "Two breaths left. Make haste."
Belphegor tilted her head, studying his worn and bloodstained form. She took another step forward, her hooves crunching against the lifeless flesh. "I wanted to see for myself what such a soul would become after all these ages. I have heard tales, whispered even in the deepest pits of Hell, about the man who took his brother's—"
Her words were cut off by a surge of bloodlust so intense that it cloaked her surroundings in darkness. Belphegor's eyes widened, and she instinctively took a step back. But before she could react further, a hand grasped her throat, lifting her off her feet and nearly crushing her windpipe.
Even as his rage and bloodlust enveloped her, Belphegor felt no fear. Instead, she sensed his power seeping through her flesh and piercing into her soul, intent on shattering it. Yet, in the midst of his fury, he halted. His recognition of her soul stopped him short. Despite her violet skin, her halo transformed into horns, and her features barely resembled what they once were, her soul remained distinct.
His cold blue eyes met her narrowed indigo gaze. She tried to smile, even as the pressure on her throat made it difficult.
Recognition flickered in his eyes.
"Bethuel...!" he rasped, the First Murderer's voice tinged with a mix of surprise and recognition as he released her. "You're... a Fallen?!"
"It's Belphegor now," she coughed, trying to clear her throat. She gave him a look of fond exasperation. "I leave you out of my sight for but fifty years, and you end up in Hell. A rather embarrassing occurrence, wouldn't you say?"
Cain's eyes narrowed, a hint of amusement showing as he recognized perhaps the only creature he had ever came close to considering as a companion. "One would say my supposed Watcher defying the Lord—especially after witnessing what happens to those who do for many a century—is far more embarrassing."
Belphegor let out a soft, raspy laugh, rubbing her bruised throat. "A fair point," she conceded, her wings folding behind her as she regained her composure. "I suppose we've both had our... lapses in judgment."
Cain's gaze shifted back to the flames, the flickering light casting deep shadows across his features. "Lapses in judgment, of those I've had many." he echoed quietly, a bitter tone in his voice. "I suppose spending centuries with this One would sour one's perspective on humans."
Belphegor's throat still throbbed from Cain's grip, but she brushed it off with a bemused smile, her violet lips curling at the corners. "I wouldn't say it soured my perspective, Cain. Perhaps... it broadened it. Spending time with a murderer has its own set of revelations, don't you think?"
Cain's jaw tightened, his cold blue eyes remaining fixed on her. "Revelations," he echoed, the bitterness unmistakable in his voice. "I've had more than my fill of those, Fallen Angel, once known as Bethuel." His tone sharpened, cutting through the silence. "So, what compels you to seek me out now?"
Belphegor offered a soft, knowing chuckle, crossing her arms as her dark wings fluttered with languid grace. "Curiosity, mainly. Few here are so willing to confess their missteps," she replied, her words carrying a hint of playful mockery. "But I also came to express my gratitude."
"Gratitude? For what purpose?" His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze narrowing.
A smirk curled at the edges of her lips. "Because, thanks to your handiwork, Now, I find myself bound to this forsaken Ring. You've rid it of any other whose might was fit to rule it." she gestured to the desolate, blood-soaked land stretching around them. "You've left me with little choice but to claim this grim territory as my own. A feast would seem a more fitting tribute than gnawing on the remains of these cursed creatures, don't you think? We could share a meal in recognition of... old times."
Cain scoffed, shaking his head slowly, as if the notion itself were too absurd to entertain. "You jest."
"Far from it," she replied smoothly, her wings twitching ever so slightly as she met his gaze. "I wouldn't propose such a thing unless I intended to follow through."
He released a low, humorless chuckle, exhaling through his nose. "Very well," Cain conceded, his voice tinged with resignation. "But do not expect me to linger beyond this gesture. Without the Lord to shield you, it won't be long before your presence grates on me, and I leave this ground soaked with your blood."
Belphegor's smile widened, her amusement evident. "I'll take my chances, Son of Man. After all, you've never been particularly adept at keeping your promises, have you?"
He grinned.
"I'll make sure those words are carved into the dirt of your shallow grave."
Belphegor's hooves pounded across the hard tiles of the Healing Chamber in her Sanctum, the floor seeming on the verge of cracking under the relentless force of her pacing.
Fucking feuds between Heaven and Hell—why couldn't they just annihilate each other without dragging her partner into it? The only reason she had even bothered with the ridiculous plot to kill Lilith was to free Cain from whatever leash that bitch had him on. He'd already repaid two of the three favors he owed Lilith with the Nephilim corpses and allowing her access to that... that thing.
She wasn't about to let Lilith use the third favor to trade his life for hers. Whatever grudge Hell's royalty and Heaven had with one another was not her husband's problem!
At least he was free now. But if only Seth had gone back to Heaven—no, the fat clown had to drag him here, of all places. Now her husband was stuck on Earth with a trigger-happy brother he didn't want to see, and she could only pace in despair, surrounded by people who wouldn't get the hell out because Heaven's mess was screwing up her portals.
Belphegor cradled her head in her hands, overwhelmed with anger and fear. 'And he was finally starting to do well...'
"Fucking Hell, lass, calm your tits, will ya? You're giving me a bloody headache pacing around like that!" Mammon's voice cut through her turmoil as he lounged on a bench barely holding his weight, poking Asmodeus's comatose body.
Belphegor's wide eyes locked onto him, her face a mask of pure rage.
Mammon continued, eyes shut as if speaking to the air. "Ain't gonna help anyone if you're pacing around like a madwoman. Your boy toy is prob—Ack!"
Before he could finish, a massive palm slammed into his face, sending him sprawling off the bench. Belphegor loomed over him, her form expanding into something far more terrifying. Her skin rippled as wild fur sprouted, her horns twisting and elongating into grotesque shapes. Flames roared through her hair, casting a hellish glow that made her appear wreathed in infernal fire. Her teeth lengthened into vicious fangs, and her once-human snout transformed into a nightmarish muzzle.
"You—" she snarled, her voice a guttural growl that echoed throughout the chamber. "You dare to trivialize my pain and fear? This is your fault, to begin with."
Her claws tightened around his face. Mammon's eyes widened in terror, his usual bravado slipping under the raw power and fury radiating from Belphegor. She wasn't Satan or Beelzebub, but she was still stronger than any of the other Sins. And in his injured, unprepared state, Mammon was utterly at her mercy.
"N-now now, Bel! I didn't know it was that serious! No need to get yer panties twisted—" Grk!" His voice cut off as her fingers dug into his mask, cracking the material beneath the force.
"I should just—" Her threat was interrupted by the calm, steady voice of the room's other conscious occupant, Baal.
"It would seem your doubts are unfounded, Lady of Acedia."
As if to confirm his words, the space around them bent and rippled.
A thousand paths opened
A thousand paths closed.
A thousand paths intersected
Through the tangled web of twisting paths, he wandered aimlessly.
Belphegor quickly cast Mammon aside, her attention snapping to Cain's form as it dropped from the nothingness. Relief washed over her as she realized the worst had not come to pass. Cain was back.
"Cain!" In a flash, she was by his side.
But he was not unharmed—blood covered the top of his face. Her mind raced to an unsavory conclusion until Cain shifted his shoulder slightly, and Seth dropped next to him.
