Chapter 48: Rebellion
Day Five. The only place to which Arlo's dispatch—his *veritas*—could be delivered directly:
His home.
The Dominion Citadel and the Angelic Prison stood in close proximity to one another. As that vast plaza—along with the two pristine white structures flanking it—came into distant view, "Arlo" could scarcely contain his surging excitement.
The Citadel sat astride the north-south demarcation line of the Martian Sphere. To the north lay the formidable Light Particles—entities of an inherently wild and fierce nature. When roused to fury, they yielded nothing in intensity to the Dark Particles of Hell; consequently, the region north of the Prison was frequently plunged into seasonal chaos, with bitter cold and scorching heat striking with utter unpredictability. This served not only as a form of chastisement for errant angels but also as a grueling assignment for the Dominions stationed there on duty.
Fortunately, the Light Particles to the south were gentle and benign. Samael still recalled his days on patrol; what everyone looked forward to most was, once their mission concluded, racing one another across the southern skies to see who could fly the fastest.
In those days, the angelic host would scatter across the celestial plains—drinking their fill of nectar, feasting on endless delicacies, and basking in the ethereal glow of heavenly light that swirled like smoke and mist. Leaving only a few companions behind to stand watch in shifts, the others would drift off to sleep beneath the vast celestial canopy.
The joys of a Dominion were simple. No matter if they had spent two grueling days patrolling the north, or if they had just returned from battling demons in the mortal realm—so long as they returned to the Martian Sphere, so long as they could take flight and rest beneath those gentle, benevolent skies...
All weariness would vanish instantly.
The Citadel was his domain—much as the Palace of the Arch-Seraphim was Lucifer's home. He gazed upon this place, which differed little from how he had left it, yet he had scant time to indulge in nostalgia.
He strode across the plaza fronting the Citadel, moving amidst a constant stream of fellow Dominions—some marching with heads held high, swords in hand, as they practiced their drills; others rushing about in a flurry, hauling stacks of documents. No one paid him the slightest heed as he blended seamlessly into their midst.
His objective lay at the far end of the plaza: the square courtyard cloister. There stood a newly constructed arched gateway—a portal leading directly into the heart of the Citadel itself.
Samael soon arrived beneath the archway. He cast not a single glance at the world lying beyond the door. Under the watchful eyes of the guards, he ascended a high platform situated beneath the arched gateway—a lookout modeled after the style of the Seventh Day, designed to offer a sweeping vista and carry one's voice to distant reaches.
Upon the platform stood the totem of the Thrones: a noble, aloof eagle. Clasping a serpent in its talons, it soared skyward with beating wings—a symbol of the Thrones' power to sever all treachery and deceit.
And now, he had become that very serpent—yet he refused, absolutely refused, to wait passively for his demise.
To change his fate—to alter this twisted, aberrant destiny.
If the raging storm was a punishment he alone was condemned to endure, then he would sooner heap the fires of wrath atop that punishment; let his indignation, his grievances, and his seething resentment fuel a scorching blaze that would consume everything.
"Angels—"
The sudden cry from the angel upon the platform swiftly drew the attention of those passing by. They paused to watch, waiting to hear what this angel—who had dared to ascend the Platform of Judgment—had to say.
"My dear companions, crisis has already descended upon us; how, then, can you remain so complacent...?"
Having partaken of the Fruit of Wisdom—thereby unlocking a linguistic "Pandora's Box"—Samael's speech proved profoundly incendiary. With impassioned eloquence, he recounted his harrowing ordeal on the First Day, baring his now-greyed wings for the Thrones to behold.
To an angel, such a sight was not a mark of shame, but a symbol of valor.
Yet, such a hero had been subjected to humiliation by mere humans—and as if his own disgrace were not enough, those humans now audaciously sought to subjugate the entire angelic host.
Fueled by Samael's inflammatory rhetoric, the wrath of the Thrones was ignited. With their former leader missing and their newly appointed commander—designated by God Himself—languishing in prison in self-imposed penitence, they lacked any voice of reason to guide them. The spark of rebellion needed only the slightest breath to burst into flame; they surged toward the platform, gathering in a clamoring throng, shouting their defiance—refusing to offer their necks to the yoke, refusing to bow their feeble knees before mankind. The cries of protest surged like a riot, unleashing a thunderous tremor that drew Beelzebub—who had been deep in contemplation within the citadel—to peer out. Staring in astonishment at the square below, where the protests grew louder with every passing moment, he instructed his aide to summon the guardian Thrones to inquire about the situation.
