Chapter 59: Lucifer
Time flows languidly in Heaven; beneath the Divine Throne, the recent turmoil—much like the waters of spring—has slowly subsided, leaving only ripples in its wake.
Outside the Hall of the Seventh Day, the wings of angels never cease their motion; even when they briefly touch down, their steps remain hurried and urgent.
A Cherub placed the items before Michael, then hastily withdrew.
Michael gazed at the newly delivered Archangel's ceremonial robes, his fingers tracing their patterns—at once strange and familiar—as he remained lost in silence.
Compared to this magnificent vestment, he felt far more suited to his golden holy armor.
"Michael!" Gabriel burst into the room; seeing him in such a state, she felt a sudden surge of exasperation.
"Everyone outside is swamped with work—what are you doing hiding in here, idling away your time?"
With the grand ceremony fast approaching, and the ranks of angels currently depleted, the newly appointed Archangels were eager to assist; yet, being fresh to their posts, they were so disoriented they barely knew where they stood—let alone how to execute their duties without stumbling over themselves.
Gabriel, possessed of a fiercely determined spirit, could not bear to watch their floundering; she took it upon herself to shoulder the entire burden. The result was a workload of unprecedented magnitude that left her barely able to catch her breath. Finally, having meticulously arranged every detail of the ceremony, she realized that the central figure of the entire event had yet to make a single appearance.
According to the Cherubim, he had done absolutely nothing within the palace walls—spending the entire time simply staring into space.
She had a rough idea of what was weighing on Michael's mind, but *now* was not the time for it!
"The ceremony is about to begin! Hurry up, put on your robes, and come out with me!"
"Let go of me, Gabriel." Michael looked at the Archangel with an expression of helpless resignation. Gabriel complied, releasing her grip; yet, as Michael rubbed his now-reddened wrist—with an air that seemed casual, though in truth was quite deliberate—he posed a question:
"Do you truly believe... that I am capable of fulfilling this role?"
In that fateful duel, he had lost.
He had lost so effortlessly—exactly as he had always suspected he would.
On the surface, Michael appeared indifferent to the affairs of the world; yet, his inner pride and ambition were no less intense than those of any Seraph created at the very dawn of Creation.
It was a form of noble aloofness—one born of a profoundly clear-eyed self-awareness. Fully aware of his own capabilities, he had always lived a life of strict rationality. His deep-seated pride and self-esteem lay concealed beneath a facade of easygoing nonchalance; he had long defined his own role as nothing more than the deputy to the Arch-Seraph.
He had never harbored the slightest ambition to become the Vice-Regent of Heaven. In his view, shouldn't the title of Vice-Regent be reserved for a perfect paragon—one capable of governing the realm with wisdom, shaking the very foundations of the cosmos with martial might, safeguarding the entirety of Heaven through their own singular strength, and serving as an impeccable exemplar for every angel?
After all these years, across the entirety of the Three Realms, he had encountered only one such being.
"Do not speak that name again."
Gabriel cast a glance at the red-haired Arch-Seraph, gently straightening the collar of his tunic—which had become slightly creased—and fastening the golden holy relic that symbolized his station as Arch-Seraph.
"Do not question the trust God has placed in you, Michael." Her calm, even tone stirred something deep within him.
"But I do not trust myself!"
"If He has chosen you, then you *are* the best."
She gazed at the red-haired Arch-Seraph—standing tall and upright, radiating an air of noble grandeur—and a smile blossomed upon her face.
"And even if you are not the *absolute* best, you are undoubtedly the most *suitable*!"
Michael was just about to ask her what she meant when he noticed that the clouds beneath their feet had suddenly given a faint tremor—as if some momentous event had just transpired in the Lower Realm.
This was the Seventh Heaven; any vibration powerful enough to reach this height was surely not to be ignored. Michael's expression hardened; he spread his wings, intending to soar upward through the clouds, but Gabriel reached out and held him back.
"I will dispatch the Cherubim to investigate. You must not delay any longer. The moments that lie ahead are solemn and sacred for all of us angels; you must steel your resolve, Michael," Gabriel stated gravely. "To soothe their anxious hearts and serve as their spiritual compass—that is your duty."
"The duty of the Arch-Seraph!"
Amidst the lingering echoes of sacred hymns, he strode toward the Gates of Heaven. Every angel he passed along the way bowed in reverence, then turned to follow in his footsteps, moving forward alongside him.
The sacred bells were about to toll; Michael could not help but cast his gaze toward the direction of the Crystal Heaven.
What, truly, is the duty of the Arch-Seraph?
'To lead the host of angels upon the righteous path.'
