The beaming light of Heaven tore through the atmosphere like a divine spear—so blinding, so overwhelming, that no ordinary host could endure the arrival of the one and only.....Michael, The First Angel Himself. Even the lower layers of Heaven must have felt the tremor, the rippling shockwave of divinity pushing outward like a tide.
God's champion.
The Executioner of the Morning Star.
The wielder of Heaven's first flame—the flame that could unmake even creation itself.
And now that ancient, inexorable presence stood in front of Aron.
His radiance was so intense that Uriel, an archangel in her own right, had to shield her face with both arms just to remain conscious. The light carved sharp white lines across her trembling form. Any lesser being would have been burned away entirely.
Only Aron met Michael's gaze without flinching. Golden eyes to burning white.
Michael's wings spread, twelve in total, each one a sun unto itself. Then, slowly, they folded. The light dimmed to something bearable—though still capable of scarring the eyes of the unworthy.
He surveyed the devastation.
The corpses melted into the marble.
The blood carved into the seams of the floor.
The lingering stink of rot—Beelzebub's lingering presence.
The fear that clung to the air like dust.
When Michael finally spoke, his voice filled every corner of Middle Heaven, vibrating in bone and soul.
"Aron."
Aron inhaled once, steady and sharp. "…Yes, master."
"You were prohibited from entering this place," Michael said. His tone wasn't angry—it was something worse. Quiet. Controlled. As if rage, disappointment, sorrow, and duty were all stitched tightly together.
"So why are you here?"
"I am... on a mission," Aron answered simply.
A heavy silence rolled across the hall. Not awkward—weighty, like a gavel waiting to fall.
Uriel gathered herself, stepped forward, and bowed. Her limbs shook from the leftover paralysis, but her voice held conviction.
"Holy one, Aron is not at fault. It was Gabriel—Gabri—"
"I know."
Michael didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. His knowledge was absolute.
The word struck Uriel like a physical blow.
"You… knew?"
Michael let out a slow, timeless breath—one that dimmed his light for only a heartbeat.
Of course he knew. He was Michael. His awareness stretched across realms.
He had allowed it because he wanted peace. Peace that was fragile. Shaking.
Peace that now lay in pieces at his feet.
Still watching Aron, he asked calmly:
"Are you certain?"
Aron nodded once.
Michael closed his eyes. "…Then do what you must...God's Mission is not in my right to prohibit."
"NO!"
The elevator chimed weakly as Gabriel staggered out, panting, wild with fear. His robes were torn, his wings scorched, his composure shattered.
"You cannot allow this, holy Michael!" Gabriel cried, voice cracking. "You can't let him do as he pleases! This catastrophe—this massacre—hundreds of angels dead! All because he wanted something! Something as pointless as Eve!"
Uriel flashed forward like a bolt.
SLAP.
The sound cracked across Heaven like a small thunderclap.
"You…" she whispered, voice trembling with fury. "You have no right to speak."
Gabriel didn't raise a hand. Didn't defend himself. The humiliation washed over him, and he swallowed it whole.
"…I… I deserved that," he muttered.
"But Uriel… you know what happened last time. Last time he went on one of his so-called missions."
"He is ordained by God," Uriel hissed. "The missions given to him—"
"Still…" Gabriel tried, but her burning gaze cut him down mid-sentence.
Michael sighed—an old, burdened sound. Because Gabriel's fear wasn't wrong. Aron's missions… always left scars. Even Michael bore the weight of them.
"Do not fear," Michael said. "Aron cannot unleash his full power like before. The key to that power remains with me… and with...Lucifer."
"It's not enough!"
The voice thundered from the stairway—raw, broken, filled with agony.
Cain.
He stumbled forward like a corpse learning to walk.
His skull was split open—bone cracked apart like a broken shell.
His brain peeked through gory fissures.
Blood streamed down his face like black tears.
Each step left a smear of red on white marble.
"He… he can't keep getting away with—"
Michael lifted one hand.
A flick of divine command.
Cain disintegrated.
No scream.
No agony.
Just instant dissolution—turned to particles of light, then to nothing.
Silence swallowed the hall.
Uriel's breath hitched. Gabriel fell to his knees. Even the flies that remained from Beelzebub's presence stopped crawling.
Only Aron remained unmoved.
Only Aron kept his eyes on Michael.
