Chapter 96
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Chapter 96: Title
"Is this the current state of the human realm?" Michael’s face twisted into a grimace as the mirror’s vision unfolded before him.
Metatron stood silhouetted behind, answering simply, "Yes."
"This resembles hell more than anything." The archangel who’d recently returned from the infernal depths ground his teeth—no, truth be told, this devastation surpassed even hell’s torments.
Though heaven couldn’t abandon the human realm in peril, their capacity to intervene proved limited. Angels descending faced immediate suppression of power—the mightier the celestial being, the stricter the constraints. Permitting numerous angelic interventions would prove futile regardless, their collective strength neutered by the mortal plane’s defenses.
"Raphael has endured much," Michael murmured. Lower-ranking angels suffered particularly harsh restrictions; forcibly unleashing their full power risked catastrophic self-harm. "I’ll take charge from here."
"You intend to descend personally." Metatron’s voice carried disapproval as his brow furrowed.
"Indeed."
"We cannot turn away while the human realm bleeds."
"…When do you depart?"
"Immediately."
"Your true form without My God’s seals—"
"—Are already mine." Michael touched his chest where divine markings lingered. During his first incarnation, the Almighty had imprinted these protections precisely for such crises. No other celestial being bore such tailored safeguards.
"Keep heaven’s affairs in order." With this instruction, Michael turned to visit Raphael before his hellward journey. Abyssal creatures rampaging through mortal domains signaled profound corruption in the void’s depths—creatures once content to skulk in shadows now bold enough to ravage openly. The archangel steeled himself to confront hell’s sovereign, even if it meant crawling back broken.
Metatron observed Michael’s retreating figure with solemn understanding, resuming his paperwork with heavy certainty. The weight of unspoken sacrifices hung thick in the air.
In the healing chambers, Raphael lay resting but alert, rising instantly as footsteps echoed. "Your return comes late."
"My apologies."
"The choice was mine." The healer waved off the regret.
"Stay henceforth. Let me answer the Son’s summons and bear the human realm’s burdens."
"Can you withstand this?" Raphael’s concern etched lines across his face.
"My true form’s descent won’t strain heaven’s balance like your projections did. The avatar method…" Michael paused, suddenly recalling his oversight. "Hell holds answers. The abyssal outbreak—"
"You knew?" Raphael’s eyes narrowed. "From the beginning?"
A single nod sealed the confession.
"I was concerned it might be connected to the abyssal seals of Hell, so I consulted Belial," Michael remarked, settling beside Raphael.
"You visited Belial? What did you learn?"
"The avatar of the abyssal deity tied to Hell’s seals has destabilized. Though resealed, fragments of its power leaked into the human realm…"
As Raphael possessed limited knowledge of the Abyss, Michael elaborated briefly. "Inform Metatron of this later. I must return to Hell immediately."
"Again? For what purpose?"
"We need solutions for the abyssal creatures roaming unchecked in the human realm. While Hell maintains the abyss of hell, this recent disturbance allowed the deity’s essence to breach containment."
"This negligence stems from their lax guardianship. They must provide remedies."
"You can’t possibly intend to storm Hell undisguised?" Raphael’s voice held apprehension. "Arriving in full regalia, wouldn’t demons ambush you at the Hell Gate?"
The unspoken suggestion of disguise hung between them, though Raphael refrained from voicing such timidity.
"This concerns official affairs." Michael’s tone implied his true form would serve as both armor and declaration.
"Moreover, with the long ceasefire between our realms, Hell won’t risk reigniting holy war during this crisis."
Hell’s priority remained suppressing the abyssal chaos. Any rational ruler would avoid conflict while containing primordial threats.
At the Hell Gate.
The ancient portal stirred from its lethargy, sensing waves of luminous energy. Through metaphysical senses, it perceived a golden-haired figure approaching – an angel striding toward the infernal threshold.
_Merely some celestial being…_
_Wait – an angel approaching ME? Has one finally abandoned their misguided virtue?_
Recognition dawned as details clarified: waist-length golden tresses, softly radiant wings, the crimson cross blazing against pristine robes.
