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As he made his way towards the chambers of the assembly, Zekram Bael, Former Head of the House of Bael, Lord Chancellor of the Elder Demon Council, and the Head of the Great King Faction, was busy in his thoughts pondering upon the fate of his underworld as of late which now seemed to become brighter with each passing day.

Time, it seemed, reigned supreme as the sole victor in this vast world— even the Great Satans who had once seized true freedom from God for the sake of their race had been swept away by its absolute judgment. The Anti-Satan Faction had emerged victorious, and the foundations of power that the original Satans had created through sweat and blood during the era of their founding fathers had long crumbled into ashes and wind. Zekram Bael would not have been who he was had he not been capable of learning, especially from lessons so hard wrought.

Of course, he intended to do everything in his power to ensure that his House Bael had a say in defining the contours of the future and for that he needed to ingratiate himself to those who would rule the future, however galling the very thought might be to his pride— even he had been taken aback at the time, observing from the sidelines as the fierce flames of war raged across the Underworld he once thought he knew and set ablaze the thrones of the Satans whose authority had at that time seemed unquestionable.

To think that Sirzechs had been so capable as a general— the fool, for that was what he seemed at times because as capable a general as he was, that idiot had no sense for the great game. But even a broken clock was right twice a day, and Sirzechs, for all this idealistic foolishness, was anything but incompetent. He had once squandered away the family fortunes in what once seemed to be a youthful fit of brashness, and because of it— he now ruled over the Underworld from the throne of Lucifer himself.

Of course, Zekram had not been resting on his laurels when this had happened. But even so, he never could have accounted for the fact that this new generation, not bloodied even once by war would see generals of such calibre emerge from the chains of tyranny. That perhaps had been the greatest miscalculation of the Former Satans.

During the Civil War, the new Satans had no doubt established themselves as great generals and tactician with both intellect and courage. They had proven themselves as men who warranted the utmost of caution in dealing with. But he would not make the mistake of assuming that they were young and untested as the previous rulers had done from the comfort of their Thrones, much to their misfortune— It galled him to the core, but no matter what, no matter how furiously he raged against conceding the point that they were better than him in both sheer bearable strength and in the art of waging war, he had to grudgingly accept that he was no match for any of the four young Satans.

This made it even more imperative that he ingratiate himself with the leaders of the revolution by any means necessary, to ensure that they would not focus their considerable martial skills against him. A realization that had been perhaps the driving factor behind decisions that led him to the grand position he now occupied. If politics was a game, then as far as Zekram was concerned, he had already won. All that was left was the tedious and never-ending task of guarding his throne.

To comprehend Zekram, one must understand one important fact about him and that is— contrary to what a casual bystander might imagine, Zekram was completely satisfied and content with the current state of the Underworld and the status quo that he had helped create.

It might not be apparent at a glance, especially to those who knew not the intricacies of the but the situation could not be clearer to any fool who could read between the lines and look at the greater picture. The Bael was currently the most powerful Clan in the Underworld, by far, for they controlled almost twice the amount of land and resources than the second largest clan that came after them and it has been that way for over two and a half centuries. The Power of Destruction, the bloodline that Zekram himself was the progenitor of, was widely recognized and secretly acknowledged as the most powerful of the Seventy-Two Traits. He currently ruled as the Head of the Elder Council and had the ear of all four of the Satans, his authority with the voice of the Great King Faction behind him almost standing all but unquestioned. In addition Sairaorg, one of his many descendants, was largely considered the strongest Devil of the newest generation and then there was Sirzechs, his other descendant, who was perhaps the strongest recorded Devil in history.

All it had taken was boldness and patience which when combined created a potent weapon that was the stuff of legend, and his daughter whose name he probably would have forgotten had she not been the most crucial part of what he considered the smartest investment of his life.

After all, he had many children though only a handful of them had survived. His current wife was even pregnant with his seventeenth boy. Allowing a single girl to marry the heir of what was once a poor washed-up Clan was a small price to pay compared to what he had gained in the end, though he had not been aware of it at that time.

No devil could have predicted the coming of a monster such as Sirzechs, himself included…

According to laws and traditions of the Underworld, each devil born with a manifested Trait was rightfully a member of the Clan to which the Trait in question belonged and Sirzechs Lucifer had inherited both the Power of Destruction and the luck of the House Gremory.

It happened from time to time that a bloodline sometimes weakens for a couple of generations before emerging stronger than ever, so the Gremory Patriarch had not much of a reason to worry in that regard with the Sirzechs' Bael Trait completely overpowering his Gremory Luck.

If anything, he had more reason to worry about his young daughter— she was too young to manifest her inherited bloodline but the mere chance that she would take after her brother and inherit both bloodlines was all but a political disaster in the making.

In such cases by law, the predominant bloodline of the individual usually determined which of the patent's respective clans would have the biggest claim on the person in question. Had it been normal circumstances it would have been well within his right to have Sirzechs declared a Bael instead of Gremory but the Gremory Patriarch of that time had used his powers to predict something extraordinary might happen and insisted that his Clan would have the first claim to all his grandchildren even before they had stated negotiating the marriage contract.

