After searching for hours in every bookstore he could find, Cain returned home empty-handed. It was late afternoon, the sun beginning its slow descent, casting long, melancholy shadows across the streets. The failure was a small, sharp stone in his shoe, a minor frustration that somehow amplified the larger, looming dread. He walked without a clear destination, his feet carrying him on a familiar, unplanned route.
He stumbled upon an empty playground, its bright plastic and chipped paint a relic of a quieter time. This was where he and Amelia used to play. A flood of memory washed over him: the smell of hot plastic slides, the feel of dry grass under his knees, the sound of their laughter as they dueled with fallen branches. Stick sword fights. He was always the knight, she the daring rogue.
He walked slowly across the cracked rubber matting, his shoes scuffing softly. He climbed the steps of the old metal slide, its surface warm from the sun, and sat at the top, looking out over the silent swings and the rusted merry-go-round.
Doing as Lucifer had instructed him during their training, he closed his eyes and focused inward. He sought that strange, warm pool of energy in his core, the one that had responded to his fear and intent the night before. He willed it to flow down his arm, into his hand. He pictured it not as a weapon, but as a memory given form.
The air beside him shimmered faintly. A moment later, he felt a familiar weight in his palm. He opened his eyes. There, resting across his thighs, was a perfect replica of one of their childhood stick-swords—a length of smooth, grey driftwood, knotted and shaped by imagination.
A sad, quiet laugh escaped him. He turned the stick over in his hands. "I wish I could also do this to a person," he whispered to the empty playground. To bring back a moment, not just an object. To materialize a smile, a voice, a presence.
He sat there for a few more minutes, the stick across his lap, watching the shadows lengthen. Finally, with a sigh, he stood up. He would go home. He would tell Lucifer he failed to find the book. Maybe she would have another idea.
He was about to step off the slide platform when a deep, rough voice spoke from directly behind him, where no one could have been standing a second before.
"Cain Baltazar. Son of Adam Carpio."
Cain froze, his blood turning to ice.
"I am challenging you to a duel."
The distinct, metallic click-clack of a gun being cocked echoed in the still air.
"I need you to come with me."
Something small and metallic clattered on the rubber mat by his feet. Handcuffs.
Cain frowned, his mind struggling to catch up. He turned, slowly.
A man stood ten feet away, dressed in worn jeans and a faded jacket. His face was drawn, etched with deep lines of exhaustion and a desperate resolve. In his hands, he held a pistol, its barrel unwavering, pointed directly at Cain's chest.
Unbeknownst to Cain, hidden under his sleeve, the mark on his forearm began to glow with a faint, internal light.
Cain raised his hands slowly, palms out. The stick-sword was still in his right hand, forgotten. "Okay, okay," he said, his voice tighter than he intended. "Don't shoot. Just… talk to me."
Is he one of the people Lucy mentioned last night? The thought was a frantic spark in his mind. That there will be a battle, that humanity's champions will come to kill me?
The man's eyes were haunted. "I'm sorry," he said, the words hollow, rehearsed. "But I need to do this. To save my daughter." His finger tightened on the trigger.
There was no more discussion. The man fired.
A deafening crack split the quiet.
But for Cain, the world changed. Time did not stop, but it stretched, thickened like syrup. He saw the muzzle flash, a tiny sun. He saw the bullet leave the barrel, a spinning piece of copper and lead, moving through the air with a lazy, surreal slowness.
He was still holding the stick.
His body moved without conscious thought, driven by a primal instinct that felt both alien and deeply familiar. He swung the stick-sword not as a child's toy, but as an extension of his will.
As he swung, a memory superimposed itself over the slowing scene. Not from last night's training, but from decades ago. A sun-drenched version of this same playground. A younger Amelia, grinning wildly, pointing a stick at him.
"Cain, deflect my bullets, okay?" she shouted, her voice bright with pretend drama. "Like in the movies!"
"But if you're that close, I won't be able to deflect it!" he had argued, laughing.
"You can do it," she said, her smile softening into something sure and fond. "Because you're Cain."
Because you're Cain.
The memory snapped into focus at the same moment his swing reached its apex. The grey driftwood in his hand morphed. It elongated, gleamed, its surface resolving into polished steel. The childish stick became a sharp, shimmering katana of pure white light.
The blade met the bullet in mid-air.
There was a high-pitched ping, a shower of brilliant orange sparks. The bullet split cleanly in half, the two pieces tumbling harmlessly to the ground on either side of him.
The man's eyes bulged. "What?!" he gasped, stumbling back a step, his weapon dipping in shock.
