Tahat—The Abyss, stretched out in every direction—a place where even darkness had weight. Unlike other realms, this void was neither cold nor suffocating; it was simply… absent. There was no sky, no ground, no horizon. What passed for 'solid' beneath your feet was a shifting, oozing mass that resisted every step, like trying to walk through a pool of blackened tar. Yet, it wasn't liquid.
The Kadmon dropped on it and it attempted to latch on to him.
The texture was too thick, too oppressive, as if it absorbed not only movement but hope, slowly devouring any shred of will left in those unlucky enough to dwell here.
'What a dreary place.' He thought absentmindedly. His spread wings twitched as their connection to the Divine Order rejected Tahat's rot, before he discarded his Sefirots, and let it seep. Tahat was nothing more than something to connect him to his descendants.
Tahat saw his sins—countless, as numerous as the stars—and seared him from the inside out. The flames gnawed at his flesh, boiled his blood, and cracked his bones under the weight of it all, but Adam endured. This was not his first torment, nor would it be his last. For all its relentless agony, Tahat could offer nothing he wasn't ready to face.
Kadmon was the vessel, the one who would carry the sin of the beginning—not just his own, but those of all of humanity's.
Kadmon bore their burdens, and took their transgressions upon himself, enough to spare them from breaking entirely under the weight of their guilt. For repentance and despair walked a perilous edge, a razor-thin boundary that too many souls would lose their footing on.
As the Kadmon held death at bay, the Adam also kept their minds intact, tethering them to some semblance of sanity in the void. The Abyss sought to erode that, to strip away their sense of self, but Adam's presence was a shield. He absorbed their anguish, ensuring they didn't fall into the endless chasm of oblivion, even as Tahat tried to pull him under.
It helped keep him grounded; in the midst of the Abyss, the pull of All Creation ceased momentarily.
He walked. The first step faltered under the searing pain, but the second came steady. His wings stretched wide, casting light across the Abyss, while the faint glow of his cross flickered at his chest.
The air was stagnant, heavy with a silence so complete it pressed against the ears, deafening in its stillness. There were no whispers, no cries of torment, not even the sound of one's own breath.
Tahat devoured sound itself, leaving only the endless, crushing quiet. Time held no meaning here. Hours, days, centuries—it all bled together into the infinite dark. It was a realm built to erode the soul, not with fire and brimstone but with isolation and absence.
It was an endless cycle of despair with no escape for those who were content to wallow in self-pity and to let it remain such for an eternity.
Having said that, the Kadmon doubted that any would leave this Keliplot soon. It was reserved for the worst of the damned, those whose transgressions had accumulated beyond the capacity of the other Nine Kelipots to bear.
In Tahat, the silence and solitude were only the beginning.
It was a realm where the suffering was self-inflicted, a consequence of the damned's own making rather than a direct design of the Kadmon's.
The Abyss was a stage for those who had once wielded True Power, who had held dominion over others, and reveled in their cruelty and hubris, treating the lives of their fellow men as mere commodities.
It was the domain of those whose sins would have made the Old Man cast away His divine mercy, should He still care to glance in their direction.
A dreary place, indeed.
And at its heart was The Serpent, once called by grand names and grander titles that the Kadmon cared little for, though now he bore little resemblance to the Morningstar who had once defied Heaven and wronged him and many others eons ago.
The being, not a man—men were of Adam, and Adam was of Dirt and Dust—sitting in the void was a patchwork of scars and healing wounds, his body pieced back together by hands far greater than his own and far kinder than he was deserving.
The arms and legs that the Adam of old—who walked with his heart open in a body that lived with his eyes closed for too long—had torn asunder were whole again, though they hung with the stiffness of something not entirely of the serpent.
His silver hair, once gold like the sun itself, hung loosely over his face, dull and lifeless, streaked with cracks that spider-webbed across his body, a physical reflection of his fall. His latest Fall, Kadmon thought with a snort. The Serpent had many falls from which he refused to learn.
Gone were the wings that Adam had ripped from him, and with them, the distinct circles on his cheeks—blue then red, symbols of his former glory and then his past hubris. Now, he looked broken and ordinary.
The proud Morningstar had been reduced to a hollow, fractured shell, a mere shadow of his former self.
Kadmon felt a small flicker of satisfaction and amusement that penetrated through the veil of pain, making the corner of his lips twitch.
'The downfall of the proud is always a fine wine,' came to his mind.
How unbecoming of him to rejoice in the misfortune of others, yet alas, he was just a human. So, he did as a human would do and savored its bitterness.
"I'm here, Clown." Kadmon sat facing the Serpent, his voice a low rumble, letting out a slow, deliberate sigh. His breath flickered into faint wisps of flame, briefly lighting the void before they vanished into the cold emptiness. "Go on. Show me what you've got."