The Gremory Patriarch was quite fortunate in that regard. Bael Clan would have kicked up more of a fuss had another clan had gotten access to their bloodline, but it became apparent as soon as Sirzechs started showing his true potential that the benefits of the agreement far outweighed the risks in this particular case and Zekram was quite content to reap the advantages which ensured the supremacy of his authority for the foreseeable future in return for allowing the Gremory Clan to hold the upper hand when it came to semantics alone.

Case in point, what the Clans had agreed upon was not how the old associates of his with a more traditional mindset read the situation.

To those archaic fools who refused to ride the tides of fortune as he had because of their impotent rigidness that enshrouded the value of change from their dirty vision, Sirzechs may carry the Gremory name, but he was a Bael in all but name. So not only had a Bael usurped Lucifer's throne but one of his descendants was being recognized as perhaps the most powerful Devil born in two centuries.

Moreover, this was exactly the reason why the new regime was more than content to let him be. He had every reason to want the new Satans to prosper. In their eyes, why would Zekram ever want to betray them when he already has everything he wants? What could the Old Satan Faction tempt him with that he does not already have? What king would be foolish enough to harm his own nation?

Of course, Zekram knew that seeking comfort from such a status quo that could change with the view of those new Satans was the height of foolishness which was why he had to expend considerable influence and power both financial and political to consolidate his position.

But yes, if this was all a game then Zekram had already won it.

He was not one of those overeager fools who wished to rule from high thrones and command untold legions, for he would much rather become the power behind it. He had accumulated more influence and political power than any single devil since the Original Satans themselves. The Underworld was as much Zekram's kingdom as that of the new Satans.

Even so, kings who were content to rest on their laurels were never ones to rule for long. That was what being a devil truly was— lying on a bed of roses and plucking them out one by one before they strangled him in his sleep. The recent events had made him ever more aware of this harrowing truth.

Cleria Belial…

He had been close, so close to achieving the complete security of his position. The revered Satans whom he truly respected had long perished during the great war and their worthless descendants who were naught but disappointments were almost gone, removed from the path of his ambitions. His ambitious goals of seating someone with Bael blood on the Throne of Underworld were all but complete and seemed brighter than ever with another one of his descendants set to become the head of a Pillar House.

Yet that worthless whore had dared to threaten it all…

That worthless Belial chit from a mere branch family had the audacity to threaten his schemes by almost revealing the existence of King Pieces. A threat that would have completely undermined not only the reputation of his faction but also the authority of the current regime.

The King Pieces were exceptional, the most magnificent pinnacle of their technology which had once again proven the superiority of the current Satans in a way even he had to grudgingly accept despite how much it pained him. But they were too dangerous, and the production line had to be stopped before it was even created. Being who he was, Zekram had not let such an opportunity go to waste

Seizing nine of the pieces had been a trivial task with his authority and he considered it a fine investment too, considering it allowed his personal Faction to considerably expand in authority, both financial and political.

The money and influence gained by fixing matches through the bestowal of the King Piece to certain devils who held his favour and obtaining the rights to commercialise the Rating Games were just the least of his gains. Times were such that it was the Rating Games that controlled the Underworld and it was his Faction who controlled the Rating Games.

It was an absolute success, but as was always the case— the risk which accompanied this venture was almost as great as the advantages it brought. Revelation of certain secrets regarding these undertakings might have put the current class divisions to question and undermined the systems created by the current regime.

Cleria Belial became aware of certain secrets which were too dangerous to even be openly acknowledged through mechanisms unknown and that was simply unforgivable in his humble opinion.

As if that were not enough, her thoughtless actions had even threatened the negotiations with the Shinto that both the young Satans and the elders were working towards.

She had allowing her position as the overseer of the Kuoh Town that had been bought on a lease to be questioned, tarnishing the reputation of Devil administration by extension. Heck, she even dared to try sullying her pure bloodline by marrying a human— a fucking exorcist no less.

Her other sins were not even worth mentioning when compared to the audacity of challenging his power but they did give him a reasonable excuse to have her dealt with.

He had made sure that the insult she had to bear because of certain rumours his men had spread throughout the underworld was not something that her brother, Diehauser, would ever forget. Pride was one of the seven sins his race revelled in, and to even think that a respectable maiden of a noble clan had been swept away by a human from the church as if she were a worthless wench from a debauched brothel had stung them hard.

With but a few words, he had already laid the foundations of the scheme to see that wench punished for her audacity. Even the beggars under his pay had slowly started despoiling the reputation of Cleria Belial in low and hushed tones around the streets of the capital, to say the least about nobles who could put mummers to shame when it came to such matters. There were whispers of her being soiled, of being unworthy of her noble lineage. Even more damaging were the whispers of how she had abandoned all her duties and wantonly ran away with a human exorcist and that she was a harlot, impure, and unworthy of her name. It was slow, tedious work, and he had gone to great pains to ensure that the rumour mongers were not associated with him or his house.

It was his hope which inevitably came true as it always did, that in time, the whispers would rise into a crescendo and force those of the noble society to take notice and deal with the issue in their own overtly overbearing way as they often did when their name was tarnished, even by indirect association. Then it took but a few carefully placed suggestions to decide her fate.