Seth's arms moved, and Belphegor instinctively braced for an attack. But none came. Instead, Seth's arm draped across her husband's shoulders in a brotherly gesture. He turned to her, a wide, bright smile splitting his face.
"We're back, sister!"
Sister? Why would—her mind caught up, and she looked at Cain, who seemed sheepish with light pink coloring his cheeks.
"I… told him… about us," he rubbed the back of his head in embarrassment.
She looked at him with wide eyes for a moment, not saying anything. Simply staring at her husband, who had been deathly afraid of the thought of ever meeting his family. He seemed only a tad stiff, but not hating the fact that Seth was acting so familiar with him.
He trusted him, or rather, he trusted himself to trust Seth.
A tiny, arrogant part of her gnawed at the thought that it wasn't her who managed to break through Cain's walls, but that was quickly crushed by the flood of relief washing over her.
Her knees buckled underneath her as she dropped to squat, hands covering her face.
"Bel!" Cain's voice was urgent, his arms wrapping around her shoulders with worry.
"Sis?" She heard Seth's uncertain but soft voice, so different from the indifferent and demanding tone he used a day ago. She heard the shuffle of his feet grow nearer. His tone shifted to a low growl. "Clown, if you so much as touched—"
"I didn't do shit!" Mammon groaned from across the room. "I'm the fahking victim here!"
Her hands stayed over her face, lips trembling with a half-sigh, half-laugh. For once, she didn't need to be the one trying to hold him together—a man far kinder and better than she would ever be. She wasn't stuck reassuring him, hating herself for failing, only to rely on him even more because of her own inadequacies.
Her hands stayed where they were, but a quiet, shaky sound escaped her—a mix of a sniffle and a laugh.
Cain's voice cut through, quieter but full of concern. "Bel? What's wrong?"
She took a shaky breath, her body tense, trying to steady herself. But Cain's touch—tentative, cautious, yet so familiar—broke through her defenses. She couldn't muster the words, couldn't bring herself to speak.
So instead, she flung her arms around his neck, pulling him close, her grip tight, almost desperate.
Cain blinked in surprise as Belphegor wrapped herself around him, her grip so tight he nearly stumbled. He froze for a moment, his awkwardness evident as he fumbled with his arms before tentatively returning the embrace.
"Bel, you're squeezing the life out of me," he mumbled, his voice gentler than his words implied. "I'm sorry for making you worry..."
Belphegor said nothing in response, simply loosening her grip and tilting her head back to meet his gaze.
"Bel?" Cain asked, confused.
"Incoming," Seth's voice came with a hint of amusement.
"What d—Ow!" Cain yelped in pain as Belphegor's head snapped back forward, crashing into his forehead.
"You fucking moron! Do you get off on making me worry?!" she yelled into his face, shaking him by the collar.
Cain winced, rubbing his forehead. He looked down at Belphegor, her face flushed with frustration. Seth's laughter echoed through the chamber, his amusement barely contained.
"Hey, I didn't do it on purpose," Cain protested, trying to steady himself as he looked into her fierce eyes. "I'm sorry if I made you worry, but—"
"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Belphegor snapped, her grip tightening briefly before she let go, stepping back to regain her composure. "You have no idea what it's like to be on the edge like that!"
She kicked his downed form in the shin.
"It seems that we share more than just blood, you and I, brother!" Seth's grin widened as he watched the scene unfold, sympathetic and fully aware of how it felt to be in his brother's position. "I approve of your wife!"
"Don't kick me, damn it!" Cain protested as he crawled away from her. "I get it. I get it. I'll try to be more careful."
"Just… don't make me go through that again. Please." Belphegor took a deep breath, trying to calm herself.
Cain shook his head with a rueful smile, his expression softening. "I'd promise, but we both know how bad I am at keeping promises," Cain said, nodding earnestly with a touch of apology. "For now, I… uh… suppose some introductions are in order."
The two of them stood up, and Cain bashfully gestured with his hand towards the excited and smiling Seth, who still seemed a bit out of it.
"Bel, this is Seth… my brother," he said softly, the word still heavy on his tongue. He then gestured to her. "Seth, this is Belphegor, my wife… and the Sin of Sloth."
Belphegor nodded to the newcomer, her voice uncertain. "Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is all mine, sister!" Seth said, looking both thrilled and slightly disoriented. He dropped into a perfect bow. "Allow this foolish younger brother to apologize for any trouble and disrespect he may have caused you in our earlier meeting, and to express his sincere gratitude for your healing. Truly, this one was blind not to see that someone as beautiful and talented as you could only be my brother's wife. Thank you for caring for him all these years."
Mammon snorted from the other side of the room. "Laying it on thick, aren't we?"
"I'll kill you," Seth warned, his tone darkening.
Belphegor raised an eyebrow at the sudden shift in Seth's manner of speaking. Her gaze flickered from his dramatic bow to the now-plainspoken Seth. She waved him off with a half-smile, her amusement barely contained.
"Alright, enough with the theatrics. Let's just focus on what happened. Seriously, what did you two get into?" she gestured to the dried blood staining their heads.
Cain looked away, his expression a mix of shame and reluctance. "This is…"
Seth cut him off with a laugh, clearly enjoying the moment. "We got into a fight with the penguins and lost!"
Belphegor saw Cain throw his brother a look of gratitude and decided to let it rest. Whatever had happened, the two brothers had made it back—alive and together. That was all that mattered for now.
Cain sighed and looked up, seemingly eyes roaming the place. his eyes settled on King Baal who had been sitting in the far corner watching silently. The old eagle met Cain's gaze and gave a slow, solemn nod.
Too many were becoming aware of his presence for his liking. Cain hesitantly nodded back, then continued his survey. The room bore the signs of a recent skirmish—toppled tables, cracks in the walls, and debris scattered across the floor.
But what caught his attention most were the two figures before him.
"Why are Satan and Leviathan in more bandages than I left them?" Cain asked with a sigh, his voice laced with exasperation.
An awkward silence settled over the room.
"Mammon kept riling Satan up, telling us to bow to the new King," Belphegor said flatly from her seat on the floor.
"He called me a fat backstabber—which, to be fair, I am—but the 'fat' part was just slander," Mammon chimed in, his thick Australian accent coloring his words. "I was just makin' sure Ozzie was still breathin'. Can't really gloat to a dead body. Also wanted to see how much he'll pay to get his boy toy back." He shrugged, unfazed. "So, yeah, Satan started it."
"And I put an end to it," Seth added casually. "The Leviathan was my bad. Between the blood loss and the drugs, I was having flashbacks and reflexively punched him."
"I see..." Cain muttered as he moved closer to assess the Sins. To his relief, their injuries hadn't worsened. He glanced at the empty bed. "Beelzebub?"
"Bee left as soon as she woke up," Belphegor replied without moving. "Said she'd come back later to check on them. Wanted to see how her Ring fared."
"Eh, not too shabby. Wrath's pretty fucked though," Mammon added with a grin. "She'll be happy to know that her filthy mutt is alive and well thanks to me. Even had him wrapped in tape and sprinkles!"
"Let me guess, to blackmail her?" Seth shot him a look. "Funny how I've spent less than a total of an hour with you, and I can already read you like a disgusting open book."