_Golden locks! Vermilion sigil! By the Dark Throne – isn’t that Heaven’s damned Archangel?!_
Hell’s sentient gateway quivered with scandalized excitement. Its psychic shriek rippled through nearby demons, drawing countless gazes toward the entrance.
"Truth or madness? Why would Heaven’s commander come here?"
"The Gate never lies! Well… except that incident with the succubus and the paladin…"
"I glimpsed him during the Seventh Holy War. Same unbearable radiance."
"They chanted ‘Archangel’ when he smote Legionmaster Azkel."
"So it’s Michael? The Morningstar’s replacement?"
Though renowned for brutality, Hell’s denizens shared universal traits: vicious curiosity and endless appetite for drama. Since the Shining Morning Star’s fall and Michael’s ascension, the Archangel had become more legend than living presence. An unannounced visitation shattered millennia of precedent.
Through the gathering demonic throng, the golden-haired seraph advanced with measured steps, crossing the threshold like dawn piercing eternal night. Within hours, rumors reached palace depths where Belial lounged, upending the demon lord’s carefully cultivated ennui.
"Why has Michael returned again, making such a commotion that even hell knows? Has he grown fearless of death?" Belial furrowed his brows, leaping from bed to snatch his robe and dash outside.
He needed to intervene before some reckless fool charging into hell alone got himself slaughtered. The current archangel of heaven couldn’t afford casualties here – celestial retribution would surely follow if harm befell their chief.
Among heaven’s countless angels, certain high-tier figures commanded particular attention, especially those archangels governing paradise as divine stewards.
The Demon King’s Palace stood entrenched in the Eighth Floor, its foundations serving as both prison and warning to the abyss below.
Upon arrival, Belial found all key players assembled – including Michael himself.
The archangel appeared largely unscathed. Lesser demons and Fallen Angels lacked the might to wound him, while the hellish sovereigns, respecting their former camaraderie, had mercifully restrained their blows.
Most injuries proved superficial. For an archangel of Michael’s stature, channeling the power of light could erase such blemishes within moments. Even freshly sustained bruises vanished instantly under holy radiance, leaving his countenance immaculate.
Upon the obsidian throne lounged hell’s supreme sovereign – Lucifer, pinnacle of demonic hierarchy.
Clad in ornate black robes interwoven with priceless gemstones, his braided black hair framed a regal visage. Every casual gesture exuded predatory grace, his oppressive aura permeating the chamber like thick smoke.
Michael hadn’t encountered the fallen archangel-turned-demon-king for centuries. Since Lucifer’s descent, the sporadic holy wars between realms had followed no pattern but the dark sovereign’s whims – truces formed and shattered like glass against stone.
Whether across negotiation tables or battlefields, their paths seldom crossed intentionally.
"Michael," Belial broke the tension with forced levity, "What brings heaven’s champion to our infernal doorstep?"
The archangel maintained composure, though inwardly grateful for the conversational lifeline. Directly addressing the abyssal crisis risked misinterpretation as aggression. Michael sought peaceful dialogue, not conflict – a dangerous prospect when standing alone in hell’s heart.
"The human realm’s plight can’t be ignored," he began, tempering his tone. "You must know of the abyssal creatures overstaying their welcome. I seek methods to banish these invaders permanently." Days of escalating invasion suggested hell’s awareness was certain.
Lucifer observed the golden-haired visitor through half-lidded eyes, fingers drumming his armrest. "Years between meetings," the demon king rumbled, voice dripping frost, "and you bypass pleasantries to demand answers? Have celestial manners decayed so thoroughly?"
Michael’s throat tightened. Their deliberate avoidance over millennia stemmed from unspoken history – encounters best prevented for all realms’ stability.
"This crisis threatens both realms," the archangel pressed. "If solutions exist, withholding them serves none."
Mammon’s sneer sliced through the chamber. "Seeking hell’s counsel? How quaint. Does your vaunted God lack answers, oh mighty archangel?"
Michael’s fists clenched at the mockery. The greed demon’s smug leer tempted divine violence.
"This requires no divine intervention," he countered, conviction steeled. The unspoken truth hung heavy – heaven’s forces remained conspicuously absent. A lone archangel’s presence spoke volumes about celestial strategy… or desperation.