Of course, he needed the Church to work alongside him to complete his schemes and they had not betrayed his expectations even if Heaven had not even bothered responding to his calls for negotiation and he had to deal with church dogs directly.

If they had insisted on being too stubborn when it came to protecting the exorcist, then he would have had to resort to more direct means to have the girl removed. Of course, he would have needed to be exceedingly careful in this task. The blunt methods that the cruder members of his race were used to would not have worked here.

Provoking Heaven was not something he wanted, if only because he remembered what they were. What they once used to be…

Weak and worthless Heaven currently may be, but once they had been capable of wiping out the Underworld completely if enraged. Oh, it would have been a costly and bloody affair to be sure, greater in intensity than any war before, but he had no doubts that Heaven could have wiped out his race had they used their entire strength during the Great War. He was no fool to forget that God had not participated in the Great War and his system had not been weaponized because of reasons that he could not comprehend, he shuddered at the very thought.

Of the two leaders of the Factions which opposed his race, each was a conundrum in his own right. For hundreds of years, the members of his race had disparaged Heaven as a desolate wasteland, filled with idiotic optimists with no ambitions, worthless of notice. But none of those fools remembered the horrors of the Great War as he did.

The legions of heaven had very thoroughly shattered the martial prestige of his entire race during their war, they might just have won too had it not been for the various interventions that the Satans had devised at that time to change the course of the war— involving the Fallen to force Heaven into a two-front war, provoking the Heavenly Dragons into rampaging across the human world, encouraging religious extremism to damaging the system itself, and the numerous ticks they had used to ensure that the god would never grace the battlefields himself…

Those fools of Heaven had been stronger but they were smarter by far. The fact that Heaven had not yet recovered, even as his race flourished with its new Satans and their various revolutions mitigated every advantage Heaven might have once held over them.

But even so, he had not forgotten nor would he ever— never again would the Devils underestimate their enemies as long as he lived, and even beyond, this he had sworn.

If Heaven had truly refused to accept his involvement, hmm, best not to go there. This was why it was a task that had required extreme precision and delicateness in handling. He was fortunate that the Church had found itself than content with the current status quo even if angels refused to even answer his calls, and had agreed to look the other way this time.

Even so, the entire deal left a bad taste in his mouth. Almost as if he had missed something crucial, something important…

Zekram Bael frowned and the guards accompanying walking beside him shuddered, all too aware that the devil they were accompanying was amongst the most dangerous power in the Underworld other than the Satans perhaps.

He moved with calm confident strides, his pace unhurried even under the watchful eyes which observed every part of this palace on the order of the Satans themselves, even humans would have known there was something different about him with but a glance had they been unfortunate enough to lay their eyes on him. He was such an unusual sight even amongst Devils, a race that seemed to be blessed with eternal youth.

With their limited ability to alter their appearance, and with enough vanity to use it, it was rare to find a Devil that did not look young, as if they were in the prime of their lives instead of hundreds or even thousands of years old. This man however was old and opposite to most of his race, he looked it. Instead of concealing his age, he flaunted it, donning it as it were a cloak that he wore with pride. As if his advanced years were a sign of power rather than frailty.

Which was understandable seeing as he was the oldest Devil alive.

The fingers that peaked out of his sleeves were wrinkled and deceptively frail, though they held enough strength in them to bend even the strongest of steel. His swept-back and once-dark hair had long turned grey, with only a few strands of black remaining to remind observers of its original colour. Crow's feet extended from the corners of his lavender eyes, set on a grandfatherly-looking face, a polite smile pasted onto his lips even as something dangerous moved inside of him.

To say Zekram Bael was old would not be enough to convey how ancient this being truly was. He had lived in the time before the founding of the Seventy Two Pillars, before the original Satans succeeded in conquering the Underworld and uniting it under one banner. He was the first Head of the Bael Clan, the original Bael, and the first Devil to wield the Power of Destruction. He was a survivor of the Unifying wars, the Great War, and more recently, the Civil War. And while others died and fell during those wars, only he prospered.

Always managing to come out on top after each war and only growing stronger with each passing millennium. Under his rule, the Bael Clan became the most powerful of all the Clans in the Underworld.

There lived no other Devil from his generation, no other of the founding member of the Sevently Two— all the others had perished long ago, only he remained. There was no Devil alive who remembered a time when Zekram Bael was not a powerhouse in the Underworld.

But even he could not stop the strange sense of forbearing when he thought of the Heaven who had remained quiet in isolation for almost an eon. He could not stop the shudder that ran past his spine when he thought of the once prevalent angels no being had seen for centuries.

His frown deepened…

As he neared the doors of the small council chamber, he could hear a spirited discussion going on. It looked like it was going to be another stormy session then. Some things never changed…

"Hard at work, are you?"

Shemhazai looked up from his desk to the speaker, sorting the papers before him as he did so. He thought about ignoring the question— it would hardly be the first time his colleague had shown up to bother him uninvited, after all. It could even be called a regular occurrence if he were to take all those times he had to clean up after almost everyone in High Command into account.

