The Heavenly Mother & The Dragonic Father Chapter 1 The Girl Who Saw the Throne

Italy, Rome

The bell of a cathedral tolled faintly, echoing like a prayer through the cavernous hall. Dusty shafts of late-afternoon sunlight poured through stained glass, bathing the pews in mosaics of ruby and sapphire light. Candle flames quivered in the faint draft creeping under the massive oak doors. Though it was one of the Vatican’s lesser cathedrals, its vaulted ceilings still whispered of old power and older faith, a sanctum rarely visited by anyone but the most devout.

Asia Argento knelt near the altar rail, finishing her routine prayers. The silver cross hanging from her neck glimmered in the dim light. Her long blonde hair was tucked neatly beneath the soft folds of her white-and-blue veil.

She rose and walked outside the cathedral, intending to see and heal more injured when a rough sound cut through the silence. A faint scrape. A muffled breath.

Asia’s green eyes darted toward the source. There, slumped against the shadowed base of a tree, lay a young man. His golden hair, matted with sweat. His expensive clothes—silk and velvet, torn and stained, clung to a frame far too pale. Across his chest gaped a deep wound, dark and wet. 

Her breath caught. “Oh my…!”

Without thinking, she rushed to him, kneeling on the cold ground. The scent of iron filled her nostrils, sharp and metallic. Her hands trembled as she brushed his hair from his fevered forehead.

“You’re hurt… Please, stay still. I’ll heal you.”

She pressed her palms over the wound, and the cross at her throat warmed as she invoked her Sacred Gear. A soft green glow enveloped her hands, Twilight Healing, the gift she’d been blessed with. It pulsed gently, spreading like ripples over water, seeping into the stranger’s body. She wondered how someone was able to get injured here of all places.

But as the light flowed from her, something else flowed back.

Memories. Not hers or at least not yet. They came like echoes, overlapping, dissonant and clear all at once.

“Will you become my friend?” 

As in front of her was a brown-haired boy’s earnest honest eyes met hers.

“I was happy that I finally had a friend… even for a short while… If I were to be born again, will you become my friend once more…?” 

Her heart lurched as she saw the despair and sadness coming from the boy as he failed to save her. She wished she could erase his tears.

“Can I stay with you forever from now on?”

She gasped softly, blinking, her healing aura flickering. In her mind, faces blurred and places she never visited appeared, from his home, the Occult Research Club, Kuoh Academy, familiar hallways, gentle smiles.

‘Ise-san.’ The name surfaced like a prayer on her lips, unspoken yet luminous.

“I’m glad I came to this country. I met with Ise-san…”

She felt tears prick her eyes as the visions continued, unbidden. Images of their friends, Buchou-san, Akeno-san, Xenovia-san, each face like a stained-glass window lit from behind. Her voice trembled inwardly:

‘Lord, please allow me to be with Ise-san forever. Let me stay next to him forever. And please listen to one of my wishes… I love him so much…’

The scene shifted in her mind. Another life. Another thread of possibility. A ring slipped onto her finger. White dress, church bells. She and Issei married beneath a sky full of spring blossoms.

‘Ise-san, I love you. I will always stay beside you.’

Then a different memory—warm arms around her, a soft infant’s coo. A baby girl with his eyes and her hair. Nights of closeness, laughter, various battles and whispered prayers turning to quiet moans of passion. All of it was precious.

Asia’s breath shuddered.“Who… who are you?” She whispered to the injured man, though her heart was elsewhere, years and lifetimes away. The visions weren’t stopping. They multiplied and tangled threads of memory and emotions stretching beyond her comprehension.

Another image surfaced: a cruel smile, a noble crest shaped like a twisting spiral of darkness, and her own tear-streaked face cast in torchlight. Voices shouted “Witch! Traitor! Devil’s whore!”

Asia gasped, jerking back as the healing light flickered violently. Her pupils widened, trembling as the man’s name echoed through her mind like a curse.