And what constitutes that righteous path? Is it to guide the way for all living beings by upholding one's own unwavering rectitude? If so, then what constitutes one's own true righteousness?
Is it loyalty, temperance, generosity, diligence, perseverance, humility—and the unwavering preservation of hope?
"The Seven Virtues represent the pinnacle of the Creator's perfection, yet they are not strictly essential to the True Path," the voice answered him gently. "Only fairness, justice, and benevolence—and the steadfast adherence to one's true self and righteousness amidst turmoil—can ensure one does not fall into perdition."
Affirmed by God's words, Michael's eyes gradually welled up with tears.
Then, would the Divine Presence attend this ceremony?
"Naturally." The gentle voice descended from the Highest Heaven; simultaneously, upon the throne of the Seventh Heaven, God's form—shrouded in holy light—came into view.
Beneath the throne lay the tranquil sanctuary of the angels.
Golden eyes gazed from afar at the Seraphim approaching from the outer reaches of the plaza; a gentle breeze stirred God's silver-white robes.
It was as if, from the very beginning to the very end, he himself had been the one awaited.
God answered Michael's plea; magnificent bells began to toll as Heaven formally proclaimed to the Three Realms the birth of the Kingdom's Vice-Regent. Beneath the divine radiance, Michael bade farewell to his past.
He walked forward amidst a shower of flowers and celestial music, exchanging smiles and greetings with every angel who bowed before him. Watching him transition from his initial solemn tension to a state of gradual ease, Gabriel could not help but look on with deep satisfaction.
The legend of Lucifer could never be replicated in any other Archangel; no one else could attain such absolute perfection. Yet, that textbook-perfect flawlessness had, long ago, drawn a distinct boundary between him and the other angels.
Beyond that boundary, he had become a mere symbol—an insurmountable icon.
Those angels who had been captivated by that symbol had followed him into exile, never looking back.
But for the angels who remained, he had become a symbol stripped of its meaning—destined, eventually, to fade into a mere vague impression.
Michael felt himself inferior to Lucifer, yet he did not realize that he, too, possessed a unique charm of his own.
His approachability was innate; he could mingle freely with all the angels—most especially with those of the lower ranks.
This—the quality of a true guide—was precisely what Heaven, having just endured such sudden upheaval for the first time in ten thousand years, needed most in this moment.
Hell. The conflict between the Fallen Angels and the demons intensified with each passing moment.
Under Lucifer's leadership, the Fallen Angels cast off their previous weariness; with overwhelming force, they swept across the Nine Layers of Hell.
"Those angels have gone mad!" the demons cried out as they fled in disarray, eventually rallying around the demon Baal.
Baal, Agares, Azmodan, and Mephisto—the four Great Demon Kings—joined forces once again after a millennium to form a defensive line. They confronted the legion of Fallen Angels led by Lucifer, Samael, Beelzebub, and Asmodeus, alongside the formidable former Archangels Adrammelech and Asmadai. The two opposing forces faced off across the banks of the River of Darkness.
"Lucifer! A thousand years ago, you could only gain the upper hand over us by wielding that Scepter of Judgment. If you think we will cower before you now as we did back then, you are sorely mistaken!"
The demons were well aware that Lucifer had lost his Spear of Judgment. Baal ruthlessly struck at Lucifer's sore spot with his taunts, going so far as to deny the validity of his past victories entirely. The demons below echoed his sentiments, erupting in a chorus of thunderous jeers.
The various leaders of the Fallen Angels bristled with rage, yet Lucifer alone remained impassive.
"Pay no heed to the demons' words. As I command: the entire army shall divide into four detachments. Taking the long-hafted glaive in my hand as the signal, you shall proceed to act independently!"
At Lucifer's command, the Fallen Angels immediately fell into formation with impeccable order. Witnessing this, Agares and Azmodan—both renowned for their ability to assess the tide of battle—exchanged uneasy glances.
They shared a premonition: this battle, they feared, would be a difficult one indeed.
Hell was the Demon Kings' home ground; yet Lucifer, having lingered within its depths for three months, had long since mastered every detail of its terrain and characteristics. Positioned at the very heart of the battlefield, he remained cool-headed and sagacious, displaying a genius for military strategy that bordered on the miraculous. Before long, he had successfully steered the strategic advantage firmly in his own favor. The Great Demons Azmodan and Mephisto had surrendered. Within the intricate labyrinth of Hell's mines, the Fallen Angels captured Agares as he attempted to flee, while Baal, sensing the tide had turned against him, retreated back into the capital city.
The silver-haired old demon gazed at Beelzebub—the one who had taken him alive—his expression filled with profound sorrow.