But he shook his head and grinned, stretching his arms above his head— a part of him wanted to get this over with soon but the draining tension in his body as a result of the stretch convinced him to extend his impromptu break. So ignoring the remaining mound of files in front of him, he responded to his newly arrived friend.

"No rest for the wicked, they say. What are we if not the most wicked of all, having betrayed Father himself for selfish dreams?"

His colleague and his best friend, Baraqiel released a snort. "As if I haven't heard that particular one before. You have been spending too much time with Azazel, and I suppose his humour has not aged as well as he has."

Shemhazai accepted the friendly jab aimed at his leader with a smile. "Indeed. Nothing can withstand the rivers of time, except perhaps for the sins we have been cursed with."

"Yet the tides of time seem to have served us well," Baraqiel stated, pulling the decorated chair placed in front of his friend's desk and assuming a seat naturally as if the entire office were his own. "I hear that you are expecting another child soon. I suppose a congratulation is in order."

Just as the rest of the fallen, Shemhazai had lost his place in the heaven because of his sinful actions of the past which allegedly included the rape of a queen and intervention in the subsequent war between kingdoms of old.

As one of the founding members of Grigori, an organization created by Azazel that had united the divided fallen over the previous five centuries and now governed over half the underworld— Shemhazai was perhaps one of the most celebrated generals of the great war whose excellent record, shining career, overbearing reputation, and unparalleled intellect had ensured that he would rise to become the most crucial leader of the fallen race as the Vice Governor-General of its greatest union.

"From what I've been hearing, the same can be said of you." Shemhazai smiled, leaning back against his seat, and allowing his body to relax for the first time in what seemed to be the first time in weeks. "You're been busy with Akeno nowadays and Shuri has certainly been treating you well, hasn't she?"

Baraqiel was perhaps the most celebrated and renowned general amongst the Grigori— known as the Thunder of God for his devotion and courage before he fell and became even more infamous as one of the first and most unexpected traitors who joined Azazel and served as one of the most distinguished leaders with a rather dashing career during the Great War.

As Shemhazai had quickly come to learn, Baraqiel was a warrior through and through. Though he had a good head on his shoulders, he was one of those brutes who always preferred to talk with the edge of his blade rather than words and as most of the men with such a character Shemhazai had ended up knowing during his rather long life, there was almost nothing he loved more than a good fight. But in contrast to warriors such as Kokabiel who seemed to expel bloodlust and endless violence at the prospect of combat, Baraqiel instead reminded him of a kid in a candy store when faced with a challenge— his eyes lighting up with glee and an excited grin appearing on his face each such time, looking nothing as the veteran warrior Shemhazai knew he was.

He loved fighting, and that was how he had fallen as well— fighting over a human woman he once loved.

Sometimes, when they were but young angels, Shemhazai often found himself looking at the man and wondering where the devotion of Baraqiel towards Azazel had come from. But as they became more and more acquainted with each other, Shemhazai started understanding more and more of this man who now stood before him, and one day something finally clicked in his head as the pieces came together and he understood. Baraqiel simply had nowhere else to go…

With God's grace gone, the purpose that he dedicated his entire life to was gone as well. It was not that he had no place to go to, for Shemhazai had no doubt that almost every single one of the countless rouge supernatural groups of that time who fought for a greater purpose would have had no problem accepting him, it was just that he had nothing to live for.

This man, Shemhazai was sure that he had chosen the wrong Faction to support. He was the type who needed a cause to fight for, a king to serve under. He needed a purpose in his life other than simply living, something to give his life meaning. That is why he had once dedicated his life to God so fiercely, and why he had been so ready to dedicate himself to Azazel even though the first woman he loved and the last master he served both betrayed him, though that was a tale in itself entirely.

His nature, endearing as it was, was also the reason why Shemhazai often worried for him. Though even that had become a dying concern as of late with small Akeno and lovely Shuri taking care of him better than he ever could. Even though a small part of him acknowledged that an angel growing so close to a human was a disaster in making, he was glad for his friend.

"Family is certainly a luxury we've both learned to indulge in." Baraqiel nodded, his closing his eyes in remembrance of what Shemhazai assumed to be his wife and daughter before he opened them and smirked, "But the same cannot be said of our Governor General. I think that not even the calls of matrimony could pull him from his research, should he ever choose to settle."

"Alas, not even that," he said, shaking his head with a mocking smirk as flashes of his leader and the trouble he caused flashed through his mind. "I have grown used to Azazel's antics. He would continue his research until business calls him, and would resume immediately afterward unless he finds something— or rather someone, more interesting to serve as a temporary distraction."

"You seem remarkably unconcerned about the whole affair, considering it is you who have to deal with the trouble he creates."

The question was phrased in a way that was laced with contempt and concern at the same time in a way that came naturally to few. If he had not known the asker for most of his life, it may have yet fooled him. A smug grin crept its way onto his features as he turned towards his friend.

"Why you almost seem almost concerned, Baraqiel." Shemhazai spoke, "Has worry over my well-being moved you to such an extent?"