"What! That arrogant human really said such a thing?" Upon hearing the Thrones' report, Beelzebub flew into a towering rage. He slammed his fist heavily against the table before him, his expression darkening as he glared out the window.
*Your Highness, you were mistaken.*
*Our concessions serve only to embolden humanity, encouraging them to take an inch for every mile we yield.*
*'God's regard for humanity exceeds anything I could have imagined.'*
Upon learning of the existence of the Power of Faith, the Arch-Seraph's expression had soured for a fleeting moment; he had then immediately issued orders not to act rashly, nor to venture down to the First Heaven again to observe the humans.
Although Beelzebub felt stifled with frustration, he trusted Lucifer's judgment. Thus, he had remained here in the Sphere of Mars, biding his time in silent forbearance. Yet, unexpectedly, merely a few days later, humanity revealed its true colors.
That despicable Adam—he actually intends to erect a wall to sow division among the angels and to expel his own kin!
"Your Highness Beelzebub, how long must we continue to endure this?"
The Dominions attending at his side spoke with barely suppressed fury; they felt a deep, visceral empathy for the plight of the Thrones.
Not so long ago, God had cast Beelzebub into the Angelic Prison. For the Dominions and Virtues—who answered directly to the Arch-Seraph—that month had been nothing short of a bolt from the blue. They had managed to weather the storm, yet now, it was the Thrones who were being dragged down into the abyss.
"Go and select a few trustworthy individuals to go and soothe those Thrones. Then, bring the one named Arioch to me; I shall take him to see His Highness."
His Highness *must* be made to see this. Today it may be Arioch, a single Throne; tomorrow, it could be the entire host of Thrones; and thereafter—the entirety of the angelic host, even reaching as high as them—the Seraphim.
Deep within the prison, Asmodeus paced back and forth outside the Forbidden Chamber. Although he had already been released, he showed no haste to depart. Yet another wave of bitter cold—he knew not which round it was—swept over him. He pulled his outer robe tighter, glancing occasionally toward Lucifer's forbidden chamber; he felt the chill creeping upward from the very soles of his feet. Yet, he dared not dress too warmly, for he never knew when the scorching heat might strike next.
Why torment himself like this? What was the point?
Asmodeus gazed at his Guide with a heavy heart. Days of torment had left the Morning Star looking gaunt and weary, yet his radiant beauty remained undiminished. As he watched him thus, Asmodeus gradually found himself falling into a trance once more.
Lucifer had shut out all external distractions, immersing himself completely in the transcendent state of deep meditation.
Within that ethereal realm of thought, it seemed as though he contemplated a great many things—and yet, at the same time, nothing at all.
He lost all sense of how much time had passed in the outside world, remaining oblivious to its shifting conditions. Whenever he emerged from his contemplative state, he would do but one thing.
*God...* he murmured silently in his heart.
Yet, the Supreme Sovereign offered him no response—just as He had once foretold.
*"Until you have found your clarity, I shall not grant you audience again."*
Emerging from his meditation once more, he let out a cold, mocking laugh.
*"You do not wish to see me. No matter how long I remain here, You will not grant me an audience."*
Is that so?
"Your Highness!" Asmodeus rushed into the chamber. Lucifer opened his eyes; within those emerald depths lay a gaze of such absolute coldness that it instantly silenced the Cherub. In moments like these, Asmodeus felt as though he were no longer looking at his Guide, but rather at the God of the Crystal Heaven itself.
He halted his steps, but Beelzebub did not.
The Archangel of the Dominions strode in briskly, followed by a host of Thrones—a formidable procession, sweeping in with overwhelming force.
At first, the Thrones had been reluctant to surrender Arel. They could not believe that the Archangel of the Dominions would truly stand with them; God Himself had cast out their commander—surely, no Archangel would dare to champion their cause! The subordinates Beelzebub had dispatched returned empty-handed; yet, they could all understand the panic and fury of the Thrones. Beelzebub personally went down to pacify them; he cited the example of Lilith—who had ascended from the rank of Powers to that of Thrones—and, by placing himself in their shoes, fully immersed himself within the collective of Thrones. From their ranks, he selected a few representatives to accompany him to meet with the Arch-Seraph. This maneuver successfully won him the trust of the Thrones.
If Samael served as the compass guiding the Thrones, then Lucifer—imprisoned within his cell—remained the very object of faith for all angels.
Why were they so frenzied? Why were they so easily incited? Was it not, in truth, because the very object of their faith had willingly chosen to fall into depravity, thereby abandoning them?
"We have reached the absolute limit of our endurance!"
"We beg you, Your Highness—grant us justice!"