"Make me laugh," he murmured darkly, the mockery in his tone unmistakable. He wanted to see if once-Lucifer, the so-called Morningstar, still harbored even a shred of the arrogance that once defined him. Or was he content now, just a broken shell of the being who had challenged Heaven itself? or so the tales of humanity of modern times went, no?
The silence that followed was unnervingly long, stretching like the abyss itself. The Serpent didn't raise his gaze, his head bowed, not a word passing his lips. There was no defiance, no venom—just stillness.
"What's this, now?" Kadmon's brows rose, his voice laced with disdain. "Why are you silent still? You had plenty to say back then, didn't you? Always the clever one, always the comedian. You cracked jokes in my final moments as if I were a punchline."
"Go ahead. Make another joke about my wife."He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, filled with menace.
G̶̨͍̬̝̃̀̏ȉ̴̝͓̲v̷̗̝̘͇̽͐ḙ̶͔̻̤̻̮̀̔̑̃̈́ ̴̳̫̜̣̏̈́m̸̬̫̣͎̔͑e̸͔̗̗͕̿̏ ̶̨̪̣͚͖̬͋̀̽ä̶̠́̍ ̵̬̟͛͆r̶̢͎͔̹̱̈͆͜e̸̝͊̓̾̐̾̊ā̶͖̠̬̰͎͜s̵̳͂o̴̘̘͕̳͒͋n̴͈̥̝̿̑̍͌͘̕ ̷̧͙̩̻͈̄͐͒ï̸̢̨̝̗̒͠ͅf̵̛̜̺̼͗͆̊͌ ̵̮͂̌y̸̥͉̤̰͌̉̎ờ̴̢͒̊ǖ̸̼͈̟́ ̶̨̩̦̯̻̄ͅd̷͕̫͒̇̄̑̾̈́a̴̞͝͝r̵̜̰̠̀ė̵̥̀͂̐d̴̬̹͆̑͗̿͒̃.̴̪̈"
̴̺̼͒̿͊̀́̊
The Serpent remained motionless, his silver hair casting a dull sheen in the faint glow of Kadmon's flames. Not a flicker of response, even when the flames were inches away from his face.
"What's the matter, Clown?" Kadmon's eyes narrowed. He wasn't surprised by the lack of reaction, yet it irked him all the same. "Cat got your tongue? Or have you finally run out of material?" he asked, his voice tightening, the mockery still present but edged with irritation. "Or perhaps little ol' me isn't worth digging up the good material? Maybe I should drag your whore down here to see if that helps?"
The Serpent flinched at the mention of Lilith, his shoulders tensing ever so slightly, but still, he remained silent. It was a subtle reaction, barely noticeable, but Kadmon saw it. His lips curled into a smile that was anything but warm.
Kadmon leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Or maybe your little CharChar—she was present last time, wasn't she?"
The Serpent's hand clenched into a fist, the knuckles turning white beneath the tattered remnants of his clothing. His eyes snapped to meet Kadmon's blazed with a fury so intense it could have melted stone, but he remained silent, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
The mere mention of Charlie—or any insinuation of harm befalling her—struck a nerve. Of course it did. What father could remain unmoved when his child was at stake? What kind of—
Kadmon stopped.
His thoughts fractured, the realization hitting him like a blow to the chest. He looked deeper into the Serpent's eyes, into that intense glare, and for the first time in centuries, saw something familiar—pleas, fear, and worry.
And Kadmon knew that look. It galled him. Yet, it was a look he himself had worn more times than he cared to admit. The cruel satisfaction drained from his face, replaced with something hollow and uncomfortable. His smile faded.
He shouldn't have said the last sentence.
No father deserved to have their child threatened in front of them.
Even the flaw in front of him.
"Don't give me that look." Kadmon's smile faltered, becoming hollow. His voice softened, barely audible now. "It's just a bad joke."
He let out a chuckle, but the sound felt like ash in his mouth, empty and bitter. For the Father of Humanity, of all people, to threaten another man's child—it was pathetic. What a shameful turn.
"You wouldn't reply, so I thought I might take a gander at it to see if my jokes could lit some fire under you." It did, but it was a fire that Adam didn't wish for anyone to feel. His voice trailed off, the words laced with a regret he hadn't intended to show. He raised the hand on his knee in a vague gesture.
"My bad." He needn't stoop so low to threats and lies against the Serpent.
Not when the truth was far crueler.
The silence stretched between them before the Serpent's gaze gained a flicker of light. His eyes roved over Kadmon's form, from his six eyes to his four arms, then to the last of his twelve wings where Keter's Hidden Light of True Progression shimmered, reflecting what he had lost. It mocked him, though not overtly—just enough for him to feel the weight of the past.
The Serpent's lips parted, and finally, he spoke.
"Charlie... What did you—" His voice was cracked, hoarse, each word jagged, cutting off as though it hurt to speak.