The other Fallen almost stepped backward in shock, his bearded cheeks colouring slightly in embarrassment and proving Shemhazai right. "Of course not, Shemhazai. I am merely concerned about my Faction, a reasonable thought considering our recent dealings with those Gods of all things."

Shemhazai's smirk widened deviously as he watched his friend behave in a manner that could only be described in a manner befitting that of a tsundere, a most recent term that Azazel had introduced him to. He had heard the rumours about how the mighty Baraqiel had been tamed by his wife Shuri, something almost nobody in Grigori believed except for those who knew him personally and were aware of his tendency to enjoy suffering that ranged from raw pain to simple embarrassment, especially that inflicted unto himself.

"It wounds me that my beloved subordinate thinks so less of me, that I would interfere with the workings of my faction. The very notion leaves me positively heartbroken!"

He accompanied the melodramatic words with a grandiose show of clutching at his heart. Seconds passed, and he cracked open one of them to peek at Baraqiel's reaction. There was a notable lack of one, and his fellow fallen was gazing at him with a thoroughly blank look, paired with a rigid posture.

A moment passed and Shemhazai's lips broke into a wide grin, dropping his facade as he beckoned his friend to take a seat. "So, what was it this time?"

"I have learned many a thing in service both for and against Heaven, but haggling was never one of them." Baraqiel frowned, the shadows of his face somehow deepening as he leaned back against his cushioned seat. "Surely Azazel must know this by now."

In a way what Baraqiel said was somewhat true, Shemhazai could ask his friend to march upon the Seventh Heaven and sleep soundly knowing that if there were any way to break the Gates of Heaven then no omnipotent dragon nor any mighty god could protect them from Baraqiel's Holy Lightning. Yet, ask him to step into the most important battlefield of them all where wars were fought with honeyed words spoken from silver tongues and he would tremble.

His friend was a military man through and through— brave and bold and courageous, which was why he never refused any direct order from Azazel regardless of how distasteful he might find it, something that their Governor General had gotten used to taking full advantage of. Shemhazai sometimes wished that his superior would stop seeking amusement at the expense of his subordinates, but the knowledge that the subordinate in question had a tendency to derive pleasure from such pains allowed him to rest in good conscience without intervening.

"Yes, Azazel is aware of this." Shemhazai leaned backwards, finding the whole thing to be more amusing than was proper. "Perhaps that is why he sends you to represent the Fallen on his behalf whenever the Norse call for negotiations."

"They need explanations more often than required," Baraqiel complained with a sigh. "Moreover, working with Odin is simply tiring, the god is a pervert through and through."

"Or perhaps work as a diplomat simply bothers you more than it should, my friend." Shemhazai nodded, "I for one find the demands quite reasonable considering the service we provide is quite complex and demands an appropriate amount of red tape."

He paused for a moment. "I agree with your second point though."

Odin could be more than troublesome even on the best of his days, and that was not taking his almost comical perversion into account.

Shemhazai could understand the pains Baraqiel must have constantly been dealing with, working with that Chief God was bound to be exhausting especially when taking into account the kind of man his friend was, the sort who was not amused by irrational antics. But he also understood that this was work that could not be avoided.

Money and Technology— that was what made their Faction matchless amongst their peers. To put it simply, the fallen faction was the single largest source of capital transactions, research, and manufacturing in the supernatural world.

The supernatural world, in contrast to what some conservationists might say, was surprisingly stagnant all things considered. The best comparison being the very race they had once dismissed for its weakness— mankind.

Humans were beings of infinite potential— they quickly had to achieve so much, immeasurably faster than any other race before them despite starting out as nothing more than ants. It was even whispered amongst angels that a curse preyed upon mankind ever since they had betrayed the trust of God in Eden, which was why they were always moving, never stopping and constantly changing.

A casual observer might see it at the start, but the deviations become increasingly apparent as time passed— meet an adult human every decade and they would be an entirely separate person at each time but meet a matured devil every century and they would probably be the exact same person they were a dozen meetings ago.

A glance at Underworld would give anyone all the proof they need. If one were to look at their cities, at their technology, at their greatest of monuments then one would find that all of them were nothing but a reflection of human designs. That for all their immortality and eons of knowledge, they needed to imitate human science and rely on human discoveries to progress as a species instead of discovering them on their own.

Their ability to survive and persevere through hardships though they were so very fragile, the sheer amount of things that they could accomplish, the things they could build and create in their tiny insignificant lifespans was astonishing. Those things alone made them worthy of some measure of her respect. He was even willing to look at some of the more talented among their numbers as equals.

Humans were not a race to be looked down upon, and Azrael had long realised it was their potential for boundless change which made mankind unique— the Fallen were quick to capitalize on that untapped potential, being perhaps the first ones amongst the supernatural to start recruiting humans into their faction as equals. The practice began centuries ago back when Newton was but a toddler, before the Devils had even thought of their Evil Pieces which were flawed and could not perfectly preserve human uniqueness.

The Fallen had learned a lot from their human compatriots, opportunity and business being the least of them— entangling themselves with other pantheons, and making their economies dependent on their trade was perhaps the most prevalent reason behind the astounding success of the fallen, whose rise had in ways even surpassed that of their immediate neighbours on the other, darker side of the underworld.

