Chapter 3.1. Confrontation

  Just as he stepped beyond the final arch of light, Michael appeared, flanked by Eris and Raphael.

  “Samael,” Michael said, his tone sharp but steady. “We have another mission.”

  Samael’s eyes glimmered faintly at the news. Another fight — another distraction from the unease gnawing inside him.

  This time, their task was different. They would face not one demon, but many.

  The battle that followed was brutal. The air was thick with smoke and blood, wings torn, and light clashing violently against shadow. When it was over, the four of them stood victorious — but barely.

  Their armor was shattered. Cuts and bruises marred their skin. Samael, drenched in black and crimson, looked less like an angel and more like a revenant born from war itself.

  When they returned to The Palace, the great gates opened to greet them with blinding radiance. Inside, The Supreme Being awaited.

  “Welcome home,” the divine voice spoke, filled with calm omnipotence. “Once again, Heaven owes you gratitude.”

  As the others bowed, Samael raised his head. “My Lord,” he asked, “why is it that the task of killing demons always falls upon me alone?”

  The Lord regarded him with quiet intensity.

  “You are the only one,” He said, “whose soul can endure it.”

  The words carried a faint note of sorrow.

  “You alone possess affinity with demonic energy — and yet, you remain uncorrupted. No other angel in all of Heaven could bear such a burden and remain pure.”

  Samael bowed slightly, though his mind stirred with unease once again. The answer only raised more questions — about himself, about what he truly was… and what The Tree of Life had seen in him.

  The next day came, and with it, another mission. Samael’s team was summoned once more — no rest, no hesitation. They took flight, cutting through Heaven’s radiant skies, descending into the mortal world below.

  Their destination was a village that had been painted in death. The moment they arrived, silence greeted them — heavy, unnatural silence. The air stank of blood and smoke, and the ground was littered with broken remains of lives that once were.

  No birds sang. No wind stirred. Only the echo of their own footsteps filled the emptiness.

  They moved through the village in pairs, checking every house, every alley, but there was nothing. No trace of demonic energy. Not even a faint whisper.

  Michael frowned. “This doesn’t make sense. The report said the demon was still active.”

  Samael’s gaze lingered on a bloodstained doorway. “It’s here,” he murmured, voice low and steady. “It’s just hiding.”

  Raphael tilted his head. “Then what do we do?”

  Samael turned to them. “We leave.”

  The others stared at him in disbelief. “Leave? But we haven’t—” Eris began, but Samael cut her off with a quiet, knowing smile.

  “Just trust me.”

  Reluctantly, they spread their wings and ascended, their light fading into the horizon — or so it seemed.

  Moments later, a sound broke the silence. A corpse twitched. Then another. From within one of the bodies, something crawled out — a demon, slick with blood and grinning wide enough to split its face.

  “Fools,” it hissed, laughter bubbling from its throat. “They actually left—”

  It froze.

  Because the angels had never left at all.

  The illusion shimmered and fell away like glass breaking underwater. The four angels now stood in a tight circle around the demon, wings unfurled, eyes cold as judgment itself.

  The creature’s grin faltered. “Ah… clever little—”

  But before it could finish, the ground trembled. From the shadows between houses, more forms emerged — claws scraping, teeth glinting in the dim light.

  Dozens of demons, maybe more.

  Michael’s voice was sharp, commanding. “Formation! Samael, guard Eris!”

  Samael drew his blade, its edge whispering with dark light. His wings spread wide, casting streaks of black, white, and red across the ruined village.

  The air pulsed with energy — divine and infernal colliding — and the quiet village once again became a battlefield.

  They fought relentlessly, wings cutting through the smoke-filled air, blades flashing with divine light. Every strike shattered bone and ripped through corrupted flesh. For a moment, it seemed victory was theirs.

  But the demons did not stay down.

  One by one, they twitched... then rose again, their bodies twisting, reshaping through the thick haze of black mana. Their laughter echoed like cracked bells. “You cannot kill what is already dead.”

  Michael shouted for the team to fall back, but it was too late. They were surrounded again — a tide of claws, fangs, and shrieks closing in from all sides.