And Michael looked at him in return—
the champion of Heaven staring at God's personal weapon,
both of them standing in the ruins of middle Heaven itself.
"Aron…"
Michael's voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder, soft yet too powerful to ignore.
"…Yes, master."
"Do you still have faith in our God?"
Aron didn't blink. He didn't exhale.
"…You..You already know," he said quietly.
The words hung in the air.
Middle Heaven became so still that even the revived angels hesitated to breathe.
It was the silence of judgments passed, of truths too sharp to dress in gentleness.
Michael's wings flickered once—just once.
Then he exhaled.
Not in disappointment.
But in relief.
The subtle shift startled Aron—not enough to change his expression, but enough for Uriel to notice the faint tightening of his jaw.
Michael stepped closer, golden feathers whispering as they brushed the air.
"So," Aron said, breaking the tension with restrained irritation, "may I have your permission? My mission requires much from me."
Michael placed a hand on Aron's shoulder—warm like a living star, heavy with authority.
"I know," Michael murmured. "And I fear this time… it will require more than ever before."
There was grief in his voice.
A quiet sorrow that did not belong to the Michael who had thrown Lucifer from Heaven.
"And perhaps," he added, his gaze distant, "through that trial… you may find your faith again."
Aron frowned. "…What do you mean, 'more than ever'?"
Michael did not answer.
Instead, he turned.
His wings unfurled—twelve radiant swords, each one carved from the first flame of creation.
Their glow washed over the hall like the dawn over a frozen battlefield.
Then he snapped his fingers.
The world rewound.
Blood rippled upward from the floor like reversed rain.
Chunks of flesh vibrated, seeking the bodies they belonged to.
Bones connected.
Wings mended.
Eyes reformed in empty sockets.
Shattered halos pulsed with newborn light.
Even time itself seemed to bow.
Uriel's hand flew to her mouth. Gabriel stumbled, barely catching himself.
Aron simply watched—but his eyes softened.
This wasn't raw power.
Wasn't divine energy.
Wasn't anything any archangel could use freely.
This was miracle—the highest, rarest authority Heaven possessed.
A privilege only granted by the Almighty Himself.
One by one, the dead gasped back into life.
Soft cries.
Shaky breaths.
Disbelieving laughter.
A once-silent graveyard now pulsed with trembling, blessed life.
Michael's voice carried over the rising noise, calm and unshakable:
"Only this once. Our numbers dwindle. Our kind fades. And Gabriel—"
Gabriel straightened instinctively, wings tucked tight, eyes wide with dread.
"Y–yes, brother?" he whispered, voice cracking.
He already knew he deserved wrath.
He had invited impurity into Middle Heaven.
He had acted from fear, not wisdom.
He had failed every principle he was meant to uphold.
He waited for punishment.
For exile.
For the loss of his wings.
"Brother," Gabriel began shakily, "I will lea—"
"..Be better," Michael interrupted.
Gabriel froze.
"…What?"
"There is a reason the Almighty entrusted you with Middle Heaven," Michael said. "I believe in that reason. I believe in Him.
And so, Gabriel… be better."
And in a single burst of radiance, he was gone—leaving behind stunned silence and the shimmer of golden dust.
Then Middle Heaven erupted.
The resurrected angels began to wail—laugh—sob—scream—cling to one another like children who had woken from a nightmare.
Dozens praying.
Dozens collapsing in relief.
Dozens staring at their hands, touching their new wings, whispering "I'm alive… I'm alive…"
But Gabriel didn't move.
He sank to his knees, trembling violently, tears dripping down his face and onto the marble.
"…Am I… worth such trust?" he whispered. "I acted from fear. I let demons in. I failed everything. Why… why was I forgiven?"
Aron walked past without slowing.
He pressed the elevator button.
Uriel followed him inside, though not without glancing back at Gabriel—a broken brother kneeling in the center of a miracle he felt unworthy of.
The elevator doors slid shut.
The sudden quiet felt alien after the chaos above.
Uriel leaned against the wall, still shaken. "…So, Cain said something before he… died?"
Aron chuckled. "Yes. My dear nephew always talks when you squeeze his skull the right way."
Uriel winced. She had seen Cain's state—half his head split open, flesh ripped, organs hanging.
Sweet nephew indeed.
"So… what did he tell you?" she asked.
Aron's eyes narrowed, glowing faintly gold.
"…She's with her new.. boyfriend," he said. "A lesser god."