Amongst the many clients they had, the Norse were one of their largest partners in most fields of work and made the negotiations that Baraqiel handled quite crucial to the interests of the Fallen Faction.

Baraqiel spoke after a moment of quiet, most probably thinking about the troubles he had to bear for the sake of his leader's amusement and his own misplaced sense of duty. "About King Odin though, are you aware—"

He paused midway when a simple knock interrupted him. His purple eyes flew towards the closed door that guarded the entrance to the office of Shemhazai. He knew that no Fallen would interrupt them so brazenly when they were together, especially during rest hours such as this. His brow furrowed, knowing that something truly important must have come up.

"What is it?" Shemhazai asked, a single brow of his raising on its own in a manner Baraqiel had seen so many times before.

"Lord Azazel called for a convergence of the Order of Blackened Dominus, you both have been summoned, sir." A male voice responded— the words hurried and breathing accompanying them heavy, almost as if the messenger had run all this way on orders which could not be refused.

As he made his way towards the palace where he had been summoned alongside all his brothers and sisters, Michael, the Hand of God, paused to look at the heaven that lay before him one more time. His emerald eyes followed the tarmac towards the east, where the first light of dawn was just beginning to break through the grey mist hanging over the world below.

He could hear guards in formation drudging away, the clashing blasts of magic and swords which reverberated across this world, the overbearing hum of intricate echonian enchantments whose might made his feathers stand on end, and the roar of a thousand forges blazing underneath the sky. It was a magnificent sight.

The heaven he knew used to be an empty world, a lone seat of power meant to represent a majestic ideal— a world of providence, adorned with grand palaces of marble and gold. It was meant to be a symbol, a realm removed completely from worldly concerns as it stood guard over the devoted.

It had been a world that was grand, majestic, and entirely wasteful— a misappropriation of space Emperor Lelouch had once called it and now that he had seen it shaped into something greater, Michael could not help but agree.

The sixth heaven was now being refurbished as the capital meant to stand guard over the kingdom, the centre of an empire his father had once ruled. The restructuration was scheduled to be completed soon, in about a year per the word of Metatron and his estimates were rarely ever wrong.

The ream was slowly turning into a scenic avenue which was home to many of the kingdom's most privileged subjects and its important locations which included the central bank, the high court of appeal, the ministries and agencies, and the emperor's palace at the northern pole. The seraphim were given residences around the equator and compared to previous palaces, their residences now were modest but beautiful mansions which resembled country houses.

A purposeful design they had all mutually insisted upon so that occupants and visitors both would forever be reminded that the archangels would always remain subservient to the sovereign, who was the absolute head of state and had final say on all matters judicial, legislative, and executive.

Uriel had once declared Emperor Lelouch to be the perfect embodiment of Machiavelli's Prince, the ruthless pragmatist who prized logic over kindness as the instrument for rule whereas Gabriel thought the opposite, pointing towards his chivalry and generosity unto his friends and the devotion which he inspired in his followers. Personally speaking, Michael thought that the truth lay somewhere in between.

But he could not tell if he should be glad for it— the whims and wishes of his emperor were something he sometimes pondered upon during restless nights when he stayed up late past midnight, drawing inspiration from the victories and defeats of all those who came before him to decide the future of their kingdom.

The reinvigorated sight laid out before him would have been unfathomable to his people a few centuries ago, when grief had laid siege to hope and anguish had overpowered the teachings of father. It had been Lelouch who had reminded Heaven how its heart should be, a single boy with haunting amethyst eyes who had suddenly appeared and changed everything.

Michael never questioned his father's wisdom― that trust had slowly bled over to his scion. The herald of this new era had been a veritable storm and he'd nearly been swept away by the waves of change brought by the young emperor who had moved the crestfallen heart of his father's kingdom once again by his resolve. What the oldest seraph saw before him was not a dying kingdom but an empire renewed by a show of grace and majesty rarely encountered among mere men

The people of heaven would never question the world of God, even if he ordered them to march upon death itself. For they had been spectators to his miracles― victory snatched from the jaws of defeat against all odds and doubts and the fanatical loyalty that inspired. Michael knew that Lelouch would soon be the same.

Lelouch was a master of words, his charm capable of planting seeds of both love and hatred with but a few whispers― the emperor knew how to sway the hearts of men. His charisma could bring kings to the knee, his humour could charm demons of seduction, and his wisdom could render kingdoms asunder. As time and experience had taught him, the mind was a weapon with no match— it could not be questioned for it could grant the right of sovereignty, capable of making princes of those who held even a shred of it. Michael knew he could rest easy for he had seen wisdom inside those sharp amethyst eyes that day, knowing then that Lelouch would soon stand above them all just as father once had.

Heaven might remain the smallest of the three factions when it came to the cold statistics of numbers, but Michael knew it stood decades ahead of its peers when it came to advancement― even mankind with its boundless innovation and continuous advancement was far behind Heaven in all realms of measure. The kingdom had changed completely under Emperor Lelouch, whose star had been on the rise ever since his ascension.