"Oh? It speaks!" Kadmon exclaimed.
The Serpent's brows furrowed. "Where is... she?"
Kadmon remained still, utterly calm, his expression betraying nothing but mild amusement as the Serpent struggled. "Be at ease," he said, chuckling softly. "I haven't touched a hair on your daughter." He let the words hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his tone light yet precise. "Quite the opposite, actually. Charlie and her hotel are under my protection."
The Serpent's eyes narrowed, the tension in his body refusing to release. But Kadmon wasn't finished. "Though the how is unclear, she has accomplished the impossible: a soul was redeemed from her hotel. Despite her questionable parentage, she has done what even the angels above have doubted." He smiled, but it was not one of kindness—it was a smile laced with bemusement at the irony.
The Serpent's body relaxed ever so slightly, his rigid posture loosening as he absorbed Kadmon's words. His gaze, though still filled with caution, softened just enough. He blinked slowly, as if processing what had been said, the fire behind his eyes dimming but not yet extinguished.
"I see," he rasped, the words shaky, barely above a whisper. "Good... that's good."
But there was no relief in his tone, just the sound of a man trying to convince himself.
The Serpent's lips twitched, but he said nothing, his eyes flickering with emotions too tangled to decipher—relief, fear, maybe even pride, all warring beneath the surface. "That's good." he repeated.
Kadmon watched, the calm, amused expression never wavering. "Good?" he repeated, arching a brow. "Is that all you have to say? I expected more fire from you."
The Serpent looked away, his gaze heavy, the shadows beneath his eyes darker than before. "If she's safe... that's all that.. matters," he muttered, more to himself than to Kadmon. "L..Lilith?" The word forced its way out of his throat, cracked and broken.
"Dying. Her soul was severed." Kadmon stated, watching the Serpent's reaction with quiet amusement. "Should croak in a week or so. would've died long ago, but Cain is far too kind for his own good."
The Serpent's body tensed again at Kadmon's casual revelation, the fleeting relief he felt earlier evaporating as quickly as it had appeared. His shallow breath hitched, and his eyes fixed on Kadmon, a silent question hanging between them.
Kadmon answered with a smirk. "It wasn't me."
His lips parted, the words sticking in his throat as he tried to form a coherent thought but all that came out was, "Who...?"
"Someone with a vendetta. Or I guess it was several someones, I suppose." the Primordial Singularity answered with laugh. "Though I guess that really doesn't narrow it down, one bit. You two should've paid attention to all those you've wronged."
the Serpent paid little to the Man's mockery, thoughts elsewhere.
Lily... dying? the words barely registered. No, no, no—guilt, anger, confusion, a storm of emotions he couldn't control. The question tumbled out, strained and disbelieving, "Why.. now?"
Lilith had nothing to do with Adam's death...
"Why not?"Kadmon leaned back, wings stretching slightly, casting long, dark shadows behind him.
"Timing is a funny thing, isn't it? Maybe she finally ran out of people who cared enough to keep her alive." He smirked, eyes glinting with amusement. "Karma's a bitch, I suppose. That's what she gets for trying to pull a fast one on Heaven by offering her family to save her own skin."
The Serpent's confusion deepened. His brow furrowed, a look of disbelief flickering across his features. Lilith… sacrificed them to save herself?
Was he implying that..?!
His expression twisted in pain, his confusion giving way to a fierce, burning anger. "That can't be true," he muttered, more to himself than to Kadmon. "Lilith wouldn't—"
"You ever wonder how I was able to bypass the Treaty and hurt your brat?" Kadmon cut him off with a smile, his cheek resting on his fist. "By all accounts, Exorcists and Hellborn shouldn't be able to harm one another, yet somehow I did. Almost as if one of the two people in charge of Hell changed the rules."
The Fallen Angel's voice cracked, trembling with shock. "No... that can't be true." His words came out in a stammer, as though he was trying to grasp any thread of clarity.
Kadmon chuckled, the sound low and patronizing. "Oh, come now, you didn't know?"
"Explain," the Serpent choked out.
"I'll do you one better. I'll let you see with your own eyes." Kadmon raised his palm, summoning a Memory Sphere that floated before the Serpent's face.
He peered into the sphere and saw it all: the red sky of the Pride Ring, the Exorcists flying across the Pentagram. A glamour spell hid Lilith from prying eyes, but there she was, her beautiful smile and piercing eyes, her hand extended. Adam's hand entered the frame, hesitated, then firmly grasped Lilith's, and a chain bound them.
A soul-binding deal.
From the Sphere, the details of the deal filled the Serpent's mind.
"That was seven years ago," Kadmon added with a smile.
The extermination seven years ago, the Serpent tried to recollect what he could. It was...two months before their last argument. Telling him that it was over...