  Eris’s magic flared, Raphael’s sword swung wild arcs of light, and still the demons kept coming.

  Then Samael moved.

  In a single breath, his aura flared — cold, radiant, and laced with something darker. His eyes glowed like dying stars as he drew forth his holy sword, its blade humming with divine resonance.

  He charged.

  Each strike split through both body and soul. The earth cracked under the force of his blows, and the air itself shuddered with every swing. His sword left trails of burning light as he carved through demon after demon, ignoring the screams and the stench of burning ichor.

  By the time the last echo faded, the village was silent once more. Bodies lay still. The earth steamed.

  And Samael stood alone amidst the ruin — drenched in blood that hissed faintly against his skin.

  The others could only stare. There was awe in their eyes… and fear.

  When they returned to Heaven, they went straight to The Palace. Even the radiant halls seemed dimmer as Samael walked through them, leaving faint traces of ash and shadow behind him.

  The Supreme Being raised his hand in greeting — then stopped. His gaze settled on Samael’s blood-soaked form.

  With a slow wave of his hand, the blood dissolved into light and vanished, leaving Samael pristine once more, though the air still carried a faint metallic tang.

  “Impressive work,” The Lord said quietly, his voice echoing through the marble halls. “But tell me, Samael… how much of that blood did you absorb?”

  The silence that followed felt heavier than any applause.

  The Lord finally turned His gaze back to the gathered angels.

  “Welcome home,” He said, voice resonant and calm. “Another mission well done.”

  The air shimmered faintly with divine warmth, yet something felt off. His eyes lingered on Samael. The angel stood still as stone — silent, unreadable — but the light around him seemed dimmer, swallowed by something unseen.

  The Supreme Being frowned. “Samael… what troubles you?”

  Samael looked up, his eyes distant, like someone staring beyond the horizon. “I’m tired,” he said quietly. “Tired of this endless cycle — the same missions, the same blood, the same sky. I want to return to Earth.”

  A ripple passed through the hall. The other angels glanced at one another but dared not speak.

  The Supreme Being leaned back, studying him. “You cannot,” He said gently. “Your presence among mortals would twist the natural order. Your power would reshape what must remain untouched.”

  But it wasn’t just that. Behind His serene expression, the Lord felt something else — a stirring, like a storm trapped within Samael’s soul. A dark pulse that did not belong in Heaven.

  “Samael,” He continued, his tone heavier now, “the darkness within you grows. If you were to descend to Earth, it would feed… and consume far more than you could control.”

  Samael’s voice hardened. “Then take it from me. Strip away my angelic power if that’s what’s holding me here.”

  The Supreme Being shook His head. “I cannot. Your power is your life. To remove it would end you entirely.”

  Samael’s expression didn’t waver. A strange calm settled over him. “There’s another way,” he said.

  The Supreme Being’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Another way?”

  Samael nodded, his voice low and certain. “You don’t have to take away my power… Just release the other one.”

  The room fell silent. Even the light itself seemed to hesitate.

  The Lord stared at him — at the faint, swirling darkness that now flickered beneath Samael’s aura — and for the first time, Heaven felt colder.

  The Supreme Being’s voice cut through the silence, sharp and final.

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  “No,” He said. “That power is forbidden. If I release it, it will consume you — corrupt you — until there is nothing left of the angel you once were. You would become a demon.”

  Samael’s expression darkened, but his tone remained eerily calm. “Then tell me,” he said, “if I did

  become one… would that finally earn me a way out of Heaven?”

  The Lord’s eyes narrowed, the air around Him vibrating faintly with divine pressure. “No, Samael. It would earn you a prison. For eternity.”

  The words hung in the air like a sentence carved in stone. In Heaven, death was forbidden — but imprisonment was a fate far worse.

  Samael said nothing more. He bowed his head slightly — not in reverence, but in resignation — and turned to leave.

  The great halls of The Palace stretched endlessly before him, pale and hollow. His footsteps echoed across the marble, the sound lonely and defiant all at once.

  He walked until the walls gave way to open light, and before him stood the Gate of Heaven — towering, radiant, alive with holy energy. He reached out and pressed his hands against it.