Michael could only be glad, for he wished to see it rise even further. The past was to be respected and acknowledged but not revered— he'd long accepted that it was the future in which they would find greatness.

"I never would have imagined heaven would change so much in just a decade, with what seems to be the dawn of a greater era yet to come." Michael whispered as he turned towards the younger brother walking behind him and asked, "What do you think our father would make of this?"

"He would be glad," answered Raphael, his rough voice laced with rare approval. "Nothing brought him greater joy than seeing those he loved grow. I remember the way his eyes shone when he observed Adam and his kin. He ruled over untold races but held mankind above them all, even above the perfect and flawless angels because they were destined to outshine even him eventually."

"Father was really kind, wasn't he?" Michael whispered, looking above with those haunting emerald eyes of his. "Heaven has grown stronger, its splendour touching skies we once could have only dreamt of. We might not have reclaimed our former glory but we are slowly recovering, that itself is more than what I once hoped for."

His faction had stood frozen in between two foes, what had once been the heart of his father's kingdom broken, stolen of both purpose and hope as vultures and hyenas who once had bowed before his father's court moved closer to feast upon the fallen kings― heathens whose amusement and derision they had to hear through sideways remarks and muted whispers.

Even when he'd just taken the mantle of king, Michael understood perfectly what father's legacy had become to these people— a spectacle, soon to become a cautionary tale to the young and the subject of mockery amongst wretches. It was all the world would talk about, the demise of the once mighty heaven who'd received their just desert for once daring to lord over them as superiors once.

A small part of Michael despised them. It hated these worms who merely looked as if they were men, the knaves had preyed upon them when they were the most vulnerable, recovering from the full receiving end of blows that would have broken smaller pantheons― the fear his brothers and sisters had experienced at the time was so great it was all Heaven could do to remain barely standing, shaking for they were too frightened to change or move. How could he ever forgive that?

It was only now they were starting to recover— centuries later, long after the force of the world crashing around heaven had doused the hope that once ruled the thoughts of its people when they were young. It was only the appearance of Lelouch that had prevented them from breaking altogether.

Raphael could not help but glance at his older brother in concern, perhaps seeing the dark shadows dancing across his face. "Your work on the administrative reforms should be finished soon, right?"

"Indeed," Michael nodded, the voice of his younger brother drawing him from dark whispers as he thought for a moment about the recently begun construction of another martial academy vital to the interests of the empire. "There are other projects that I was told to work on but my schedule for the year is all but complete, or soon would be if nothing untoward happens."

"I see." Raphael spoke, grunting in the same manner he always fell back to when drawing a conclusion of grave importance. "The emperor tells me that Gabriel's work on Project Avalon is nearly finished, and Project Brave Saint is also nearing completion. Metatron has also been called back, and it is the same for Uriel as well."

Michael's eyes widened as he instantly caught the subtle insinuation behind his younger brother's words, the implications. "Is that so?" He whispered.

"The emperor has not made any declaration this month, and it reminds me of the quiet before a storm. The world is but a stage, and heaven might just turn into the greatest performer yet if the emperor were to have his way."

Michael closed his emerald eyes, refusing to acknowledge or deny his brother's words― aware that the emperor had a dream and was not one to rest on his laurels. He remembered clearly the declaration he had made on that fateful day, he had vowed to create a gentler world but how far would he go to see it done?

Raphael turned towards him, voice grave and eyes hard as the shadows on his face darkened. "Our wounds might heal one day, but the mark on our honour has not yet faded. Heaven might have moved forward, but the resentment that plagues the heart of our people has only grown. We spent centuries in shadows and that might change soon. I wonder if we are prepared this time."

Michael remained quiet, aware of how his younger brother's fingers seemed to twitch― clenching and unclenching as if it longed to call his spear from where it lay hidden. It had been forged by father personally and lay inside a locked dimension but Michael knew Raphael had sharpened it every day. He would take it out every chance he could, whether to practice or simply hold the weapon and feel the weight in his hands.

Michael had been concerned for his younger brother but could not bring himself to deny him the quick release. How could he blame his brother for latching onto a remnant of father when he'd mourned the same not long ago?

He knew Raphael saw the spear as a reminder to remember why his choice to follow heaven had been the right one. Michael had known his brother for centuries and it was painfully apparent that for all the outward confidence he put on show for the world to see, his younger brother had grown insecure since the death of his father and he was not the only one.

He remembered the younger Raphel who laughed at death and mocked gods to the face, and could not help but lament what they had become.

When Michael became the king of heaven, the emperor praised the gamble he had made by isolating heaven from the outside and censoring the fall of fall. But judging now with the benefit of hindsight, he had to concur that they had aimed at aspirations beyond the reach of the angels by trying to recreate the heaven of his father.

For his decision, the eldest archangel was praised by his brothers and sisters, despite being the sinner who allowed his father's kingdom to stagnate for the sake of an empty ideal. They thought him to be a hero who ensured heaven's survival in its darkest hours before Lelouch came sweeping in to take over the reins. But he knew what he was― a fool who had squandered his father's legacy in order to secure heaven's position as the sole overlord of the Abrahamic Pantheon.