Seven years ago, she had left with no warning. Seven years she had been hiding in Heaven. Their marriage, if it could still be called that, had cooled and crumbled long before then. But this... Even Charlie...
"You're lying..." The Serpent's voice wavered. This had to be fake. Why would she ever—
"I'm tired of all of this," Lilith's voice came from the memory, almost mocking him for daring to ask such a question. "This isn't what I dreamed of. This isn't the paradise I was promised ten thousand years ago."
Right...
Screw them, Lily. We'll make our own paradise down here.
Those were his words.
He had promised her that when seeing her cry burned him so.
When his dreams still remained and they had each other even as they lost everything else.
He failed.
He never made good on his promise.
When was it exactly that he stopped caring?
When did the dreams he had shared with her turn into just echoes of a past he could no longer touch?
He couldn't pinpoint the exact moment. Was it when the weight of their broken dreams became too heavy to bear?
Or when the harsh reality of their existence crushed the idealistic visions they once had?
Perhaps it was the day he found himself alone, without her, without the hope they had once nurtured together.
He looked away from the Memory Sphere, feeling the cold bite of regret and sorrow.
He pushed her to this.
He raised his palms to look at what became of him. Who even was he? He was no longer Samael; that was stripped from him long ago.
He wasn't the Dreamer; that was a title he no longer deserved.
He wasn't Lucifer. He could no longer associate it with his existence.; that name belonged to the Sin of Pride and the King of Hell. Adam had shattered the former and usurped the later.
He was neither of those.
He was nameless.
And he had failed.
And now Lilith was dying.
He raised his wide eyes and once more, he took in the form of the being in front of him. It wasn't Adam. Adam was a human, the first and favoured, but a human nonetheless.
This thing was ...wrong.
it reminded him of It, of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil.
It reminded him of Roo.
But it was powerful.
"You're..different." The Serpent said slowly.
Kadmon's grin widened, a glint of amusement dancing in his eyes. "Aren't we all?" he replied, his voice dripping with vagueness. He leaned forward ever so slightly, the shadows around him seeming to deepen. "Different is just a word, Serpent. It's all about perspective."
"You're... Adam, aren't you? You look different, feel different, even talk different... but you're Adam?" The Serpent's voice was rough, each word dragging itself out as he fought against the rising urge to retreat, to find some dark corner where he could shut out the world. The old, familiar pull of exhaustion weighed on him, the temptation to hide away, to spend an eternity making ducks and pretending none of this mattered.
But there was nowhere to escape, not in this twisted, miserable place he found himself in. And the only chance at understanding—the only one who might hold the answers—was the... creature standing before him.
"Who else might I be but Adam?" He replied, his tone flat and matter-of-fact.
The Serpent's eyes narrowed. "You have my Progression... my siblings' authorities... and His Eyes. Is-" His voice wavered at the end. " Is... He back?"
"The Old Man? He hasn't returned, but then again, he never really left, did he? 'For in him we live, and move, and have our being. He's in the air you breathe, the ground you tread. Everywhere and nowhere all at once '." Kadmon tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at his lips. "Or something like that?"
The Serpent clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles tight. It wasn't the clear answer he needed—there was never a straightforward answer for him—but the feeling of helplessness grew heavier with each passing moment.
He willed his anger to subside, focusing instead on Kadmon's fifth wing. It was hidden, but Binah was in there—Raphael's authority of Resonance. His only hope.
He grit his teeth.
"I beg of you," His hands rested on the dark floor, and he felt the shadows creeping up, trying to claim him. With a heavy sigh, he bowed his head and spoke with raw desperation, "Please, Adam... save Lilith. She's suffering, and I don't know who else to turn to. I need your help, now more than ever."
Kadmon's voice was calm, almost amused. "And why should I?"
The Serpent's voice was raw and pleading. "Because you can. You've got the power. And because if there's any part of you that remembers who you used to be—if there's any trace of what you meant to her left—you'd want to help. You're the only one I can ask this of. I'm begging you!"
"Is that so?"Kadmon raised an eyebrow, his expression unmoved.
"Please!" The Serpent's voice cracked with desperation. "You made it to Heaven, so I know there's still some good in you. More than I ever had. Please, I'll do anything! I'm begging you, help me save Lilith. I know you hate me, but please... just this once."
Kadmon's smirk faded gradually, his features shifting into a cold neutrality. He looked down His six eyes, except for the main heterochromatic two, closed momentarily as he seemed to ponder the words he heard.
"Good in me? for Saving Lilith?" He spoke with a soft tone. A chuckle left his lips building slowly until it was a full-blown harsh laugh. "it's amazing only you, and no one else can actually lose my cool."