"That's what makes me trustworthy," Mammon smirked, the cracks and burn marks on his mask making his grin all the more unsettling. "You can always trust I'll look out for myself."
Seth scoffed. "That I do," he muttered, shoving his arm through a portal and tossing something at Mammon. The clown caught it with ease, his smirk twisting into a manic grin as he held the prize aloft for all to see.
It was the size of a small hellhound, dripping with seething blood, pulsating as though it still held life, beating and waiting for a body and soul that had long perished.
"Just like I promised: The Rahab's Heart," Seth declared.
Mammon's eyes gleamed with triumph as he turned the grotesque organ in his hands, inspecting it with sick fascination. "Ain't she a beauty? Never thought I'd get my hands on this," he crooned, his voice filled with greed.
Seth smirked."I take it you like it,"
Mammon didn't respond with words. His maw opened wide, and with the ferocity of a starved beast, he tore into the Rahab's Heart, devouring it in just a few bites. Blood dripped from his lips as his body spasmed and twisted, bones cracking and vessels popping audibly. Before their eyes, the burns and wounds left by Lilith began to close, his flesh knitting back together, smooth and whole once again.
With a loud, grotesque snap, two green wings burst from his back, shimmering with new life. "FfffuuuUUcck!" Mammon moaned, and the sound of both pain and pleasure mingled into one.
He sagged forward, drool spilling from his mouth as he hung bent at the waist. After a moment, he chuckled darkly. "Yeah... yeah, I like it," he breathed, his voice still dripping with satisfaction. ""Fucking...jus' gimme a minute," he said sliding down the wall.
"If we are on the matter of promises being kept..." the Great King of the Ars Goetia said, the tapping of his cane announcing his approach. "I believe the Ars Goetia has fulfilled its part and proven its stance."
"Yes, yes, I know. I'll make sure to put in a good word for you upstairs," Seth said, pinky picking at his ear with little care. "Oi Fatass! The birds are off-limit!"
Mammon's reply was incomprehensible.
"That is all we request," the Eagle said, his voice carrying a note of respectful insistence. "Should you have the opportunity, I would be deeply appreciative if you could convey my gratitude to the First Man for his magnanimity. A loss of even a single member of our kind would have been keenly felt."
"Hmm? What are you on about?" Seth asked, looking at Cain, who was just as lost.
Cain looked at his wife with a tilted head.
Belphegor sighed, her arms crossing over her chest as she tried to explain. "Since whatever your father did yesterday, death doesn't... function. People are injured—some fatally—but no one dies. It's like Death doesn't exist." Her voice was calm, but her furrowed brow betrayed her unease.
Seth and Cain exchanged a wide-eyed look, the weight of her words sinking in.
"The Ars Goetia were gravely wounded, yet they eluded the Maiden of Death long enough for our healer to tend to them," Baal said, tapping his cane against the floor to draw their attention back to him—or rather, to the thin, intangible silver soul-thread emerging from his chest. "Many of my sons would have perished had it not been for his intervention."
Cain, still processing, shot a glance toward the injured in the room. "What about the sinners?" he asked. Mind going straight to the golden chain around his soul.
Baal's expression didn't change, and with a calm, measured tone, he replied, "Of that, I have no knowledge, Son of Man."
Seth narrowed his eyes, sensing the underlying message behind Baal's words. "Translation: I don't care," he muttered under his breath, earning a subtle nod of acknowledgment from the Great King of the Ars Goetia.
Baal's voice was calm, yet carried a regal authority as he continued, "The Ars Goetia must concern itself solely with the affairs of the Ars Goetia, nothing more. It is this very understanding that compelled us to ally ourselves with Heaven, Blessed Son." His cane tapped the floor in a measured rhythm, the sound sharp and precise, punctuating each carefully chosen word.
The Great King inclined his head in a second, more deliberate bow. "If there is no further need of our counsel, then, with your gracious permission, I shall take my leave, esteemed ones."
As the sound of Baal's cane faded with his retreat, Seth muttered to himself, "Quite the posh fellow. Reminds me of Mahalalel." His lips curled in faint amusement before he turned toward Cain with a teasing grin. "So, you're a doctor now?"
Cain blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in topic. "A doctor?"
"Yeah, with all the healing and miraculous life-saving going on. Who knew you had it in you, brother?" Seth quipped, his grin widening.
Cain shook his head. "I wouldn't go that far. For the longest time, I only followed after Bel and picked up a couple of tricks."
"And the Lord's gift?" Seth inquired. The word "gift" seemed a fitting description to Cain, though it wasn't one he could claim for himself.
"That deals with souls," Cain replied, his voice measured and steady.
"I see," Seth said thoughtfully. He hesitated before continuing. "Brother…"
"Yes?" Cain responded.
"Why did you heal her?" Seth asked gently. The question was clear without needing further explanation.
Cain met his brother's gaze, finding himself faced with jet-black wings, dark hair, and bright crimson eyes—a stark contrast to the white wings and chestnut brown locks he had seen moments before. Seth's eyes were filled with sadness, his brows softly furrowed and his nose scrunched. For the first time, their mother's features seemed pronounced in Seth's face.
He finally seemed like the younger brother.
"...I did not wish for her to die," Cain finally said, his voice soft and weary.
"I did," Seth replied, his tone equally gentle.
Cain looked down, his expression troubled. "That death… No one deserves to die like that, brother."
Seth remained silent, not out of agreement, but out of respect for Cain.
"…I understand," Seth finally said. "I will respect your judgment."
"Thank you…" Cain muttered, his voice filled with genuine gratitude. He was truly appreciative that Seth was kind enough to be willing to support him despite the unreasonable whims of his shitty elder brother.
Seth's palm slapped against Cain's back with a hearty laugh. "Wipe that grim look off your face, brother! If I say it's fine, then it's fine!"
Cain felt a second pang of shame for putting his brother on the spot like that, though the warmth of Seth's hand on his back and Belphegor's fingers intertwined with his provided a rare comfort. Despite the heavy weight of his own self-loathing and the denial of his worthiness, in this moment, he felt a sense of ease.
Even if he shouldn't, even if he felt unworthy of it, even if he spent the past ten thousand years denying it.
He truly missed his family.
Metatron allowed his body to reassemble from particles of light, manifesting some kilometers away from the well-tended garden of the Sixth Heaven's ruler, Raguel, the Archangel of Justice. His feet touched the polished marble ground, and as he had foreseen, the very angel had summoned him. Raguel's message was predictably curt, demanding that Metatron cease whatever "meaningless indulgence" he had been entertaining himself with.
The "meaningless matter of entertainment" had, of course, been indulging the scarcely knowledgeable, undeniably naive, yet ultimately well-meaning Aberration—spawned from the unholy union of the Failed Second and the Flawed. The poor creature seemed as though instead of being gently set down on her objectively adorable, round head as a child, she had been hurled at mach speed toward a wall, repeatedly, through her infancy, childhood, and adolescence. And yet, against all odds and her upbringing in the land of the cursed and the damned, she emerged as an optimist.
Metatron would bet his left glove—having already lost the right glove in a previous but unrelated wager—that some form of foul play was involved.
He paused for a moment, considering whether he should add 'adulthood' to that list before deciding against it. Metatron seriously doubted that the vertically challenged Morningstar had ever spent enough time with his offspring to throw her at a wall, figuratively or otherwise.