Michael had never sought to defend himself, even when Lelouch demanded he cast aside the crown for his inaction. The truth was his inner strength had become depleted by the death of his father, his vigour consumed by regret over the fate of the human devotees who were more than mere pawns to his personal agenda.

The eldest archangel had begun to lose sleep long before Lelouch awoke, lying awake at nights and praying to whatever part of God remained for the safety and welfare of his people who were now without a protector in a ruthless arena that devoured the weak and defenceless. He blamed himself for what they had become, the deepened shadows on his once gentle face evidence of the penance he served. In a twist of irony, Michael found solace in his renouncement of the throne, it was a punishment which he deserved.

Michael remembered every drop of blood that had fallen in his father's name, every battle his brothers and sisters had fought in, and every angel that had been martyred for a greater cause― the burden on his shoulders was heavy, but he could find it inside himself to face the brave fallen peacefully because he knew it was done for the greater cause of father.

Heaven's pride and worth had always revolved around father, and they lost the unshakable resolve that once allowed them to stand before the world unbowed when news of his death came. In a single night, heaven had learned to doubt its own existence. How much could a single man mean to a whole race? What value could one person hold that could not be replaced a hundred times? The sun might outshine a candle, but gather enough of them together and they would surely outshine the sun.

Angels of heaven could not be compared to humans who could outshine gods and demons when together― they'd grown dependent on a single god and had been punished severely for it, broken in a way that could not be put into words.

Heaven had only moved by sweet dreams of chivalry and vengeance planted by the sweet promises that the young Emperor had whispered to them. They might be false dreams that had no place in this cruel world, a world where knights existed only in legends and tales― but they were dreams his faction needed, sincere in a way only naive newborns could be.

Michael knew his kingdom, he understood it in a way few others could. He knew his brothers and sisters would never waver or regret once they had chosen this course― that all of them held inside themselves a resolve that tethered on insanity, one that would not be swayed by danger nor reason. He knew that so long as Lelouch remained steadfast to his ideals, they would forever be his swords and follow him to the depths of the underworld once again without question or hesitation.

But he also knew that they were broken once― though they might laugh again for the sake of their subjects, but what remained of them were just empty husks of what they had once been. It was as if they wanted to be whole again but could not remember how, all they could do now was mimic how they once were during gentler times and simply go through the motions without any of the meaning behind their actions. They'd been frozen in place, hearts cold andstagnant.

Michael had thought, that was it― that Heaven he knew was lost forever and the fragmented pieces remaining was all he'd ever have. Then one day, his sister found a wounded boy who had changed everything.

It had been almost a decade since then, and the heaven he loved was already showing signs of return― the seraphim had been broken and then fashioned once again into a new order under the monarch as the very administrative system they knew was changed completely. The emperor had completely reshaped the workings of their empire and personally reorganised the legions serving his kingdom into branches and ranks at a scale never seen before previously.

Heaven had grown to become more than what God made it to be, greater than he intended it to be― they were no longer the cowards they once had been, they were strong and they were ready.

"Do you think the emperor would make another one of his declarations today? We have never been called for an emergency meeting so suddenly before." Raphael questioned, breaking his thoughts as he glanced ahead towards the towering Imperial Palace standing at the end of their road.

"It matters not, we shall simply do what we have been asked to." Michael found himself answering, "Those who stand in our way would learn of our resolve."

"And if they refuse to learn?"

"Then they would be made to," was Michael's curt reply, and that was the end of that.

Thanks for your time. I am back again, and with a decade long time-skip this time.

We see a glance of the Three Factions here and I wanted to give a clearer picture of what I envision them to be-

The Devils focused purely on expansion once the Great War ended― the Evil Pieces have allowed them to grow exponentially stronger by poaching talents, and all four of the Satans have become Super Devils in my AU. They are the strongest of the factions and an unparalleled powerhouse even for outsiders. But the Evil Pieces and their invasive tendencies also ensure they are not seen favourably by most of the world, they have no friends or partners who would work for them.

The Fallen might be behind devils in terms of strength, but they have also invented a method to increase their population and have been recruiting talented humans into their faction for centuries. They have slowly become the industrial and economic powerhouse of the supernatural world, unmatched in influence and wealth. They have fostered great relationships with most supernatural powers and cannot be removed without changing the world.

Nobody knows what Heaven can do, and some already think of them as a power of the past. They have remained in isolation since Lelouch was sent here by God and no angel has been seen on Earth for almost a decade.

But it's not as if Lelouch has done nothing so far― heaven was completely remade under its rule, with its bureaucracy and armed services restructured into a force more modern than any other seen before, considering Lelouch is from a world far ahead of our own.

I know people expected Lelouch to go guns blazing the moment he woke, but that is not the case. God asked him to protect his world rather than seek revenge, so Lelouch wants heaven to recover completely before he makes his move.

More about the Three Factions would be revealed as we progress further down the story. Lastly, somebody said that I am ignoring DxD canon and making up my own explanations. Of course, I am.

Don't read if this bothers you so much, or just consider this an AU. Sigh...

Thanks for reading.