"You really don't understand, do you? You have no idea the extent of the damage you've done. How you've wrecked Creation, destroyed what my Humanity were meant to be, and shattered all that I held dear. My feelings for you aren't just hate—It's a deep, unrelenting disdain. Loathing in its purest form. You and your whore suffering brings me unrivaled joy, so why must I deprive myself?"
the Fallen bit his lips and his fist tightned acros his clothes as he trurned his eyes away in shame.. "Hate me if you must. You're right to do so. I know I've caused so much pain, ruined everything. But please... not for me—Lilith. I'm begging you, just save her." His voice, loud and pleading, echoed around him. "I know—"
His words were cut off as Kadmon's hand suddenly lashed clamped around his throat with brutal force, nearly crushing it ."No, you do not know," he hissed, increasing the pressure. When Kadmon finally looked up, the blue and golden hues of his irises had shifted into a terrifyingly familiar blue with intersecting golden lines.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of the Serpent's neck as he saw those eyes. Those same eyes.
No— not again. The snap, the tearing, the searing pain. His wings, his beautiful wings, ripped away by those hands. The agony as his body hit the ground, feathers falling like ash. The screams—his own, ringing in his ears.
The Serpent's arms moved reflexively, reaching for Kadmon's grip, but before he could fully grasp the moment, pain exploded through him. Kadmon's other hands seized his forearms, pinning him in a brutal mockery of the crimson cross that glowed on his chest.
Fear clawed at him, the past and present blurring. His wings... gone. Those eyes... still here.
Lily!
His instincts screamed for him to run, lest he be swallowed whole. "Plea...Lil..GRrhk!" the bones in his forearms creaked and threatened to snap as he gasped for breath, his voice reduced to a strangled whisper.
"You never knew. You never wanted to know. Too wrapped up in your own pathetic existence to even care. You were always nothing but a spoiled arrogant brat tolerated by far greater beings than you ever deserved." Kadmon growled, his voice thick with contempt. "A misunderstood dreamer What a fucking joke. " His voice dropped, sharp with venom. "You want the truth? The truth no one ever dared say to you?"
Kadmon barely noticed the flames that licked higher, burning hotter inside him and scorching the air as his anger festered. The fire that ravaged his flesh and soul was cold against the fury of a deep, personal contempt that had burned inside him for eons.
The First Man ignored the mind-shattering pain that stabbed at the back of his skull in warning as he treaded a dangerous line.
His gaze locked onto the Serpent's. He saw the fear buried in those wide eyes, the primal terror that lay deep within—the Serpent's greatest, oldest fear. And Kadmon spoke it aloud with unshakable conviction.
As the words left his lips, his smirk twisted wider, sinister.
'You're a mistake."
Tahat raged from his blasphemy as the inferno, now ravenous, broke through his skin, peeling it back like charred paper. His body, half-consumed by into a skeletal fire, stood tall as the fire crackled and seethed. Bone and sinew flickered beneath the blaze, the agony feeding his fury, but he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He refused to stop.
The final words dripped from his tongue, burning through the air like molten lead.
"God erred by creating you."
Kadmon's grip loosened, and the Serpent crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath. The words hung in the air, venomous and final, cutting deeper than any wound.
It wasn't the searing pain of Kadmon's grip around his throat that left the Serpent trembling—it was the sentence that no one, not even his own siblings when they banished him, had dared to utter.
Not the sins he ruled over, not even the most defiant sinners had spoken such condemnation.
A mistake.
He tried to push himself up, but the weight of Kadmon's condemnation pinned him down. It wasn't just rage—Kadmon believed it. He was brought back by Him, and he spoke with convinction.
The Serpent had always knwn he was hated, despised even, but this? This was something different. He was more than just a fallen being in the eyes of the First Man—he was a mistake? A flaw in the grand design? It couldn't be... His Father wouldn't...
Once more, a searing pain shot through his back where Adam had torn his wings from him. His wings—phantoms now—burned anew, as if Kadmon's words had rekindled that agony.
His fingers clawed desperately at the ground, trying to hold on to something solid, something real, as the world he'd known—what little remained of it—collapsed around him.
"I… I know I've made mistakes, ruined things… but a mistake?" His voice trembled, broken, as he looked up at Kadmon. The man, consumed by fire, was a barely visible silhouette flashing momentarily with burned bone and soot—a figure of ruin and wrath. But the Eyes, those terrible, blinding Eyes of the Lord, shone clear and sharp through the inferno.
The Serpent, eyes wide with disbelief and a flicker of desperation, gazed at His Eyes and asked, not Adam, but The Owner of Those Eyes."Even you believe that?"
The Serpent's own eyes widened in disbelief and rising desperation. He had seen those Eyes twice before, and both times his world had been torn asunder. "Even you believe that?" His voice cracked, addressing not Adam, but the Owner of Those Eyes, begging for an answer after ten thousand years of banishment. Begging for Him to deny it.