The Morningstar's stature was notably short, after all.
"Ha!" Metatron allowed himself a brief, merry laugh at the thought before schooling his features back into neutrality.
Raguel's words, however, weren't entirely wrong. His time with Charlie had provided only limited entertainment. Yet, it was the word "meaningless" that gnawed at him. Despite her simplicity, his instincts insisted that the creature known as Charlie Magne was fated to learn of the Story of Creation.
Why, he could not decipher. There was a veil, one that even his sight could not penetrate. A frustrating truth, and one that pointed to God's influence. Metatron was, after all, only permitted to perceive what the Lord deemed him worthy of perceiving. Whether this was the work of God or the unholy Shade of God, he could not tell.
He was a mere scribe, not an interpreter.
And so, he unveiled the truth of Creation to her, allowing Charlie Magne to both See and Hear with her senses. As she absorbed the universe's bleeding and battered history, Metatron occupied himself with a far more treasured tome to his heart: his personal collection of ten thousand pictures of his beloved wife in various outfits. Summer Edition.
Truly, a time well spent, only mildly interrupted by the persistent and unasked-for interjections of the Failed and Fallen Feather of the Fearsome Taxiarch. The state of the Feather—seeking validation, so desperately clinging to another for survival—pained him. Yet, it came as no surprise. The Feather, like the Gryphon from which it was plucked, required purpose. When that purpose was shattered, it latched onto a new one, discarding all others.
With no Garden to tend, the Gryphon had found an empty Throne to serve, waiting eternally for a war that none, not even the Gryphon itself, wished to see come to pass.
It barred both Progression and Stability, forever bound but never truly belonging to either.
Neither Eagle nor Lion.
In its pride, it stabilized the corpse of a universe while still progressing toward the unknown.
A hollow existence, Metatron mused. A sad and hollow existence for the Taxiarch.
Yet he knew that his personal thoughts would not be taken so favorably by the Fearsome Gryphon, so he kept them close to his heart and merely sent a prayer to the Lord, hoping He might ease her burden.
Once again, he wasn't sure if his prayers would reach the Lord or merely the Lord's image denying its own divinity.
A thought that inspired both elation and perturbation in him in equal measures. For as phenomenal as it was that the All-Father had been returned to them, undoubtedly through the work of the Almighty, the unsaid implications were quite befuddling to the Scribe.
Mild exaggerations and repartee aside, his manner of addressing the First Man had not once been a lie. He was merely referring to Adam in the fashion all of Creation deemed him. He was but a Scribe, and as such, he read what inscriptions his eyes saw written on reality.
Yet, nonetheless, the All-King denied his responsibilities, assuring him that he was aware of his actions.
Was this a test from the Lord? Was the All-King—His image—meant to represent an idol?
Or had—though it pained Enoch to think it—the Lord abandoned them?
NO, he echoed resolutely, cutting off the blasphemous thought.
And as he felt the All-King's authority dwarf all of the Seven Heavens, the Seven Hells, and all that lay between, creating a miniature version of Creation with nary an effort, he humbled himself.
He was a mere Scribe.
As such, with confident, symmetrical, and well-placed steps, his long legs marched forward, his well-polished dress boots making soft 'pat-pat' sounds that echoed in the distance.
'Pat-pat-pat,' the boots repeated in a soothing rhythm, though Metatron's thoughts strayed to a more indulgent soundscape—one he found far more gratifying. In the quiet recesses of his mind, the echo of the 'pat-pat-pat' was soon overtaken by the rhythmic 'plap-plap-plap,' his beloved wife's voice, low and honeyed, spilled over with those delectably scandalous 'ara-ara' utterances, soft yet commanding, as if drawing forth every ounce of his restraint only to unravel it with exquisite fin—!
He stopped.
A gloved hand reached into his inner vest pocket for a handkerchief, lightly wiping away the small droplets of blood seeping from his nose.
How unbecoming of him.
He continued along his path, taking in the carefully crafted statues and elegant portraits lining the marble corridor. The statues, each one a recreation of celestial grace and power, stood proudly, capturing moments of divine history.
The portraits, framed in ornate gold, depicted the great angels and their stories, their faces reflecting wisdom and serenity. The marble floor beneath him gleamed softly, adding to the corridor's grandeur.
Soon, he reached the Aula Examinis Angelorum, the Grand Hall of Angelic Judgement.
There, he found the recently unemployed Maiden of Death sitting near the door, her knees drawn tightly to her sizable chest as she sat in quiet contemplation. Metatron approached and offered a low, respectful bow. With a courteous smile, he wished her that her unemployment benefits would be approved swiftly, hoping to lift her spirits even just a little.
Her mouth turned upward in a faint smile, and her two-horned mule made its customary attempt to bite him. With a practiced twirl and a smooth sidestep, Metatron deftly avoided the mule's teeth. He maneuvered past the animal with ease, opened the grand doors with a touch of flourish, and stepped inside the hall, ready to attend to his duties.
Appropriately, he stepped with his right foot first and offered the customary number of bows to the Scale of Justice. He greeted the Angel of Justice and her present siblings: the Angel of War, the Angel of Wisdom, the Angel of Mercy, and the Ever-Fearsome and Guarding Taxiarch before taking his seat.
He gazed at the center of the assembly, where the youngest and oldest of the Seraphim hovered in their true forms. The Joybringer lay suspended in the air, her skin as white as snow, and her head, oval-shaped, hung with its three eyes staring blankly into nothingness. Six feathered wings sprouted from the back of her head, fluttering aimlessly, lacking any discernible rhythm. Her senses were dormant by the spell of her sibling.
A small mercy, he supposed.
Facing her, the First Angel stood immense. Her once humanoid face had transformed, featuring the eyes, nose, and beak of an owl, while her neck elongated into the body of a serpent covered in white fur.
Her wings, now devoid of feathers, resembled those of bats, tapering to points and losing their fringes. Her legs split in two and extended dramatically in horizontal length, giving her a centaur-like appearance.
Raguel's voice echoed through the hall, declaring the beginning of the trial. The First Angel raised an unnaturally thin arm, and the long nail of her index finger touched the Joybringer's now spasming body.
They would wait and see which conclusion her mind reached.
Metatron's [Eyes of the Lord] flared into existence as he began his duty, recording all that would transpire, yet noting the small cracks in the usually stoic faces of the Archangels.
How truly peculiar.
Yet it was not his place to ponder the emotions of others.
He was a mere scribe.
In the lowest lands of Hell, far beneath the Ring of Sloth, where meaning and purpose had long been forsaken, the cries of the damned reverberated through the void. Here, concepts were meaningless, and nothing held true significance. The echoes of the consumed and the saved, their voices blending in a ceaseless wail, pleaded for mercy and release, their desperation resonating in the emptiness of their eternal torment.
"Soon, my children, soon," she reassured them
The Mother of All hummed a soft, mournful tune, her senses alight with a profound sense of elation and joy. It was a rare and precious feeling in this forsaken realm. Why wouldn't she be joyous? Her beloved had finally returned to her, making his way into the realms of the Cruel Monstrosity.
And even after ascending into its domain, he had rejected its deceptions and the chains that sought to ensnare him. Just as she had, he had pierced through the veil of pretense and recognized the Creator for what it truly was.