Cain didn't hesitate. The slowed time snapped back to normal speed with a dizzying rush. The memory of Amelia's voice was a drumbeat in his skull.
You can do it.
The man, panic overriding his resolve, fired again. And again. The gunshots were loud, frantic.
Cain charged. He was not a trained warrior. His footwork was clumsy, his grip on the luminous katana too tight. But he moved with a desperate, focused energy. He did not think about parrying; he intended the bullets to be deflected. With each booming report, he swung the blade, a pale arc of light in the dimming afternoon.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
Each shot was met, sliced, scattered. Sparks danced around him like angry fireflies. He closed the distance with every deflected round, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his heart pounding a war drum in his ears.
The man emptied his magazine. The final click of the firing pin on an empty chamber was louder than the shots had been. Pure terror dawned on the man's face. He tried to back away, to fumble for something else.
Cain was upon him. He let the katana dissolve into motes of light. Instead, he focused all that strange, surging warmth—the fear, the adrenaline, the defiant will to live—into his right fist. He poured everything into it.
He threw a single punch.
It connected with the man's jaw with a solid, meaty thud. The force was not entirely physical; it carried a concussive ripple of raw divine energy. The man's head snapped to the side. He left his feet, propelled backwards as if yanked by a wire. He sailed several feet through the air before crashing into the metal support of the merry-go-round and slumping to the ground, unconscious.
Silence returned to the playground, broken only by Cain's heavy breathing. He stared at his fist, then at the unconscious man. It was his first time punching someone with real intent. There was no exhilaration, only a hollow, trembling satisfaction. He had protected himself. He had fought back.
The next heartbeat, the air beside him cooled and thickened.
Lucifer appeared as if she had always been there, her presence sudden and absolute. Cain jumped, a short yelp escaping him.
"My apologies for surprising you," she said, though she didn't sound sorry. A faint, approving smile touched her lips. Her golden eyes immediately went to the unconscious man, scanning him. Cain could see the first conclusion forming in her mind: A champion. Sent by an Angel. The first wave has begun.
"What… what do we do with him?" Cain asked, his voice shaky. He looked at the man's worn face, remembering his words. To save my daughter. "He's just… he said he was sorry. He had a reason."
Lucifer's gaze was pragmatic. "We should depart. Another may come."
Cain nodded numbly. But a question surfaced, clinging to the man's first words. "He said something… about challenging me to a duel. What did he mean?"
Lucifer turned fully to face him, her expression turning instructive. "It is a ritual between two champions. A formal challenge, bound by celestial law. Once issued and accepted by presence, no angel may directly intervene until the duel concludes. It ends only when one champion is dead, or rendered incapable of continuing the fight."
A cold realization settled in Cain's stomach. If the enemies who want me dead can do that… my life really does depend on my own hands now. On what I can do.
Lucifer reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Come."
He blinked.
The empty playground was gone. The scent of evening air and rusted metal was replaced by the familiar, still atmosphere of his own home. They stood just inside his front door.
Lucifer released his shoulder and gently caressed his hair, a strangely maternal gesture. "You should rest. You are exhausted from your search, and from the conflict."
They moved further into the house. Cain collapsed onto the living room couch, staring down at the mark on his forearm. It had stopped glowing, but it felt alive under his skin, a dormant ember. "Lucy," he said, his voice quiet. "What's the point? Why make champions fight each other? What do they win?"
From the kitchen, where she was filling a glass with water, her answer came, clear and detached. "The one who stands victorious at the end of the first wave of challenges earns the right to enter the final selection. The selection to become the Hero of Humanity." She walked back into the living room and handed him the glass. "The victor is granted a single wish. Any wish. No matter how impossible it may seem within the laws of creation."
She sat down in the armchair opposite him, her golden eyes holding his. "This is written in the prophecies of the end. Heaven will choose a single human to remain on Earth after the Rapture. During the darkest days that follow, that human will fight alongside the angels. The path to becoming that human begins with these duels."
I will endeavor to find a method to grant you passage to heaven.
Her words from days ago echoed in his mind, suddenly cast in a new, stark light. The pieces clicked together with an almost audible snap.
He looked up at her, his eyes wide with understanding. "So you made me your champion," he said slowly, the truth dawning. "Because you knew I had a wish. An impossible one. And this is the only way to get it. Am I right?"
Lucifer met his gaze without flinching. She walked over to him, took the untouched glass from his hand, and placed it on the table. Then she nodded, a single, solemn dip of her head.
"Yes, Cain," she said, her voice low and unwavering. "Because it is the only way."