"It couldn't be helped, natural, you could say…" Kadmon's chuckle came out ragged, broken by the damage to his scorched vocal cords, distorted further by the fire that consumed him. It was less a laugh and more a hollow, rasping sound that reverberated.
His lips, cracked and charred, twisted into a mocking grin. "It was inevitable… that one would be so ill-made," he continued, speaking as if the Serpent's very existence had always been a flaw in the grand scheme—a flaw He could never overlook.
"Perhaps that's why He made me in the first place," Kadmon mused. "He looked at you, at His latest creation, and it sickened Him." His tone grew more jagged, twisted by the inferno that consumed him, his words drenched in revulsion. "He feared what might come next… feared that another would be as revolting."
Kadmon's burning eyes bore down on the Serpent as he continued, his lips curled, though the flames made it a grotesque smile "So, He created me, the First Man in His Image, and gifted me Eden—perfect, untouched. A place unspoiled by the mistake He had made before. Yet, even so..." Kadmon's voice softened, though the underlying fury remained, "He loved you."
The flames subsided, retreating back into his body, his charred skin mending itself just enough to trap the inferno within. As he spoke, his form shimmered briefly with a divine glow. Slowly, he unfurled his eleventh wing—Keter—which gleamed with a radiant, ethereal light, shining bright against the lingering darkness.
"As pathetic and flawed as you were," Kadmon continued, his tone laced with disdain, "He still loved you. He gave you a Reflection of Keter, Progression, the most precious of the Sefirot, in hope it would guide you." His gaze bore into the Serpent. "In hope that somehow, it would bring you closer to Him. That you'd rise above what you were... but you spat in His face."
"You were given a gift beyond measure, and you ruined it as easily as you ruined the First Whore, turned both of them into something as useless and as pathetic as you. " Kadmon growled, his gaze hardening. His ethereal wings, once bright and full of divine light, shimmered as Keter's brilliance faded, dimming with each word he spoke. "But that was never enough. No ruination is ever enough for a parasite like you. Not even your own siblings were spared from your arrogance."
As Keter vanished, so did the light from his Second Wing, the Sefirot of Chokhmah. Kadmon's voice deepened, laced with bitter anger. Your arrogance made you believe yourself above His wisdom, that you could defy His will without consequence," he continued, and with those words, the writings on the Fifth Wing of Binah became unclear, almost like they were melting away. "You destroyed the resonance of both Human and Angel alike, ripping open the gate for filth like the Nephilim to crawl into Creation."
His Sixth Wing, representing Tiferet, flickered, its light corrupted and sickened by rot. "Your betrayal poisoned what was pure, turning love into hatred and Devotion into doubt." He paused for a moment, his voice breaking slightly, his fury almost unbearable to hold back.
Finally, his Twelfth Wing, Yesod, cracked audibly, as if something fundamental within it was unraveled. "One failure after another until, at last, Stability in Creation became threatened. Because of you, everything teetered on the brink of unmaking."
The Serpent trembled, his form shaking under the weight of the unrelenting judgment. Everything was wrong—he could feel it in his bones. It was all false! Baseless accusations of a man who knew nothing! His voice cracked with desperation as he sputtered, "I had no choice! I know I messed up, but I never meant to hurt them. None of them understood what it was like to be pushed away. I never wanted to be the only one different! Was it so wrong to love someone who understood that? To be seen as lesser?!"
"And where was this love of yours," Kadmon sneered, the words laced with venom, "when you were at my mercy? Where was that love when the Whore exchanged you alongside this kingdom of salt and sand for her personal comfort?" Embers slipped from his lips as he asked.
"That—"
"And You are lesser!"The Serpent's protests faltered as Kadmon continued, "But your siblings, even in your pettiness and pride, in their love for you never saw you as such. What The Four Archangels—those you hurt, those you scarred—saw, however, your true nature: a calamity."
"I tolt you I never wanted to hurt them!" the Serpent yelled, repeating his words. "I never meant to!" He was pleading now, his words grasping at anything that could explain what he felt. "How was I supposed to know the Sefirots were a double-edged sword? No one told me! Mine always sat there, mocking me, unused!"
"Oh but they understood it was an accident," Kadmon replied coldly. "But that only made you more pitiful and all the more dangerous. Even devoid of malice, you still spread rot. They realized that it was only a matter of time before you unknowingly crippled or killed one of them… or worse, tore Creation apart."
The Serpent flinched.
"The others couldn't see reason. Somehow, they convinced Michael and the other three to let you roam outside the Garden. They thought disgrace and banishment might lead to repentance. A recurring mistake, as you'd notice, one that only ever precedes your next disaster." Kadmon clicked his tongue in annoyance at his next words. "The Lord, then, deemed it Raguel's punishment of you two chuckle fucks to be an appropriate one, and so they let it to rest. I would like to believe that he hoped that you two worthless fucks would do the rest of Creation a favor, and kill each other, but even then...he still loved you, both of you."