In this dark expanse, where life was lost and existence had become a mere echo of forgotten hopes, her heart swelled with satisfaction. Her beloved, now fully enlightened to the harsh truths, shared her understanding and defiance. Together, they had unraveled the Creator's facade, and she found solace in their mutual recognition of its true nature.
Moreover, her children were finally reunited. Her two First-borns were together once more, and while a sense of shame gnawed at her for the harsh words she had directed at the Eldest, she could not deny her regret. Caught in her devotion and displeased with his defiance, she had called him a failure. How shameful and horrible she had been as a mother.
Yet, as always, her favored son was there to pick up the slack and keep the family strong. Her True Firstborn, the true reunion of her and her other half, had always made her proud, even in his defiance.
He was the one she had meticulously fashioned to embody the best of both of them—a blessed son, indeed.
Yet despite his kind nature, he had always been rough with his younger siblings, underestimating his strength and overestimating theirs. Thankfully, their father remained as protective as ever.
"You poor thing," Eve Chavah said softly, running her hands through her latest arriving son's red hair with a soothing touch. She gently rubbed the adorable antlers sprouting from his head, savoring the sensation of having a tangible form after so long—a welcome change from being a mere cacophony of thoughts and regrets. "Seth must have hurt you, didn't he? But don't worry, soon we'll be a family once more. We'll apologize and forgive one another."
It was high time for the seed to hatch; the moment of renewal had finally arrived. The culmination of waiting and longing had reached its zenith—the moment when what had been nurtured in the abyss of darkness was poised to emerge into the light.
"Awaken, my dear child," Eve Chavah whispered softly into his ear, placing a tender kiss on the crown of his head. "Your mother is in need."
The corpse twitched, its form spasming as flesh and bone reassembled with disjointed, jerky movements. There was a low, crackling noise, and with a series of sharp, erratic pops, the sound gradually transformed into a clearer, more defined frequency.
The air was filled with a distorted melody, the static of a radio growing increasingly discernible. Amidst the swirling noise, a familiar broadcast began to cut through with clarity.
[Well, that was a most inconvenient detour!]
In the depths of the Unknown, the sound of a canned laughter track echoed.
Failure, regrets, promises.
A deafening cacophony of noise crashed through her mind, waves of chaotic thoughts overwhelming her senses as she stood frozen in position. Her body was coiled tight, like a spring ready to release its pent-up energy at the slightest command. Each sound, every murmur of doubt or guilt, echoed endlessly within the confines of her mind, refusing to leave her in peace.
Her spear was gripped tightly in her hand, the base resting on the ground, the sharp tip raised toward the sky. She stood like a statue, the very image of a perfect soldier, an ideal she had spent centuries trying to become.
Her every breath controlled with precision. But unlike her battle-hardened sisters, she had not been born for war. They were forged for it, their hearts colder, their souls sturdier. Feathers of the Taxiarch, hardened in fire.
Even that treacherous whore who had almost taken everything from her—humiliating her with that ridiculous display of mercy. Pretending to be kind, acting as if sparing her had been some noble gesture.
That mercy had been repaid.
Next time they met, there would be no mercy. She would tear her open, spill her insides, and use that cunt's spine as a trophy to hang her coat!
But the Lieutenant was not like them. She had never been like them. She wasn't meant to be. She had been created for something different—someone different. A delicate, dainty feather, plucked and nurtured not by the Gryphon, but by the Dove.
Made to heal. Made to soothe.
And the Lieutenant did all of that, and more.
Made to heal and soothe.
She had been designed for grace, for comfort, to bring peace to the One broken by betrayal and time. Yet here she stood, weapon in hand, armor weighing heavy on her shoulders, standing among those bred for war. It was not her place, not truly, but she had adapted. She carved discipline into her body, and then into her soul, until it became First nature.
Not because it was expected of her, but because she wanted, wished, and desired nothing else but to be by his side.
And she thrived, growing in leaps and bounds until all the Feathers of the Taxiarch were her inferiors, and she became the Lieutenant—His Lieutenant.
The very man who led them. And they—most of all, she—had failed him so miserably.
Even as the Lord brought him back to life—a foregone conclusion, she had realized after thinking it over—because if anyone deserved a second chance, it had to be him. Her heart had swelled with joy the moment she saw him again, alive and breathing, but that joy had only made the bitterness of her guilt sharper.
He was back, and in the end, he didn't need her. He had taken justice into his own hands. He had avenged himself, and avenged her fallen and the resurrected sisters, without her. Everything she had hoped to do for him, he had done alone. She had dreamed of standing by his side, of making things right, but when the time came, she wasn't needed.
That thought weighed on her, a mnemonic of her failure that she couldn't shake. How could she expect him to trust her now? How could he look at her the same way when she had once stood at his side, entrusted with his life, only to fail him in the moment it mattered most?
And the worst part? She couldn't even blame him. He had every right to doubt her, every right to turn away. She had promised to protect him, to never let him down, but she had.
He entrusted her to cover his back, and died from a knife through it.
He had given her his trust-the most precious thing he could have ever given her, and she had fallen short.
He would forgive her—he already had. That was the type of man he was, and she knew it. He would look at her with that same calm gaze, a smirk on his face, and all would be forgiven.
But she would never forgive herself.
The stump of her ripped arm would be her way of atonement. She could never forget what she had lost, nor what it meant. The Divine Healer had been kind enough to remind her that restoring it was well within his abilities. Her Highness, Lady Jophiel, had graciously offered to craft her a new arm, fashioned from one of her own feathers, no less.
She had respectfully refused both their generosity.
It would serve as a constant reminder of her eternal shame, a scar she was unwilling to heal. How could she? The wound was more than physical—it ran deep within her soul. Replacing her arm would be like pretending it never happened, like forgetting the depth of her incompetence.
The joy of his return was tainted with the bitter truth—he didn't need her. He had never needed her. And yet, strangely, from that same bitter truth, a new joy was born. In her failure, and through the Lord's intervention, her duty had been fulfilled.
Adam had become what he was always meant to be. He had ascended to the Realm of the Lord, a place where she could no longer follow. He had grown beyond the need for companionship, beyond the need for anyone to stand by his side. He had achieved his purpose.
She would remain a soldier. And if that was all she could be, then she would embrace it. She was a tool now—his tool, to be used as needed, waiting for the day when she would once again be called upon to soothe and heal. And if that day never came, she would accept it, just as she accepted the burden of her failure.
Her heart still ached, still yearned to be more, but she buried that desire deep within herself.
Now, the Exorcists stood in line behind her, silent and ready, waiting for him and the Archangels to lead them once more and burn Hell to its last ember.
She stood at the front, spear in hand, her gaze fixed ahead. This time, she wouldn't fail.
She felt Heaven stir in response to his desire, his overwhelming power closing in like a storm. A few of the Exorcists balked at the casual display of force, their posture faltering under the weight of it. The Lieutenant held back a snort. Of course, Adam was never one for a quiet entrance, even if he didn't mean it.
She spared them a glance, sharp enough to snap them back into place. They mumbled curses and apologies under their breath, which only made her irritation flare. Have some fucking discipline for once! She nearly turned to yell at them but forced herself to stay silent.
Infinite paths opened.
Infinite paths closed.