Diodora Astaroth. Her breath hitched. ‘N-no… it can’t be.’

But the memories came faster, scenes from futures that hadn’t yet happened. Diodora’s honeyed words, his feigned kindness as he knelt before her, pretending to be grateful for her healing. His manipulations. His laughter as the Church turned on her. His deliberate plan to use her purity against her.

Asia’s lips parted in horror as realization took root. ‘This man wants me to heal him, a Devil, so they could brand me a heretic.’

Her heart constricted painfully in her chest. ‘This is the moment… the day I lose everything.’

The green aura of Twilight Healing faltered, sputtering as she drew her hands away from his half-mended wound. Diodora stirred, his golden eyes fluttering open. Even in his weakened state, his smirk was faint but unmistakable, like a serpent pleased with its snare.

“…Asia Argento,” He rasped, voice smooth as poison. “Truly… a Holy Maiden among sinners…”

Asia stumbled backward, clutching her chest, the cross on her necklace suddenly cold. “Y-you… You were never hurt by accident, were you?”

He laughed softly, the sound hollow and cruel. “Accident? Oh no, my dear saint. This wound was necessary. You see, rumors spread so easily about a holy maiden with such… tenderness. That I just had to see.”

Her stomach churned. Before she could answer, a gasp tore through the quiet air behind her.

“Asia!”

She spun around to see three priests standing at the edge of the path, the senior brothers from her cathedral. Their faces were masks of disbelief, eyes wide with fury and disgust. Father John dropped his Bible and Father Abraham raised his cross as if warding off evil.

“By the Lord—! You… you’re healing a Devil!” Father Maxwell shouted, his voice shaking with both anger and fear.

It was then that Diodora used a teleportation spell and quickly disappeared from view. Causing greater anger to the three priests that they couldn’t kill the foul creature.

“Asia Argento!” Father John shouted with thunder, stepping forward. “Do you understand what you’ve done? This man bears the mark of evil! And you dare use your gifts of the holy light to save him?!”

Asia froze, her throat tightening. But her words failed her. She wanted to explain, to say she didn’t know, that she had seen visions of truth too late, but now knew no one would listen.

“I—I didn’t mean—”

“Silence!” Father Abraham’s voice cracked like a whip. “Your so-called miracle is blasphemy! You have consorted with the enemy! You’ve desecrated the gift the Lord gave you!”

Asia’s tears spilled freely, the weight of their condemnation crushing her heart. But beneath the pain was a strange calm, the knowledge that this moment was always meant to happen.

‘So this is it… the day I’m excommunicated.’ Her fingers tightened around her satchel. ‘But… I can’t stay. Not when I know Ise-san is waiting for me somewhere. Not when I’ve seen what comes next.’

She turned and ran. The priests’ shouts followed her through the garden, echoing against the cathedral walls. “Stop her! Bring her before the Bishop!”

Asia didn’t look back. She sprinted toward the dormitory, her boots pounding against the cobblestones, her tears falling freely. She could already imagine the gates closing behind her forever.

—----------------------

Inside the sisters’ quarters, Asia burst into her small room, the wooden door slamming behind her with a dull thud. Her breath came in ragged gasps, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might burst through her ribs.

The room was small, barely enough space for a narrow bed, a modest desk, and a single wardrobe. The window curtains fluttered softly in the late-afternoon breeze, the dying light spilling across the floor in streaks of crimson and gold. It was quiet, almost painfully so.

Asia’s trembling hands went straight to her bedside drawer, pulling it open with a sharp scrape. She began to pack whatever she could fit into her worn brown satchel, her rosary, her Bible, and a handful of small keepsakes given by the few nuns who had treated her kindly. A ribbon from Sister Maria. A small wooden angel carved by one of the children she once healed. Each item felt heavier than it should have, as if carrying the weight of every memory tied to it.