"Lies! They never gave a damn about me!" The Serpent's voice cracked as he glared up at Kadmon. "They never wanted us to survive, not really. They just wanted to wash their hands clean, to leave us wallowing in fear and terror, never knowing which day would be our last. They left us to rot, hoping He would do the dirty work Himself once He returned and saw what they pushed me to!"
His trembling hands clenched into fists, frustration and pain mingling in his voice. "They finally had a chance to be rid of me! So they left us to wonder. I was never gonna beg for mercy that would never come! They wanted us dead—but they wanted Him to be the one to swing the blade."
Letting the echoes of heavy breathing fill the silence for a moment, Kadmon did little but regard him with a bored stare, his expression unimpressed. He was still looking down on him, the serpent realized with bubbling frustration.
Finally, the First Man scoffed. "Who created Eve?"
"W-what?" the Serpent stammered, confused by a seemingly unrelated question.
"Eve. My beautiful wife. How. Was. She. Created?" He repeated, his voice dripping with condescension, as though speaking to someone who lacked the most basic understanding. "If the Lord had no idea what happened, how and why was Eve made?"
"Well, obviously Fa—" The Serpent began, but his words faltered and died in his throat. He stared blankly, as if the question had left him in a state of stunned silence.
Oh.
He raised his head, mouth open yet nothing left it.
Realization hit him.
He knew...
Kadmon's eyes narrowed. "That's right. The Lord was aware. He knew what was happening. The moment you scarred the Sefirots, he became aware. He saw everything, and yet He still created Eve."
"You knew..? My siblings..." The serpent muttered. "Why didn't they...?"
"Even when they should have, your siblings never once saw as a lesser, even Michael. The saw you as dangerous, yes, but not a lesser." Kadmon said with annoyed tone of voice. " They expected you, their equal, to have realized that." He snorted." They were actually naive enough to expect a self-centered fuck like you to actually bother pay attention to anything but himself."
"You knew...? My siblings..." The Serpent muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why didn't they...?"
Kadmon's expression darkened, his annoyance evident. "Even when they should have, your siblings never saw you as lesser—Michael included. They saw you as dangerous, yes, but not beneath them. They expected you, their equal, to understand that. They were naive, thinking a self-centered fuck like you might actually pay attention to anything beyond your own reflection."
Kadmon's lips lt out a derisive chuckle and carried on. "The Lord knew. Despite your failings, despite the chaos you unleashed, He did not abandon you. He hoped for redemption, for something good to emerge from the wreckage you created, because you were His creation, and He loved you." His face darkened. " And you spat in his face, again. So, he cursed you."
"I ...never..." What could he say? The Serpent didn't known. Why didn't they tell him? Why had he never realized. He...no.
If he had never...
Th Fear echoed once more.
God erred by creating you.
W..Was it true?
Was his presence really a blight on the very fabric of existence?
"If the apple..." he stammered.
"They were content to let the two of you spend the rest of your miserable lives at the outside of the Garden. Happy to never see glimps of you as long as you never dared showed your faces of Earth or to future Humanity.
"Oh..." The Serpent's shoulders fell as he gave up. The faint hope he had left was crushed under the realization of his failures."...why are you here?" he asked in barely a whisper.
"To finish what I started," Kadmon growled, his six eyes narrowing. "The Old Man cursed you because he knew you had to be punished, even though he loved you. Killing you would have been the just thing to do, but…" Adam's eyes softened. "…no matter what, he couldn't bring himself to unmake his own child. I won't fault a Father for sparing their child when I would do the same."
The Serpent's frame shook.
"So I decided to kill you myself. Yet, once more, luck is on your side. The Seal necessitates your survival, so I've chosen to break you, shatter you, and leave you nothing but a mere █████." Adam's voice was cold, but the Serpent could only focus on the searing pain from that final word, which felt like it nearly split his head in two. "But once again, you're spared. I refuse to let Cain's efforts and mercy go to waste. I came to see what would become of you here and to determine if I needed to interfere, but it seems that won't be necessary."
"...What do you mean?" The Serpent asked wearily, forcing himself to meet Adam's gaze.
"Do you know where we are?" Adam's tone was clipped. When the Serpent remained silent, he continued, "This is Olam Ha'Kapara—a maze of my own design, composed of Ten Kelipots. I created it to punish and prepare my children for their journey to redemption. It's a manifestation of my own arrogance, but I never intended for any of them to be left behind. By experiencing the very misery they inflicted, they would come to understand one another."
"I don't care if it takes years, decades, or even billions of years. None of my progeny shall remain in this cursed realm. This place"—he gestured around—"is the Tenth Kelipot, where only the most lost of my sons and daughters are housed." Adam's eyes glinted, the Lord's Divivnty reflected in them. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Serpent?"