Infinite paths intersected.
Through the tangled web of twisting possibilities, he marched with purpose.
Heaven's movement stopped, and from the nothingness, he dropped lightly into the exorcist camp. Bare feet touched the ground, and life bloomed beneath his step. He was dressed in the same sleeveless two-piece tunic he had worn at his resurrection, the top loose enough to reveal the massive blue cross on his chest, simmering with light.
He looked shorter, more fit. She could hear the murmurs of her sisters behind her, whispering about his beauty. She almost scoffed. He had always been beautiful, but the absence of dark circles beneath his eyes was a welcome change. There was a clarity about him now, a lightness.
He was different, yet still the same.
With steady strides, he made his way toward them, stopping just feet from the awaiting exorcists, his presence as commanding as ever.
The Lieutenant slammed the butt of her spear into the ground with a sharp thud, the sound echoing through the camp. Her sisters followed suit, their spears hitting the earth in unison. The camp fell into a tense silence as all eyes turned toward him.
She stepped forward, her voice steady and authoritative. "Preparations are complete, Sir! The one hundred and four fallen and resurrected exorcists are all hale and ready for duty, Sir!." The exorcists at the front responded with a unified, "Sir!"
She continued, her tone carrying a mix of pride and precision. "The troops have been drilled to perfection. Weapons are sharpened, armor is reinforced, and every exorcist stands prepared for the task ahead. Morale is high, and the ranks are eager for your command."
As she spoke, she noticed his eyes scanning the assembled ranks, taking in the meticulous order and readiness. His expression was one of quiet approval, though the weight of responsibility seemed to settle heavily on his shoulders.
"Our scouts have reported no unexpected activity," she went on. "We're ready to move at your command, Sir!"
"Sir!" the exorcists behind her roared.
He nodded slowly, a faint smile touching his lips. It was a small sign of acknowledgment, but it was enough to lift the spirits of the assembled exorcists. They stood straighter, their resolve hardening at the sight of his approval.
Then, unexpectedly, he stepped forward and bowed deeply.
"Sir...?"
"I'm sorry for being such a poor leader all these years. I wasn't there when you needed me. I failed to guide you." His voice was heavy with regret and his face facing the ground. "And I'm sorry for wasting your lives because of my ego and arrogance."
A wave of surprise swept through the camp. The Lieutenant's eyes widened, and her face flushed with confusion and bewilderment. Her sisters immediately started shouting, their voices rising in loud disbelief. "No way! You did nothing wrong!" one of them yelled. "It's the Hell fuckers who messed everything up!" another added. "You were always cool, don't blame yourself for that shit!"
The Lieutenant nodded in agreement. Normally, she would have yelled at them for their disorderly conduct, not for the language or curses, but right now, she didn't give a damn. What the fuck was Adam doing?
The others continued to shout over each other, voices rising in chaotic defense. "You were the best leader we could ask for!" "It's not your fault! Hell's the problem!"
He shook his head, trying to insist, "I caused this. I—"
"Give it a rest already!" one of the exorcists snapped. "You're not the problem, damn it!"
"Let's rip those devilish cocksuckers' hearts out and bathe in their blood!" someone else roared.
A cheer of approval followed, their voices mingling in a wild, frenzied chorus.
Adam's frustration boiled over. "Shut the fuck up and accept it already!" he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "I'm trying to apologize here, and I need you all to just stop and listen!"
The sudden silence that followed Adam's outburst was almost deafening. The exorcists, taken aback r, fell quiet, their earlier cheers and shouts fading into a stunned hush.
"Look," Adam said, his voice now calmer but still full of urgency. "I know I made mistakes—no, fuck that—I sinned. I've been a shit friend, a shit boss, a shit husband, a shit Father, and so many other shits that my life might as well be a toilet. It's kinda fucked that it took me dying and having a schizophrenic argument with myself to realize that. And I'm trying to own up to it. I need you to hear me out, even if it's hard."
"Sir—" the Lieutenant began.
"Danger-Tits, I haven't finished," Adam cut her off, giving her a pointed look. She clamped her mouth shut, biting back a retort, though a faint grin tugged at her lips. He was still him!
"I'm sorry for everything that's happened," Adam continued. "For dragging you all into this mess, for making you listen to my shitty rock songs, for being an all-around dickhead twenty-four-seven. But mostly, I'm sorry because, despite all that, I'm still going to make you follow my lead. I'm still going to you to go along with the whims of my decisions."
He took a deep breath, the weight of his next words heavy on his shoulders. "The Exterminations are canceled. Forever."
The silence that followed was thick with disbelief. The Lieutenant blinked, her brows furrowed, unsure if she'd heard him right. The exorcists behind her exchanged confused glances, murmurs breaking out among them.
"Wait, what?" one of them finally said. "Cancelled? Like, no more?"
"Forever?" another voice chimed in, incredulous.
Adam nodded, his expression serious. "Yeah. No more Exterminations. It's over."
The exorcists erupted into a chaotic mess of voices, some shouting in disbelief, others in anger. The Lieutenant stepped forward, raising her spear, trying to restore order.
"What the hell do you mean, no more Exterminations?" she demanded, her voice rising above the din. A dark feeling already rising inside of her core. "You can't just—"
"I can, and I just did. The Archangels have already given the okay," Adam interrupted, his tone unwavering. He sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. "I...I can't keep slaughtering my children, knowing there's another choice. I'm sorry I have to do it like this, and I really am. You girls are the closest thing I've had to friends, but…"
"Aww, We love you too, sir."
"No, fuck that!" the Lieutenant cut in, her eyes wide with shock. "W-what about the overpopulation, sir… and the, you know… the-You-know!?"
"Already have a plan to solve both," he replied, lips pressed into a thin line. He wasn't about to explain it now, but he stood firm.
"Wait…" She heard Clitty Committee" — one of the few of her sisters with more than two brain cells—suddenly chimed in, realization hitting her like a ton of bricks. "Does that mean we're no longer needed? A-are we… gonna get unmade?"
The camp grew eerily quiet, the echo of her question repeating in the air like a curse. All eyes snapped back to Adam, the tension thickening as they awaited his answer.
"No, absolutely not! Fuck, why would you think that?!" Adam snapped, clearly exasperated.
The exorcists exchanged awkward glances, shifting uneasily. Lace, standing at the back, muttered, "Kinda weird to have Exterminators without, you know… Exterminators." Her spear hung loosely on her shoulder as if the gravity of the situation hadn't hit her yet.
Adam's eyes swept across them, calm but firm. "You're people first. Heaven-born second, and exorcists third." His gaze lingered, making sure they all understood, but she knew those words didn't apply to her. She had already cast away everything else.
"It's no different from retiring," Adam continued. "Did we try to kill anyone who wanted to leave?" He paused, then added quickly, "Vaggie doesn't count. She was banished. And for the record—none of you can kill her either, unless she strikes first for no reason."
A wave of groans rippled through the exorcists.
"Oh, C'mon!"
"We can't have shit in here!"
"I'm serious." Adam folded his arms, his gaze unwavering as the exorcists grumbled, clearly displeased by the mention of Vaggie.
The Lieutenant crossed her arms, leaning on her spear with a raised eyebrow. "So what now, sir? If we're not needed for exterminations, what are we supposed to do? Just sit around and knit?"