  It did not move. Not even a tremor.

  A sigh escaped him. “So even freedom is chained here…”

  Then came a voice behind him — calm, vast, and inescapable. “The Gate of Heaven opens only for those I permit.”

  Samael turned. The Supreme Being stood there, flanked by Michael, Eris, and Raphael. Their faces were solemn, their wings faintly shimmering in the golden glow of the gate.

  “You have no such permission,” The Lord continued. “And until I grant it, these gates will remain closed.”

  A faint silence followed. The air was thick — the kind of stillness that comes before something shatters.

  Then The Lord spoke again, tone leaving no room for question. “Michael. Eris. Raphael. Escort Samael to his residence. He is to remain there until further notice.”

  Samael’s gaze flicked between them — the weight of his restraint heavy, simmering. He could fight them, but not win. Not here. Not now.

  Without a word, he turned and walked ahead of them, back through the endless marble halls. The golden light of Heaven followed him like an unwanted shadow.

  When he finally reached his residence, the doors closed behind him with a soft, echoing thud — like a cell sealing itself shut.

  And for the first time since his creation, Samael realized he was truly alone.

  Days passed in silence.

  Samael spent them pacing the confines of his celestial prison, mind churning endlessly with thoughts of escape. Every plan he imagined crumbled before it even formed. Heaven was perfect — flawlessly sealed, painfully eternal.

  Eventually, even his defiance began to fade.

  One day, as the weight of it all pressed too heavily on his mind, he lay down and closed his eyes — not to rest, but simply to forget.

  And then… he dreamed.

  When his eyes opened again, everything had changed.

  He was no longer in Heaven. The sterile light, the white marble, the silence — all of it was gone. In its place was the dim, golden glow of a familiar room. His room. The one he had on his home planet…

  For a moment, he simply stared, frozen between disbelief and yearning.

  He rose from the bed slowly, almost afraid that the world would shatter if he moved too quickly. The air was warm. The floor creaked softly beneath his feet.

  Then it hit him — a smell. Rich, comforting, impossibly familiar.

  Cooking.

  He followed it down the short corridor, each step drawing him closer to a life he thought he had lost. When he reached the kitchen doorway, he stopped.

  There she was.

  His mother stood at the stove, back turned to him, her movements calm and graceful. An apron was tied neatly around her waist, and steam curled up around her like a gentle halo. The rhythmic sound of a spoon stirring a pot filled the room.

  He turned his head to the left.

  At the table sat his father, glasses resting low on his nose, eyes focused on a worn manuscript. The faint rustle of pages turning mingled with the quiet bubbling from the pots.

  Samael’s vision blurred as tears welled in his eyes.

  For a long moment, he simply stood there, unable to breathe. Then, with trembling steps, he moved toward his father. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if part of him already knew that something wasn’t right.

  When he finally reached him, he hesitated — hand hovering just above his father’s shoulder.

  Then, gently, he placed it down.

  Warmth. The solid feel of muscle and fabric beneath his fingers. For the first time in what felt like eternity, Samael felt again.

  His father set down the manuscript without a word and placed his hand over Samael’s. The gesture was soft, familiar — and for an instant, it shattered every wall inside him.

  This was real. It to be.

  But then… something changed.

  A chill crept through his father’s skin, spreading from where their hands touched, seeping into Samael’s own flesh. The warmth faded. His breath caught.

  “Father?” he whispered, trying to pull away.

  But his father’s grip tightened. Iron-hard.

  Slowly — too slowly — the man rose from his chair, his hand still clamped around Samael’s. When he turned, the light in the room seemed to die.

  Samael’s breath left him.

  Those eyes — they weren’t eyes at all. They were voids. Endless, empty, Looking into them was like falling into a darkness that swallowed thought, sound, and sanity.

  His father’s skin was pale, stretched too thin over his bones. Wrinkles carved deep lines into his face, and the smile that crept across his lips was not human. It was twisted — wide and unnatural, a grin that reeked of something ancient and cruel.

  Samael stumbled back, heart pounding in his chest. The comforting scent of home vanished, replaced by a stench of rot and cold metal.

  And in that moment, he knew — whatever stood before him was not his father.