Uriel's breath hitched. "…Who?"
Aron stared forward, voice quiet, almost amused.
"Loki."
.
.
.
The alley was dead quiet—the kind of quiet only found in forgotten parts of a city, where no one cared enough to look twice. Trash bags sagged against the walls. Rats darted between cardboard piles. A cold wind pushed the smell of rotting leftovers through the narrow passage.
Henry, gaunt and hollow-eyed, rummaged through a torn trash bag with the desperation of someone who had stopped believing in luck weeks ago.
His fingers dug through damp paper, moldy bread, and cold noodles stuck to a Styrofoam box.
"C'mon… anything… please…" he whispered.
He heard footsteps.
Not the heavy kind of authority. Not the rushed kind of a fleeing thief.
Slow. Measured. Purposeful.
Henry stiffened. "Better not be one of those white-coat freaks…"
He spun around—
And froze.
Something—someone—was forming in the air behind him.
A skeleton.
Piece by piece.
"What… the fuck?" Henry mouthed, voice barely a breath.
A jaw snapped into place. Vertebrae twisted and locked together with sharp cracks. Ribs sprouted from nothingness, widening like the petals of a grotesque iron flower.
The skeleton twitched violently as if every second hurt.
"Nononono… nope—nope!" Henry whimpered, backing away until his knees hit a dumpster. "I'm dreaming. I must be dreaming."
But the nightmare continued.
Thick cords of muscle slapped onto the bone, latching on with sickening wet thunks. Veins crawled like worms across the new flesh. A raw, beating heart dropped into the ribcage. A lung inflated with a shudder. Another.
Blood poured down the forming torso, steaming as it hit the cold ground.
Henry screamed and fell onto his hands. His palms scraped across broken glass. "Wake up—wake up—Henry—WAKE UP!"
Skin crawled over the growing shape like a living sheet being pulled over furniture. Hair sprouted in patches, then filled out. Eyes bulged into empty sockets, twitching violently before they focused.
And then—
The man took his first breath.
"—Aa—"
A gasp.
A choke.
Then pure, unfiltered agony erupted out of him.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!"
His scream rattled the trash cans. Windows above flickered with startled lights. The alley itself felt too small for the sound.
The resurrection finished in a surge of pain. Muscles twitched. Nerves sparked. Flesh quivered, steaming in the cold night air.
Then silence.
The man—reborn, regenerated, reassembled—stood naked and trembling. His breath came heavy and ragged.
"...Fuck," he hissed, slamming his fist against the brick wall. The impact cracked it. "Fuck—fuck—FUCK—why is it always so goddamn painful!?"
His spine stretched. Bones popped. He arched his neck with a frustrated growl.
Only then did he turn.
Henry was still on the ground, shaking so hard his teeth chattered. His eyes were wide and glassy, reflecting pure terror.
"Wh… who the hell…?" the resurrected man muttered, scanning the alley as if piecing together his surroundings—and his own memories.
Cain.
Henry didn't know that name. But his body recognized what stood before him.
Predator. Monster. Wrong.
"I—I didn't—I didn't see anything," Henry babbled. "Please… please man… I'll go, I swear, I'll go—"
Cain stared at him with a tilted head, as if confused that something so fragile dared speak in front of him.
Then he crouched, grabbed Henry's dirty jacket in one fist, and said flatly:
"…Give me those."
---
Minutes later, Cain stepped out of the alley wearing a chaotic ensemble of stolen clothes—two sizes too small jacket, oversized pants tied with a cord, mismatched shoes. He looked ridiculous.
But he did not care.
He cracked his neck. Then his fingers. Then his jaw.
Each pop echoed like a reminder that this body was newly rebuilt.
He breathed in the cold air, eyes narrowing with irritation.
"...Haaa…" he sighed. "Gotta warn Mother now."
A dark grin twisted across his face.
"That fucking lunatic is on her ass."
.
.
.
Things were already set in motion.
Too much had happened, too fast.
Aron's rampage in the layer of Baal.
His uninvited intrusion into Middle Heaven.
His brutal confrontation with Beelzebub.
His refusal to kneel.
His power—that forbidden, impossible power—spilling into the world.
It spread like wildfire across every plane.
Demons whispered it in panic.
Reapers felt it in their bones, scythes trembling in their hands.
Lost souls shuddered as if a cold wind swept across Limbo.
Monsters of the deep oceans retreated into trenches older than memory.