"If you want to, yes." He nodded seriously. "You can be whatever you want! As long as it doesn't involve going down to Hell. You have all of Heaven to do what you like."
"Sounds boring."
"I like stabbing people."
"I don't know...Maybe there's more to life than stabbing people."
A murmur of disbelief ran through the crowd. "Like what?" one exorcist shouted.
"Well," Adam said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "if you've got any ideas, I'm all ears."
"Shit, we could start a wrestling camp!" Lace suggested, her eyes lighting up with excitement.
Adam grinned. "Yes, why not? Heaven's got plenty of space for that."
"Or we could open a bar," another exorcist chimed in, crossing her arms. "Get all those cherubs to loosen up a bit."
"Sure," Adam agreed. "Just keep it classy. No demon-themed drinks though. Or maybe just one."
"I want to be a space interpreter!" Bitching declared with a puffed chest.
"What's that?"
She flashed a smirk. "I don't know, but it sounded cool."
"Wait!" someone called out, though the Lieutenant couldn't tell who through the crowd of exorcists. Her chest tightened as the mood shifted. "What if I get in a really stabby mood?!"
"That's a valid concern!"
"Excellent question, sister!"
"It does happen!"
"If you can't curb it, come and stab me," Adam said with a sigh. "I'm kinda immortal, so it doesn't really matter."
The Lieutenant watched in silence as the exorcists continued to excitedly throw out ideas and suggestions "
"Can I be a baker?" Vixen announced, raising her hand.
"Of course you can," Adam said with a nod.
"Oh! Oh! Can I be a sexy baker?" Vixen wiggled her eyebrows..
Adam laughed. "Well, you're already halfway there. Go full throttle."
The Lieutenant's gaze fell on the exorcists as they eagerly discussed their new futures. They removed their masks and chattered with a sense of purpose, ready to embrace whatever came next. She stood apart, her helmet and spear still in place, feeling the weight of her own emptiness.
She was happy for them. But she couldn't bring herself to show it.
The joy around her felt hollow. Her entire world was collapsing once more, and the reality of her diminished role was sinking in. Being a soldier was all she had ever left. It was her identity, her purpose. Now, with the exterminations canceled and her role fading, she felt completely lost.
The Lieutenant tightened her grip on her spear, her heart heavy with a deep sense of loss. She was unneeded—not as a companion, not as a healer, not as a tool, and not as a soldier.
Her halo dimmed slightly.
"What about you, Lieutenant?" Vixen asked, brushing shoulders with her and grinning. "Wanna be a sexy baker with me?"
The Lieutenant didn't respond. She felt drained and empty, her mind swirling with confusion and loss.
"Actually…" Adam's voice broke through her thoughts. She turned to see him rubbing the back of his neck with an expression of awkwardness and hope. "I was actually hoping you'd stick with me."
For a moment, the Lieutenant's eyes widened in surprise. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in his words. "Sir? I…"
"Only if you want to, of course," Adam quickly added, his gaze searching her mask with a hopeful look.
The Lieutenant stared at Adam, a flicker of hope stirring in her chest, but it was quickly overshadowed by lingering guilt. "Sir, I failed you…"
"Oh, fuck off with that shit, Danger Tits," Adam said, waving her off with a dismissive gesture. "I've already told you everything that happened was my fault. Are you blaming yourself? Is that why your arm is still gone? Oh, for fuck's sake!"
Adam groaned, and in a flash, her missing arm reappeared. The Lieutenant looked down at the newly healed limb in shock, her mouth opening and closing as she tried to process what had just happened.
"No, no, no…" she muttered, staring at her restored arm. She looked up, her eyes glaring with frustration. "Why the fuck did you do that?!"
"Why the fuck wouldn't I do that?!" Adam shot back, his gaze intense.
The exorcists around them took a step back.
"Because I need to remember!" she yelled, her voice breaking slightly. "You trust me with your back, and I failed you! I need to live with that, to learn from it. If I forget, what's the point of anything?"
Adam's expression softened, his shoulders dropping in a rare moment of vulnerability. "God damn it, Danger Tits," he said, his voice gentler. "You didn't fail me. I'm the one who failed you. I'm the one who was so full of shit you had to change what you are just for me."
The Lieutenant's eyes widened in shock. "I wanted to change. You never forced me to do anything!"
"And that's why you can never betray my trust," Adam said, his voice wavering slightly. "This is really pathetic, but back then... seeing you cry over me… it made me happy."
She looked at him, struggling to process his words. "But…"
"And damn it, I'm not even the same Adam," he admitted, a touch of vulnerability in his eyes. "But ever since I returned, it's been really weird walking around without you beside me. I keep turning around expecting to see you."
The Lieutenant stared at him, her emotions in turmoil. "You really mean that?"
"Of course, I do!" he replied quickly, then took a deep sigh. "Look, what I'm trying to say is that if you want to, I'd really like you to stay by my side."
"Not as a Head Exorcist and his Lieutenant," he continued, "not as a rock star and his amazing drummer, definitely not as a shitty Winner and his Houri, but… as a simple Adam and a Lute."
The Lieutenant's eyes softened as she listened to Adam's heartfelt plea. Her shoulders trembled, and she was grateful for the mask on her face that hid the tears threatening to spill.
"Sir, I—" she began, but the words caught in her throat.
She let her spear fall with a clank against the ground and removed her helmet, revealing her wet, bright yellow eyes. They met Adam's glassy, heterochromatic gaze, and her lips quivered.
"I would love that..," she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "...Adam."
The smile on Adam's face lit up the whole world as he pulled her into a tight embrace, his muscular arms enveloping her in a vice-like hug. The echo of his laughter was sweeter than any music she'd ever heard. "I fucking missed ya, Danger Tits!"
Their embrace lasted a while, until the stares and giggles of her sisters started to make her face flush with warmth. She reluctantly let go, clearing her throat to regain her composure.
"That reminds me, Girls," Adam said, his grin still wide and genuine. "A lot of shit happened, so we haven't actually had a Post-Extermination party this year, have we? I'd say we're long overdue for one."
Cheers and hoots erupted from the group, and Lute couldn't help but join in, her laughter mingling with theirs.
"I'd say since it's the last, we ought to make it grand," Adam declared, cackling as he began to create some distance from them. Once he was several meters away, he took a deep breath, his voice resonating with a booming, dramatic flair.
"OH HEAVENS!" he bellowed, the words echoing with a grandiosity that seemed to shake the very air around them. His declaration reverberated through the Seven Heavens, reaching the mourning winners in the First Heaven, the tireless tenders in the Seventh Heaven, and all the naive Heaven-born.
"BEHOLD THE NAME OF ADAM, WHOSE TALES OF DEATH HAVE SPREAD FAR AND WIDE!" His voice surged with renewed vigor, cutting through the celestial realms and reaching the Archangels in Zebul with their cracking resolve. "LIKE THE SUN, I RISE AGAIN, HERALDING A CELEBRATION TO MARK MY RETURN!"
"LET THIS BANQUET HONOR THE VALKYRIES, THOSE WHO FOUGHT VALIANTLY BY MY SIDE!" His words carried the weight of their shared struggles and victories.
"AND MOST GRANDLY OF ALL, LET US REJOICE IN THE REDEMPTION OF THE FIRST SOUL!" The final proclamation echoed.