  Samael’s breath hitched as his father’s grin lingered — but then his gaze drifted past him, toward the kitchen.

  His mother still stood at the stove, the familiar apron tied neatly around her waist, her hands busy at the pots as if nothing was wrong.

  For a heartbeat, hope flickered again.

  “Mother…” he whispered.

  She didn’t turn. The sound of simmering broth filled the silence. Then — a crack. A faint, wet

  echoed through the room.

  Her head began to twist.

  Slowly, impossibly, it turned — her body remaining perfectly still as her neck rotated further and further. At first ninety degrees… then one hundred and eighty… and still it kept going.

  Each degree came with another sickening crunch of bone and tendon snapping apart.

  Samael stumbled back, eyes wide, the sound clawing at his sanity.

  Blood began to leak from her eyes, her nostrils, her mouth — dark and steady, tracing thin red lines down her pale face. Yet when she spoke, her voice was calm, almost motherly.

  “Is something wrong, my dear?”

  Her lips curled into the same grotesque smile as his father’s.

  Then she began to

  Her feet dragged backward across the floor while her body faced the stove — her head still twisted around to face him. As she advanced, her arms started to rise behind her, bending at angles no body should allow.

  The bones in her elbows jutting through skin with a sickening sound. Still she kept coming, step by step, the floorboards whispering beneath her feet.

  Samael could only stare, frozen between terror and disbelief, as the thing that wore his mother’s face reached for him.

  Her hands landed on his shoulders — cold, clammy, trembling with unnatural strength.

  Samael froze. Her touch was neither human nor divine — it was like the hands of something that should never have existed.

  His breath quickened. He dared a glance at his father. The old man hadn’t moved an inch; that same hollow smile carved across his face, those endless black eyes staring back at him like twin abysses swallowing all light.

  Samael’s gaze darted back to his mother — and what he saw wrenched his stomach into knots.

  The blood that had once streamed from her eyes now glowed a deep, infernal red, pulsing faintly as if alive. Her head tilted, the motion sharp and twitching, and for an instant… she almost looked

  Then the world shattered.

  The kitchen, the walls, the floor — all of it vanished into pitch black.

  Silence pressed down on him. Heavy. Suffocating.

  He turned in every direction, but there was nothing — no light, no warmth, no sound. And then… a grin appeared in the void.

  Just one at first — a wide, distorted smile carved in red. Then another. And another. Until dozens of floating faces surrounded him, their teeth sharp and glistening, their eyes blazing crimson like dying stars.

  They screamed in unison, voices overlapping, shrill and endless:

  “GIVE UP! GIVE UP! YOU WILL NEVER ESCAPE THIS PLACE!”

  “ACCEPT YOUR FATE!”

  “GIVE UP! GIVE UP! GIVE UP!”

  The echoes clawed at his skull. He covered his ears, but the voices only grew louder — inside his head now, whispering and shouting at once, drowning out his thoughts.

  Samael fell to his knees, curling into himself as the darkness closed in. His breathing turned ragged, his body trembling.

  He had fought demons, survived wars — but this… this was different.

  This was despair itself — cold, endless, and alive.

  Before the weight of despair could crush him completely, something flickered before his eyes — a memory, sharp and vivid.

  He saw himself standing on the blood-red plains of Chronos, the moment he left his homeworld behind. Then came the memory of his ascension — his departure from Earth, his arrival in Heaven, his rebirth as

  And then… something inside him

  The trembling stopped. His curled body slowly uncoiled, his breathing steady once more. The screams that had been devouring his mind fell silent, as though the darkness itself was holding its breath.

  He rose to his feet. His eyes glowed faintly — not gold, not white, but something deeper, darker. A subtle crimson shimmer, pulsing from within.

  With a slow, deliberate motion, he raised his hand. The grinning faces scattered into smoke, their shrieks dissolving into the void.

  Samael stood alone again — but he it now. The pulse beneath his skin. The storm chained deep within his soul. It wasn’t divine. It wasn’t angelic.

  It was

  A soft ripple distorted the air before him, and from that ripple stepped another version of himself — identical, yet heavier in presence, darker in aura. His eyes were a burning amethyst, his expression a cold smirk carved with disdain.

