Chapter 150
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Chapter 150: Title
Michael nodded slightly, returning a measured half-bow to the divine representative on earth.
"Peace be with you, Your Holiness."
The Pope inclined his head. "The prophecy concerning ‘world fragments tainted by Abyssal aura’ has been proclaimed. None within the realm remain ignorant now."
"Excellent. Only through such clarity shall mortal hearts awaken to gravity," Michael responded.
The Pontiff withheld mention of inevitable panic – though truth lingered that Vatican City might have delivered this divine message from the God of Light a fortnight earlier, had terror’s specter not stayed their hands.
"Let preparations be thorough," Michael intoned, his gaze piercing through the papal vestments with deliberate ambiguity.
The Holy Father acquiesced, yet hesitation threaded his words: "Lord Michael… regarding the Son. His condition remains… delicate."
"Perhaps unsuitable for the City in the Sky’s summons. Should we…"
A raised hand stilled the unspoken question. Golden light shimmered between them.
"The Son falls within my stewardship. I shall… illuminate his path." Michael’s voice carried the finality of cathedral bells. "Your sacred duty lies in My God’s decree. The Skyborne Citadel’s manifestation bears cosmic consequence."
"Your wisdom guides us, Lord Archangel."
As the Pope bowed, silent lamentations swirled beneath his jeweled mitre – why must celestial wheels turn now, of all moments? Whether Hill could navigate this spiritual precipice remained shrouded in doubt.
Celestial winds stirred. Where Michael stood now, incense curls danced above marble floors.
This chamber belonged to Son Hill, soon to be Vatican City’s sole remaining Son. Vast spaces unfolded – private bath sanctum merging into receiving parlor, walls adorned in white and golden hues that whispered of dawn-kissed clouds.
The very air thrummed with latent power of light, each step upon the argent tiles bestowing preternatural calm. What portrait did mortal minds paint of their sacred Son? Gentle shepherd? Radiant paragon? Approachable divinity? The archangel’s gaze rested on the silhouette before him, finding none of these idealized virtues.
Gone was the luminous cheer that once haloed the chosen vessel. In its place coiled sorrow’s shroud, its roots entwined with another name never spoken aloud – Loral.
Memories surfaced of Vatican City’s grand humiliation months prior: triumphant proclamations of divine miracles, celestial fanfare heralding a Son’s advent… only to have cosmic irony deliver two.
Twin souls birthed at the selfsame celestial hour. Mirror-image visages. Indistinguishable auras. Pious scholars tore beards in consternation as heaven maintained its silence, refusing to name the true chosen.
Thus came the desperate edict – twin Sons recognized. For who could discern flaw in these living replicas? None suspected the surplus holy child constituted not miracle, but infernal stratagem.
(A carefully cultivated accident, this second Son – hellspawn forgery wrought through demonic craft.)
Michael recalled his own entreaties to the divine throne, seeking clarity between Hill and Loral. The God of Light’s silence now revealed its purpose.
No single "true Son" existed. Rather, dual destinies unfolded – Hill: Son of Holy Light ascending celestial spheres; Loral: shadowed counterpart emerging from nether realms.
Resignation softened the archangel’s stern features. Never would he question divine mysteries. The God of Light’s designs unfolded beyond mortal – even angelic – comprehension.
"Hill."
The name echoed through sunlit chambers, heavy with unspoken reckonings.
Hill, lost in thought, instinctively recognized the voice. He turned and bowed to Michael, saying, “Good day, Lord Michael.”
Michael stepped closer, observed Hill’s expression, and sighed with concern. “You don’t look well. Are you still grieving for Loral?”
Hill remained silent.
Michael moved to stand beside him, gesturing toward the balcony where vibrant pothos vines sprawled luxuriantly across every surface. “All things in this world follow their destined paths. Loral’s fate was his own—you mustn’t bear this burden.”
Hill met Michael’s gaze resolutely. “Had I discovered it sooner, Loral would never have succumbed to the demon’s temptation.”
“Loral’s soul belonged to Hell from the beginning—an unalterable truth. What emerges from the abyss must inevitably return.”
The unspoken words lingered—how you yourself shall one day ascend to the Nine Sacred Mountains forged by divine hands.
Though Hill and Loral had aged differently from ordinary people, their brotherly bond rivaled that of twins. As the elder, Hill cherished his sibling deeply—a truth Michael understood well.