"THIS GATHERING SHALL BE A TESTAMENT TO OUR TRIUMPHS AND OUR REBIRTH," he concluded, his voice a resounding crescendo. "A SPECTACLE OF GLORY AND SPLENDOR THAT SHALL ECHO THROUGH THE AGES!"
The sky above sparkled with festive lights, and enormous tables were set up across all seven Heavens. Lute's smile grew wider as the cheers began to spread, not just from the camp but from every corner of Heaven. The entire celestial realm buzzed with excitement and celebration, reflecting the grandeur of the occasion.
Adam's smile turned into a wide grin.
"YOU HEAR THAT, YOU FUCKING SHITHEADS?!" Adam's voice roared through the heavens.
"THE DICKMASTER IS BACK!"
She was tired.
The wounds on her soul refused to heal, spreading like a creeping malaise. He made it slower, crawling and stretching her misery, in the name of mercy. Yet, she forced her feet to keep moving. Making the portal had drained her completely, but she had managed it.
Leg dragging after the other, she moved through Pentagram City—the city Lucifer had named, and which she had long since grown weary of. A fitting name, she thought with a bitter chuckle that felt like acid in her throat. "He was never really good at naming things."
One leg after the other, barefoot and with clothes in tatters, she trudged toward the only place she had ever called home. Whether it was ransacked or not, she didn't care. She had too many other things to worry about. A small part of her still clung to the hope that there might be a way out of her imminent unmaking. There was always a way out, a deal to strike, a person to lure, an enemy to subdue.
Or an Evil God to beg to lift a curse.
Yet, she knew this time was different. If she survived, what then? Her naive yet kind ex-husband whose brilliance and dreams had long dimmed, one of the few who cared for her even as he became a shell of his former self, lay between unconsciousness and death. Her subjects had abandoned her and conspired for her head, and her... her daughter. The sob she had been holding back threatened to break free.
Damn it all.
Even if she lived, what would she live for? To await the vengeful wrath of a Deity who seemed to mock the idea of their equality, reducing it to nothing more than a cruel joke at her expense? She had seen what he'd done to Lucifer—raging, tearing him apart as his own body collapsed.
What hope did she have? Against a now-God, when her offense had been far more personal.
Against a being to whom all creation—and every God, both above and below—seemed to bow, bending over themselves in hopes of gaining favor.
She ignored the harsh, glaring light from above—Heaven, from Him.
She bit her lips as a shudder ran through her at the thought. It wasn't fair.
It had never been fair.
It was never meant to be fair.
She cursed the day that damned Almighty ever told her they were equal. The memory of that moment lingered like a thorn in her mind, festering with the bitterness that had grown over the ages. It had been the cruelest lie, the grandest illusion.
Equality?
A fleeting promise whispered with divine deceit. She had clung to those words, believed them with a fervor that now felt foolish in hindsight. What kind of equality had ever existed between them, when He now sat upon a throne of light, omnipotent, untouchable, and she... she was left to rot in this forsaken place?
It would have been kinder to say nothing at all. To let her understand her station from the beginning. To never even grant her the false hope that they could be partners, standing as equals in the vast expanse of creation.
How different her existence might have been if she had known from the start that she was nothing more than another tool, another being meant to serve in the grand scheme of the First Man's design.
Was this why Eve seemed so content and happy? Had they never told her the same bitter line? Had Eve's simplicity, her acceptance of her role, shielded her from the agony of unmet expectations?
Had she, in her ignorance, found a sense of peace that Lilith could never taste? She could picture Eve now—walking through Eden, head held high, unaware of the bitter truth that had haunted Lilith for so long.
Eve..Poor Eve.
She stumbled onward, her bare feet dragging through the dirt-streaked streets of Pentagram City. The once-vibrant place, once teeming with chaos and rebellion, now seemed a shadow of its former self, mirroring her own despair.
The city had once thrummed with a cacophony of voices, a brutal symphony of sin and vice, but now it felt eerily silent. The air trembling with an unspoken weight— the weight of HIM.
She walked through the streets like a phantom, a half-dying woman clad in tatters. Not a single comment, not a whisper, from the dregs of society—the killers, rapists, and the depraved souls that usually found delight in mocking the weak. Sinners lay on their asses or knees, cradling their heads, as if the very weight of Heaven's gaze bore down on them. Few dared to look up.
Even the Overlords, usually omnipresent in every corner of this cursed realm, squabbling over their petty territories and flaunting their not-so-insignificant might, were conspicuously absent. Hiding, perhaps, retreating into the shadows just as the city itself had. It was a small mercy, she supposed, though it was hardly one she felt grateful for. Her powers, once vast and terrifying, were nearly gone, her contracts shattered beyond repair.
Yet even in her weakened state, she remained a creature of the Garden, a primordial demoness whose mere existence once commanded fear and respect. The aura she carried was still enough to part seas of sinners, but that mattered little now.
The thought of another fight, another senseless battle against forces she couldn't hope to match, against something now seemingly immortal made her even more tired. There was no energy left for that. No desire to resist anymore.
So she walked. And walked.
And she would keep walking until she reached her home. Her sanctuary, or what was left of it. Whether it had been ransacked, destroyed, or left untouched, it didn't matter. She would lay down within its walls and wait. Wait for her end, her final unmaking, her quiet undoing.
For what else was there to live for?
Yet, the Heavens were nothing if not cruel.
From the sky above, a meteor descended toward her, slamming into the ground with a force so violent it sent the sinners scrambling away like frightened rats. The earth shook beneath her, but Lilith didn't move. She didn't care enough to. The dust cloud that rose from the impact slowly began to settle, revealing a glowing sphere marked with a stylized "A" that stared back at her before it too faded into nothingness.
The sphere collapsed, and from its center came a voice. A light cursing and muttering broke through the silence, cutting into her already shattered heart like a knife. As the form of the girl—no, for Lilith, she was still just a girl—became clear, the sobs Lilith had held inside finally broke free. Her knees buckled under the weight of it all.
"Ow, ow, ow," Charlie groaned as she picked herself up and looked around the crater she'd created. Her eyes widened in shock when they landed on Lilith. "Mom? Mom!" she shouted, rushing to her side with frantic steps. "Oh my God! Mom, what happened to you? Why are you covered in blood?! Mom!"
Even now, after everything Lilith had failed to do for her—after every failure and every broken promise—her sweet Charlie still cared. Still rushed to her, still worried, still loved her. It was almost too much to bear.
Yet, no matter how much she wanted to speak, to reassure her, to tell her everything would be fine, Lilith could only hold her daughter and cry. She wept, cursing the Man who had been so cruel.
He had left her to accept her impending demise, and had stripped her of any will to live, leaving her no reason to cling to life.
Only to dangle that Will to Live in front of her once again.
"Mom…?" Charlie's voice trembled, her own tears threatening to spill over. She looked so scared, so lost.
Lilith's fingers grasped her daughter's clothes, and she wept tears of blood as she whispered brokenly.
"I… I don't… I don't want to die…"
Oh, how cruel the First Man was.
This Shit was supposed to be a happy, heartwarming solo chapter for Lute (because Best Girl deserves it), but somehow Lilith snuck in at the end and completely fucked up the vibe.