"I swear to you, old as I am, I harbor absolutely no malice toward the angels. Why, then, must you pursue an old man so relentlessly?"
He appeared utterly decrepit and weary; his pitiful demeanor stirred a flicker of compassion in Beelzebub.
It was true that this old demon had not inflicted any significant harm upon them; moreover, it was Agares who had originally dispatched Lilith to counsel them.
Sensing that Beelzebub was wavering, Agares pressed his advantage, redoubling his efforts to wail and lament.
"Have you truly forgotten the old fellow who extended a helping hand to you in your hour of need? Can you truly bear to cast him into utter ruin?"
"Beelzebub, do not forget: God created the angels first, and the demons second. Do not let his appearance deceive you—you are, in fact, older than this 'old fellow' of his," Lucifer interjected, puncturing the demon's feigned seniority with a cold sneer.
"That so-called 'helping hand'—was it not locking him inside a coliseum cage to watch him fight for his life against monstrous beasts? Was it not the *Treatise on the Uselessness of Angels* that you penned in the aftermath?"
"As I have said before: whether they speak fair words or foul, a demon's words can never be trusted."
Upon hearing Lucifer's mildly reproachful words, Beelzebub felt a pang of shame for his own gullibility. He shook his head, blushing with embarrassment over his own wavering resolve.
"I beg your pardon, Your Highness! I shall be far more vigilant from this moment on!"
Lucifer nodded silently. Agares was a cunning creature; Beelzebub, by contrast, was still somewhat naive.
However, now that he had been given this gentle correction, he would surely not make the same mistake again.
All that remained now was to focus their efforts on Baal. As this thought crossed his mind, Lucifer let out a cold sneer: three of the Four Great Demon Kings had already been captured—what challenge could the remaining Baal possibly pose? Soon, he issued orders to seal off every active exit from the city of Baal, leaving only one or two open—and those solely at his own discretion. Like a cat toying with a mouse, he cornered the Demon King, driving him into a dead end.
After several failed attempts to break through—only to be mocked for his efforts—Baal simply shut the city gates and refused to venture out.
"Baal! Where are those grand boasts of yours now? I stand right here before you; why do I not see a trace of you?" he called out in a resonant voice.
"Do you intend to cower inside your city until the end of the world? If so, I truly shall have to regard you as a complete joke!" As Lucifer finished speaking, the Fallen Angels—mimicking the demons' earlier behavior—let loose a torrent of jeers that crashed like a tidal wave.
Left with no other choice, the Demon King was forced to emerge from the city.
"Though I, Baal, am a demon, I am nonetheless a King-class Arch-Demon of honor and integrity! How could I ever go back on my word?"
Baal was accompanied by a mere few dozen mounted troops; in stark contrast to the endless legion of Fallen Angels stretching out beyond the city walls, this was perhaps the most desolate moment of his entire life.
Suppressing his inner trepidation and faltering resolve, he proposed a one-on-one duel against Lucifer.
Even in defeat, he intended to preserve his dignity.
Lucifer scoffed at the demons' so-called "dignity." When the Fallen Angels had fallen upon hard times, had the demons ever shown them any dignity? When they had been weak and offered no resistance, had the demons ever shown them a shred of mercy?
"Very well, I accept," he replied with a smile, preparing to personally grant this demon the "dignity" he sought—with his own two hands.
Without a word, Baal charged toward Lucifer at maximum speed; yet, before he could even brush against the hem of his opponent's garment, he was effortlessly evaded.
Compared to the past, Lucifer's power had become even more unfathomable. However, what truly struck terror into Baal's heart was not Lucifer's strength, but his demeanor.
The former Archangel of the Seraphim had once been a paragon of openness and light—decisive in battle, swift and clean in his strikes. But the Lucifer standing before him now resembled nothing so much as a hunter toying with his prey. Baal had been suppressed by him time and again—toyed with like a mere pet on a leash. His face turned ashen with rage; never in his life had he suffered such profound humiliation. After being pinned beneath the molten lava yet again, Baal's physical and mental reserves were pushed to their absolute breaking point.
Yet, Lucifer still had no intention of sparing him.
"Enslaving angels, building bathhouses, using them as stakes in wagers, trapping them in gladiatorial arenas... Every single debt the demons owe the angels—every last grievance, every single wrong—I shall reclaim with my own two hands!"
Just as he raised Samigina's long-hafted glaive high, poised to gouge bloody holes into Baal's flesh, a melodious, drifting chime suddenly rang out in his ears.
He froze for a moment, instinctively glancing toward the heavens; yet, he saw nothing but utter darkness.