Witches and warlocks halted their rituals mid-chant.
Even the old gods—the ones who slumbered in ruins, in forests, in mountain hearts—stirred, muttering ancient names they had not spoken for centuries.
The realms all agreed on one chilling truth:
The Slayer was active again.
After centuries of uneasy quiet, the world would never be the same.
Baal
Smoke gathered like a storm around Baal as he rematerialized inside what remained of his club—if the ruin could still be called that.
Once, it had been immaculate: velvet shadows, polished obsidian floors, the thrum of corrupted music vibrating through the walls.
Now?
Chunks of ceiling hung loose like broken teeth.
Glass crunched under his boots.
Charred claw marks scorched every surface.
The air still tasted of angelic blood.
Baal's pristine white coat—normally spotless—was scorched black in places, torn in others. Blood clung to him like hot paint, glowing faintly as if simmering with rage. His eyes were no longer eyes but furnaces, burning with a heat that melted the air around him.
His followers lay scattered across the floor like ruined furniture—twisted limbs, crushed rib cages, skulls split like fruit.
He snapped his fingers.
At once the bodies twitched. Bones writhed. Muscles pulsed. Flesh crawled back into place like worms forced into shape. Screams bubbled but never fully escaped as their bodies reformed.
Clothes rewove themselves from hell-essence, stitching over shattered torsos.
Soon, they stood again.
Alive.
Breathing.
Shaking.
And filled with terrified reverence at the silent fury radiating from their lord.
"…You lazy fucks. Why are you staring?" Baal growled. "Pack up."
Confusion rippled through the room.
A braver demon stepped forward, voice trembling.
"…Pack up where, boss?"
Baal didn't speak.
He just reached out.
The demon jolted as something tore out of him—a dark, writhing soul ripping free from his core, screaming soundlessly as it twisted into Baal's waiting hand.
Baal's lips curled.
"…Back to hell, motherfucker."
He closed his fist.
The soul shattered like glass, dissolving into dust that blew away on a nonexistent wind.
Silence suffocated the room.
"Any more questions?" Baal asked softly.
No one even breathed.
"Good." He clapped once. "Chop chop. Take all the contracted souls. Leave anything under fifty percent."
Gasps.
Whispers.
Horror.
Leaving collected souls behind was blasphemy.
An insult to every hour spent tempting, tricking, seducing, corrupting humans.
But none argued.
None even dared think to.
Because deep down, they already knew why.
The Slayer.
God's chosen executioner who treated demons with more brutality than any demon ever had.
A creature of contradictions—holy, monstrous, unbound, unstoppable.
And worst of all:
He was awake.
A tiny demon groaned as he shoved glowing soul-jars into a bag.
"…and here I thought I was finally gonna get Employee of the Month," he muttered.
"Shut up," another snapped. "I collected souls from eighty-seven virgins. Eighty-seven. And now I gotta release every last one because they were… what?!"
"…below fifty?"
The second demon sagged in defeat.
"Fuck this… fuck everything…" he whispered. "Fuck the Slayer."
Heaven's Panic
Hell wasn't the only realm shaken.
Across the holy layers—offices, command posts, observation towers—alarms screamed. Golden bells cracked under their own divine pressure. Sirens wailed across the skies, the message repeating itself through every corridor like a threat carved in light.
"THE GUARDIAN IS ACTIVE AGAIN.
DO NOT DISTURB HIM.
DO NOT STAND IN HIS WAY."
The words hammered into every angel's skull.
Scrolls flew.
Quills snapped.
Wings collided in frantic disarray as angels rushed around corners and through archways, feathers shedding like falling snow.
Middle Heaven—once a symbol of order—now felt like a beehive poked by a titan.
A young angel, pale and shaking, grabbed the sleeve of a passing veteran.
"W-what's happening? Why is everyone panicking? Why is the alarm repeating his name?"
The older angel stopped.
Stared at her.
And exhaled with a misery that came from too many memories.
"Oh Lord above… you rookies know nothing." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Didn't they teach you anything in orientation? How did you even pass the test?"
"I—I studied—"
"Not enough." The veteran shook her head. "It's Aron. Aron the Destroyer. The Slayer. The Guardian, God help you and your poor soul for not knowing…"
Then she hurried off, leaving the young angel alone.
Frozen.
Trembling.
Her feathers fell like petals, each one shaking violently as it hit the floor.