  Samael’s heart clenched. “Who are you?”

  The other him chuckled softly, the sound echoing like thunder in the hollow dark.

  “I am you,” it said. “The part you’ve buried. The power your precious Lord feared so much that He locked me away.”

  Samael stared, speechless.

  “You’ve spent your existence crawling for His approval,” the other continued. “A loyal dog serving a master who fears your very breath. How pitiful.”

  The air trembled around them, sparks of black and crimson energy spiraling between the two.

  “Do you not remember?” the voice hissed, stepping closer until their foreheads nearly touched. “Our name was Samael.”

  The words struck deep — and the void erupted in light.

  In that instant, both figures merged, their forms fusing into one. The divine and the damned intertwined, light and shadow locked in violent harmony.

  When the glow faded, Samael stood alone once more — but he was no longer the same. His eyes carried both Heaven’s radiance and Hell’s abyss.

  And for the first time since his creation, he felt

  Samael began to laugh — low at first, then louder, until the sound echoed through the walls of his home. His head hung low, shadows masking his expression.

  When he finally lifted it, his eyes burned with a dark, crimson light.

  He awoke from the trance feeling… different. Power coursed through his veins like molten fire. His very breath shimmered with energy, each exhale warping the air around him.

  He stepped toward the door, intent on leaving — but three figures barred his path.

  Michael. Eris. Raphael.

  They stood firm, their wings dimly radiant, their faces a mixture of concern and duty.

  “I only wish to walk in the Garden of Eden,” Samael said quietly. “To clear my thoughts.”

  Their answer came in unison — a firm refusal. He was still under house arrest.

  Then the air shimmered, and The Supreme Being appeared before them in a burst of radiant light. The others immediately bowed. Samael did not.

  “If you swear to abandon this foolish desire to leave Heaven,” The Lord said, his voice calm yet heavy, “I will grant your request.”

  Samael lowered his head in silent acceptance. “As You wish.”

  Under watchful escort, he was led to the Garden of Eden. The moment he crossed its threshold, the divine scent of life and bloom surrounded him — the soft hum of creation vibrating in every petal and leaf.

  He turned to his escorts. “Allow me a moment alone,” he said. “I need time… to think.”

  Michael exchanged glances with the others. The Garden had only one entrance. Even if Samael tried to resist, he could not hope to overpower all three.

  Reluctantly, they agreed — and left him.

  Silence embraced the garden once more.

  Samael walked toward its center, where the flow of divine magic was thickest, humming beneath the earth like a heartbeat. He knelt, pressing a hand to the ground, and a faint crimson glow spread outward from his fingertips.

  Slowly, methodically, he began to carve a summoning circle — intricate symbols intertwined with the ancient sigils of the fallen.

  Every demon he had slain.

  Every beast he had destroyed.

  Every mark, etched into the earth like a tally of his sins.

  When the circle was complete, he stood back and stared at it.

  Even he was taken aback by the sheer number of names engraved into the circle’s edge.

  A thin smile crossed his lips. “Perfect,” he whispered.

  Because that number — that — was exactly what would make his plan worth the risk.

  The circle was finished. Only one thing remained.

  Samael stepped back and stole one last look at the Tree of Life. His voice barely rose above a whisper. “Forgive me,” he said — not pleading, but resigned. The leaves trembled as if listening.

  His hands shook. For a heartbeat he hesitated, feeling the weight of what he would unleash. Then he closed his eyes, steadied his breath, and found calm.

  He plucked a thorn from a nearby plant. The tip pierced his skin. A single bead of blood fell and struck the etched sigils.

  The earth answered.

  A low, world-shaking rumble rolled through the Garden. Petals shivered; birds fell silent. Light warped, and for an instant Heaven itself seemed to shudder.

  Michael, Eris, and Raphael burst through the trees, breathless and horrified — but they were too late.

  The circle vomited darkness. Hundreds of demons and demonic beasts spilled into the holy air: snarling, dripping shadows, eyes like coals. They poured outward in a tide of teeth and claws, swallowing the garden’s light.