"What is happening?" The bell's tolling resonated like a divine voice—soft and faint, yet audible to every created being. Both the Fallen Angels and the demons alike wore expressions of mingled fear and bewilderment.
Sensing Lucifer's momentary distraction, Baal became convinced that his opportunity had arrived. He cackled hoarsely, his grating laughter spewing forth amidst flecks of bloody foam as he glared at the golden-haired angel with unbridled malice.
"What else *could* it be? Naturally, it means that human has been formally anointed as the Messiah."
"So what if you defeated us, Lucifer? You have already lost *his* favor."
"*Your* failure is the true, eternal laughingstock of the Three Realms!"
Lucifer remained silent. Beelzebub's heart sank; surely the demon was spouting nonsense. Heaven was currently under strict lockdown—not even a stray bird from the outside could fly in—so how could a demon possibly have received such news?
Clearly, he was merely attempting to shake the Prince's resolve in order to seize an opportunity to escape.
It was such an obvious trap; surely His Highness wouldn't fall for it... would he?! Filled with trepidation, he strained to look in their direction; but when he finally caught sight of Lucifer's expression, he was struck with sheer horror.
Let alone disbelieving it, the golden-haired angel's hatred seemed on the verge of overflowing from his very eyes.
Lucifer *did* believe it—for that was, indeed, the ceremonial tolling of the Anointing.
How could he *not* hate? They suffered in the depths of Hell, while in Heaven, music and symphonies resounded.
The Messiah?
Haha.
The Savior?
"Don't you dare think you'll get your wish!" He practically ground the words out through clenched teeth—though whether he was addressing the Demon King before him, or defying the very source of that distant, ceremonial music, remained unclear.
Just as Baal had anticipated, Lucifer was indeed shaken by his words; yet, the consequences of that agitation were something he could never have foreseen.
Lucifer did, in fact, release him—but he offered absolutely no avenue for escape. Holding nothing back, he cast aside the long halberd in his hand and engaged Baal in brutal hand-to-hand combat.
Every punch whipped up a gale; every kick struck deep into the bone. Baal was pummeled into utter helplessness until that face—once considered handsome—was completely disfigured.
"You... you lunatic..."
Lucifer paid no heed to the pig-faced creature's words. With an expressionless face, he walked straight through the ranks of fallen angels, who parted before him with looks of awe.
A lunatic?
An icy chill, biting to the very bone, welled up within his azure eyes.
He did not consider himself a lunatic; reason still held absolute dominion over him.
And now, nothing—absolutely nothing—could ever shake him again.
Having successfully driven the demons—including all the Demon Kings—into the most desolate corners of Hell, the fallen angels had finally claimed total dominion over the Nine Circles. Exultant and vindicated, they danced joyfully amidst the inferno, hailing Lord Lucifer as the guiding light that had led them through the darkness.
"Light?" Lucifer halted his steps, turning his head to look at the fallen angel who had spoken.
They remained shrouded in shadow, revealing only the fanatical contours of their faces.
He was the only angel among them who still possessed wings of light.
Six wings of holy light—impervious to fire and water, impenetrable to evil.
They were the very first gift the Creator God had ever bestowed upon him.
Yet, in this moment, they felt less like a gift and more like a curse—a cruel mockery.
It was as if, even in this lightless world, he remained the eternal outsider—the one who could never truly break free from the dominion of the Light.
"No!" he declared adamantly. "I am not Light."
Then, he gazed upon the assembly of fallen angels, whose faces had gone blank with bewilderment at his words. "Neither are you."
"We have no need for light," he declared, gazing toward the firmament. Hatred reignited the shattered core of his heart; the gale whipped through his short hair as he turned and walked, step by step, toward the very center of his fall.
It was the deepest point of the abyss—yet, as Lucifer drew near, it began to rise.
Black wings gradually supplanted his former form; his golden hair transformed, strand by strand, from tip to root; and his emerald eyes slowly shifted to a blood-red hue.
Having severed his ties to the Light of his own volition, he ascended to the pinnacle.
Lucifer surveyed his surroundings, gazing upon the host of fallen angels gathered beneath his command.
"We are Darkness," his voice rang out from on high, echoing through every last corner of Hell.
"The deepest, truest Darkness!"
The purest Darkness.
"The very Darkness most loathed by the Supreme Sovereign!"
If there is no Heaven, then we shall create a Heaven of our own.
"From this day forth, we shall ensure he knows neither rest by night, nor slumber in his bed."
Stirred by his words, the fallen angels erupted in fervor, rising as one to acclaim him as their leader.