“Can nothing truly change this?” Hill whispered.
Michael pondered his response. Loral’s soul had been Hell’s beacon since birth. Before his dark power awakened, Hill’s radiant power of light had masked him perfectly, allowing him to pass as the flawless Son of the Holy Light.
But awakenings cannot be undone. Even had Loral wished to return, Hell’s grip would never loosen.
“The fault lies partly with me,” Michael admitted. “When I encountered that demon, I should have purified it immediately.”
His thoughts turned to Loral’s black cat—an upper-level demon stripped of magic, reduced to harmless feline form. To conceal such malevolence even from his perception… whoever transformed that creature wielded power rivaling his own. Only a Hellish sovereign could achieve this.
Hill shook his head, lips pressed thin. “This isn’t your failing, Lord Michael. Cruelty resides in fate’s very nature.”
“You’ve come regarding an important matter, haven’t you?”
Noting Hill’s regained composure, Michael smiled and shifted the conversation. “Concerning the City in the Sky—the Pope suspects you might decline this summons. I wished to hear your thoughts.”
“The divine realm above the Pacific? In the East they name it Heavenly Law Battleground, while we romanticize it as City in the Sky.”
To call it merely a battleground seemed inadequate. Though suspended high above, the colossal city never obstructed sunlight—its ethereal presence challenging mortal perception, save for those witnessing its drifting form.
“Indeed. You’ve likely learned something of it already.”
Michael’s gaze pierced the horizon as if beholding the distant marvel. “Should you abstain tomorrow, future regrets may haunt you.”
Hill remarked, “There will be many attendees, I presume.”
“All extraordinary individuals on Blue Star shall journey there, I imagine.” Michael gave a slight nod.
“I wonder if Loral…forgive me.” Hill caught himself mid-sentence and coughed awkwardly. “I believe I’ll attend. You’re correct, Lord Michael – regret might follow if I miss this opportunity.”
Hill pressed further, “Will you be going?”
“Perhaps. The spectacle promises amusement.” Michael offered an ambiguous response. This wasn’t his first encounter with the Sky City, though millennia had passed since his last visit.
At his current tier, participation as a contender seemed implausible should he attend.
Those surpassing tier nine ascended to godhood. Michael’s power eclipsed tier thirteen – even during the world’s golden age, fewer than a hundred deities reached such heights.
Nowadays, such beings numbered fewer than starlight in polluted skies.
Western countries were descending into utter chaos, particularly those lacking self-defense capabilities.
Xiao Tianji’s renown as the Great Prophet spread widely across Western realms, his live stream’s authenticity beyond dispute.
News of an abyss-tainted world fragment approaching Blue Star proliferated like wildfire. When Vatican City confirmed the threat, panic gripped Western skeptics who’d dismissed Eastern warnings.
Citizens of stronger nations or those sheltered by the holy alliance clung to divine salvation, maintaining fragile composure. But for countries bereft of powerful deities and military might?
Chaos rippled through their streets in relentless waves. To countless citizens, the impending collision of world fragments and emergence of abyssal creatures heralded apocalyptic destruction.
Looting and arson ran rampant as civilization’s veneer crumbled, humanity’s darkest impulses laid bare.
…
Before the Hell Gate stood a slender youth in an immaculate white robe, its collar meticulously fastened to project ascetic restraint.
Every demon’s initial thought mirrored their brethren’s: What manner of mortal dares approach our domain?
This pristine attire belonged to their celestial adversaries – those insufferably pure angels with their sanctimonious airs.
Yet the black cat trailing the youth’s footsteps gave pause.
Alert demons soon noticed the kitten-sized shadow at the boy’s heels. Ordinary feline? Hardly. The pure dark magic radiating from its form commanded respect – no mere house pet, but an upper-level demon wearing mortal guise!
Heaven’s wrath! Which superior fiend would debase themselves into this pitiful form, vulnerable to a stray kick?
Demons reconsidered their taunts. Provoking the youth meant angering his powerful familiar – no worthy trade for momentary amusement.
The Hell Gate itself proved wiser than its lesser inhabitants. It immediately discerned the youth’s essence – that concentrated dark power within his soul, matching only the Demon King’s primordial energy.
Could this be…a royal bastard?
Nonsense! The gate chastised its own presumption. Yet the question lingered like sulfur smoke.