The Thrones fell to their knees en masse; both inside and outside the chamber, their cries of sorrow and indignation resounded.
Asmodeus stared at this chaotic spectacle, utterly dumbfounded. The sheer density of angels packed together was such that he even forgot the biting cold; he could not help but turn toward Beelzebub, who had ushered them in.
"Have you lost your mind?"
Beelzebub ignored him; the collective fury of the crowd had infected his own mind as well. He proceeded to recount the entire sequence of events to the Arch-Seraph confined within the cell.
"Humans are naught but creatures molded from common dust; by what right do they presume to lord themselves over us?"
"Exactly! Precisely so!" Upon hearing his words, the Thrones who had accompanied him voiced their resounding agreement with Beelzebub.
Lucifer, however, offered no judgment; he merely cast a cool, dispassionate glance over the crowd of indignant angels.
"Throne Angel Arioch—where are you?"
The Arch-Seraph's majesty required no elaborate posturing to command authority; with that single, simple inquiry, he instantly silenced the entire host of angels.
Moments later, "Arioch" stepped forth from the crowd. His face was pale; yet, even in that state, his spine remained ramrod straight—still bearing the weight of the pride he once possessed.
"Your Highness."
Lucifer gazed at him in silence. In that fleeting moment, it was as if he were looking back—back to a time long, long ago, when he and the other Seraphim had shouldered the monumental task of building Heaven.
There were no ulterior motives then; they were all united by a single, solitary purpose: to construct Heaven into the most perfect realm their hearts could possibly envision. "What is it you intend to do, Samael?"
With a single sentence, he stripped away 'Ariel's' disguise, causing the angels present to turn in astonishment toward the figure kneeling in the center.
Was that Samael? Their Chief of the Thrones?
"You are here inciting the emotions of the Thrones; what is your objective? Do you seek to plunge Heaven into the depths of ceaseless hell?" The Archseraph—he who discerns all rights and wrongs in the world—let out a heavy sigh.
"Is it merely to satisfy your own despicable thirst for vengeance?"
"You mean to drag every angel down to perish alongside you."
Lucifer's gaze was piercingly intense; under his stare, Samael found himself unable to move. Deep black hair began to seep from his roots, and blood-red irises replaced his former pale eyes. 'Ariel' was no more; the figure now revealed before the host of angels bore no resemblance to their former Chief of the Thrones.
Tears streamed down his face as, now fully transformed into a Fallen Angel, he wept bitterly at the feet of the Archseraph.
"I want to return to Heaven. I want to go home."
His wretched plight moved Beelzebub; the Chief of the Dominions choked back a sob and knelt before Lucifer.
"Your Highness, please—let Samael return!"
"It is a Divine Decree; it cannot be altered," Lucifer sighed.
If only things had not come to this—if only they had known better from the start.
But Beelzebub could endure it no longer.
"Your Highness, hear me! God has decreed the installation of a new Master, yet demands that we bow and scrape before him. Angels possess no inherent station of servitude; we dwell at the very pinnacle of creation, having existed here long before mankind. Even if one were to speak merely of the order of precedence—of who came first—it is *we* who ought to rule over humans, not be ruled by them!"
"If there remains any justice in this world—if there is anyone truly worthy to bear the mantle of the Messiah..." He fixed his gaze upon Lucifer, his bright eyes burning with a fiery intensity, and finally gave voice to the words that had long been buried deep within his heart:
"Who else could it be, but *you*?"
At Beelzebub's words, every angel present knelt down before Lucifer.
"We desire only to place ourselves at Your Highness's command!"
Lucifer stood stunned, overwhelmed by the angels' unanimous declaration. Just then, a resonant voice rang out from outside.
"What arrogant words!" Metatron shoved open the heavy, barred doors of the prison. Bathed in light, he strode in from the outside; the gaze that was usually so serene and gentle now blazed with fierce indignation. "You ungrateful wretches!"
His presence was so overwhelming, and his gaze so filled with disdain, that not a single angel present dared to meet the sharpness of his glare head-on.
"You who style yourselves as noble and magnificent—who fancy yourselves the embodiment of every virtue—yet here you stand, presumptuously speculating upon the will of God!"
He scanned their faces one by one, calling out each of their names in turn.
"You..."
He advanced toward them; the angel upon whom his gaze fell involuntarily lowered his head. "...and you."
Metatron gave a cold scoff and hurled the square box he had been carrying in his hands violently onto the ground.
"You claim God is unjust; you stand here engaging in wanton slander—yet you fail to acknowledge that He created you all, and that He has the absolute right to dispose of everything as He sees fit!"