Weakly, the Serpent nodded.
This realm had been intended solely for humans.
Desgined only to Punish and House sinners.
Not the Fallen or the Hellborn.
Adam didn't bring him here.
He did.
From the dark tar beneath them, shadowy limbs and tendrils burst forth, wrapping around the Serpent's body like a vice, encasing his limbs and trapping him.
He didn't bother to struggle.
"He cursed you, yet even then, He kept postponing it—year after year, century after century—until ten thousand years had passed, and still your pride and self-conceit only grew," Adam spoke, his voice gentler now as the twelve wings on his back drew closer, his form retreating into the darkness of Tahat, illuminated only by the light of the Lord's Eyes.
The dark limbs pulled the Serpent down into the cold, unfeeling abyss below.
"You forced His hand, and in the end, your retribution has arrived."
The being once known as Lucifer, and Samael before that, gazed upwards, searching for those Eyes once more. They reminded him of the first time he saw them.
The Lord did not speak,
for no words could ever be worthy of His Will.
He judged them.
He found them offending.
They had unleashed sin upon His Creation.
They had brought death into the world.
They would only know suffering, pain, and death.
Cast away from His Mercy until the End of Time.
As the Serpent sank deeper into the abyss, the cold tendrils of darkness pulling him down, a deep ache began to settle into his chest. The weight of millennia pressed against him, but the pain was no longer physical—it was something else. Something worse.
"This place's name..." the disgraced king of Hell spoke softly, the weight of his own words sinking in. "'World of Atonement'... does it... apply to me as well?"
Adam's eyes, once hard, softened as he answered with a surprising gentleness. "Because of your actions, I had Eve. For that, I forgave you once... back in Eden. But I came to regret it."
The silence between them lingered as Adam continued, his tone steady, yet tinged with the sadness of ancient regret and anger. "I said that this place - Olam Ha'Kapara - is meant to redeem every soul. But you..."
The Serpent felt the finality of what was coming next.
"I pray, once more, that you prove yourself to be the exception."
The Serpent lowered his gaze, feeling the truth settle in his bones.
"I see..." He paused for a breath, barely audible. "For what it's worth... I'm sorry."
Whether his once-friend replied or not, he never knew.
The darkness claimed him before he could hear anything more.
When he came to be, he found himself standing amidst a garden, one that stirred old, forgotten memories deep within him. It was lush, overflowing with life in every direction. Trees stood tall with branches that wove together like delicate lace, their leaves shimmering with a brilliance that seemed to hum with divine energy.
Flowers of every color bloomed in perfect harmony, filling the air with a scent so sweet it felt as if it could heal any wound. Streams of crystal-clear water trickled gently through the earth, their soft murmurs blending with the whispers of the wind.
It was the Garden.
The Garden of Eden.
Everything about it seemed untouched by time, as though it had been waiting for him—unchanged and eternal.
But his hands, they weren't what they once were. Larger, softer, and strangely more feminine. He looked down and found an apple cradled in his grasp, its smooth surface gleaming as if freshly plucked.
A shiver ran through him as he recognized it, the forbidden fruit, the very symbol of his first fall.
He stood there, the apple heavy in his hands, facing the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. The same tree that had condemned them both so long ago. Now, he—no, she—felt a familiar sense of dread and fear creeping through her veins, gripping her heart.
Ah, he thought sadly, so this was what she felt in that moment.
His body moved without conscious thought, drawn to the fruit like a moth to flame. There was no stopping it, no controlling the surge of emotions that swelled within as the apple neared Eve's—his—lips. A strange new feeling bloomed inside her, in him, something far deeper than he'd ever known.
Joy.
A desperate, fragile joy, that this act would finally make her worthy in His eyes.
She was always worthy, he thought with quiet sorrow.
Then came happiness, a fleeting moment of euphoria, because Lucifer and Lilith had agreed to help her—to help them.
But the bitterness that followed was his own, sharp and cold. They were not. His shame twisted painfully inside, his past burning like an open wound.
The apple's skin broke, its juices bitter on her—his—tongue. That ancient power surged once more, the forbidden knowledge coursing through Eve's veins, intertwining with his own. But this time, it wasn't exhilarating; it was excruciating.
Trust.
She had trusted them—him, Lilith, and most of all, Roo . She had believed in their love, their protection.
Roo would have warned her if something was wrong.
It didn't.
Roo would have saved her if it hurt.
It didn't.
Trust had been her undoing.
And as his form shattered, he realized the lack of Trust had been his.
But as that first bite sank deeper, betrayal bloomed like poison.
Her faith, her hope—all turned to ash.
And as the last of her—the last of him—was ripped apart, he finally understood:
Some sins could never be undone.
Some sins must never go unpunished.
In the midst of agony and regret, his daughter's face kept him tethered.