"I am truly ashamed to count myself among your ranks. Just wait until I present my report to the Almighty; let the divine majesty itself be what finally compels you to rein in your swollen egos!"
Upon hearing that Metatron intended to go and denounce them before the Deity, the group of angels fell into a state of panicked agitation. They were mere mediocrities, easily swayed by rhetoric; when faced with the need for actual action, they faltered in hesitation.
Even Beelzebub stood there, dumbfounded. The moment Metatron's eyes fell upon him, his mind went utterly blank; he could do nothing but stare in helpless bewilderment at the retreating figure of Metatron—who, in his righteous fury, had turned his back and walked away.
Metatron was renowned throughout Heaven for a demeanor that was rigorous to the point of rigidity; he was the most reliable of companions, yet simultaneously the most unyielding and uncompromising of Seraphim.
He was finished.
It was all over.
Just as that thought crossed his mind, a flash of white light streaked past. Lucifer had thrown open the gates of the prison; in the mere blink of an eye, he returned—holding Metatron firmly in his grasp.
"Your Highness!" Beelzebub cried out in a surge of relief and surprise. Lucifer still wore that same expression of utter detachment—unmoved by anything in the world—yet they all knew, deep down, that what had been done could never be undone. Had Lucifer remained confined in his cell, God, though He might have been angered, would not have directed that wrath toward the Arch-Seraph himself.
But His Highness chose to step out on his own accord!
For their sake!
*This* was the true Highness in his heart! Beelzebub quietly wiped away the moisture gathering at the corners of his eyes, and a look of renewed resolve returned to his gaze.
Lucifer had confined Metatron within his own private cell of isolation. Naturally, he had deactivated the punitive mechanisms; yet, Metatron felt no gratitude toward him for it.
From within the cell, he glared furiously at Lucifer—who stood with arms outstretched, being attended to and dressed by the Thrones.
"I once held you in such high esteem, believing you to be wise. But now, must even *you* descend into the abyss of error?"
Lucifer remained silent, yet Beelzebub—shedding his earlier hesitation as if Lucifer had invisibly imbued him with courage—rose to his feet. Unflinching and unyielding, he confronted Metatron directly.
"You claim that because God created us, everything He does must therefore be right?" He thrust out his chest with haughty defiance. "You are wrong! For from the very moment we attained independence—from the instant we possessed thoughts of our own—we became free!"
"You shameless wretch!" Metatron sneered at him. "Where were you just moments ago? Why didn't you step forward to offer a rebuttal then? That merely proves this: if there is any distinction between right and wrong in this world, it is simply that whatever God decrees is right." He turned his head away with an air of disdain.
"I have absolutely no need to debate the nature of freedom—or the lack thereof—with the likes of you!"
Lucifer, who was at that moment smoothing out the creases in the fabric over his chest, raised an eyebrow at the remark. *Metatron still hasn't learned how to hold his tongue.*
He had once greatly admired the other's unwavering devotion to God. Although many of Metatron's convictions differed significantly from his own, Lucifer had nonetheless held a deep, heartfelt respect for him. Suddenly, Beelzebub—provoked to a fit of rage by Metatron's words—spoke recklessly: "In the boundless void of the Beginning, who has truly witnessed God creating us?"
"Silence!" Lucifer glared at him coldly. "God has merely been beguiled by humans; yet I will not permit you to show Him such disrespect."
"If you cannot even grasp who created you, then you need no longer follow me!"
"I was wrong! Your Highness!" Beelzebub's face went pale as he fell to his knees to beg for forgiveness; yet to Metatron, this entire scene felt utterly jarring.
"What a farce!" The only being to whom an angel would ever surrender both body and soul is the Deity of the Great Cathedral—and the Deity alone.
Lucifer stood facing him, separated by the magical barrier.
"Metatron," he called out.
"Angels revere God; we worship Him. God is the sum of all our faith; His joy is our happiness, and His displeasure casts us into the deepest abyss."
"But we cannot allow ourselves to be mere puppets, to be manipulated at will."
"Lucifer!" Metatron gripped the bars of his cell, shouting at him. "Have you forgotten the fate of Atreides? Do you wish to follow in the Elven King's footsteps?"
"Of all his myriad errors, there is but one point on which I stand with the Elven King," Lucifer said coolly, gazing at Metatron within the prison. "Everything—it is all for the sake of the angels."
"You are leading us straight into the abyss!"
"That depends on whether the 'angels' you speak of are the same 'angels' I speak of," Lucifer replied calmly. "The angels of whom Metatron speaks are those dwelling in the Nine Heavens..."