Her fingers hesitated over the rosary, the familiar beads cold against her skin. “My Lord…” she whispered, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry. I truly am.” Tears welled in her green eyes, blurring her vision. “But I have to find him. Ise-san… I’ll find you. I don’t know how, but I will.”

She slung the satchel over her shoulder, her hands shaking as she tied the strap. The cross around her neck swung forward, glinting in the fading light, and for a moment it seemed to accuse her 

—---------------—-----------------

Far from the marble towers of the Vatican, deep within the lands of the Underworld, a castle loomed beneath a violet sky. Its towers were black as obsidian, wreathed in a faint green mist that shimmered like dying embers. The banners of the Astaroth Clan hung motionless, catching neither wind nor light. The air here was heavy, thick with the faint scent of sulfur.

Within its halls, lit by fire, Diodora Astaroth sat slouched upon a dark throne of black marble. He wore his usual ornate robes, though the left side was torn and stained where Asia’s healing light had once touched him. The faint scar across his chest pulsed under the fabric, a mark left half-healed, half-burned.

He stared at it with a detached amusement, fingers brushing lightly over the wound. The faint green energy from her Twilight Healing still lingered beneath his skin, making his demonic aura ripple unevenly.

“She’s running away…” He muttered, voice low and smooth, a smirk tugging at his lips.

Before him, several glowing orbs hovered in the air, various familiars were seen flying through Rome, their spectral wings beating faintly as they projected scenes from afar. Through their flickering images, Diodora watched the chaos unfolding at the cathedral, priests shouting, bells tolling, Asia’s desperate escape through the gardens.

He chuckled softly, the sound echoing through the vast, empty chamber. “Ah… what a divine irony. The holy maiden, branded a witch. A little nudge here and there, and the Church does all the work for me.” His tone was filled with honeyed malice.

He leaned forward on the throne, resting his chin on one hand as he watched the vision fade. The last image was Asia running down a cobblestone street, the sun painting her silhouette in red lingered longer than the others.

“Foolish little saint,” hHe murmured, his golden eyes gleaming. “You were supposed to heal me completely. But you couldn’t even finish that much, could you?” But then he laughed again, slower this time, darker. “Still… I suppose this works just as well.”

Rising from the throne, Diodora brushed the dust from his robes, his movements graceful but deliberate. He stood tall, the torchlight catching the sharp angles of his face, a the cruel smile, the aristocratic calm. The wound in his chest throbbed faintly, yet he smiled as though it were a cherished reminder.

“She’ll be hunted by her own kind,” He said softly, pacing toward the window overlooking the violet plains of the Underworld. “Branded a traitor. Feared by those she once called family. And when she’s cast out, broken, alone…” He tilted his head back, closing his eyes with delight. “…She’ll have no one left to turn to but me.”

His grin widened into something serpentine.

“She will hate me,” He whispered to himself. “She’ll curse me, scream my name — but she will remember me. Every time she prays and no one answers, she’ll think of the devil she once saved.”

It was then that one of his maid/peerage member entered with worry. “Master Diodora, your injuries—”

He silenced her with a flick of his fingers, green energy crackling around his hand. “I rather keep it. Her light is exquisite… it burns like sin itself.”

He looked down at his half-healed chest again, tracing the edge of the scar with something almost reverent. “I can still feel her light inside me, pure, radiant, untamed. That kind of innocence… can’t be taught. Only corrupted.”

He turned his gaze toward the distant image of Rome displayed in one of the familiars. “Run, Asia Argento. Run as far as you can,” He said, his voice echoing through the throne room, smooth and cruel. “The next time we meet…” He paused, his eyes glowing gold with infernal flame. “…I’ll make sure the world remembers you not as a saint, but as this devil’s bride.”

A slow, deliberate smile curled across his face, his laughter filling the empty hall, growing louder, richer, reverberating through the walls until even the maids trembled.

—----------------------------------------

The sun had already begun to sink beneath the Roman skyline when Asia Argento fled the cathedral grounds. Her legs ached, her lungs burned, but she didn’t dare slow down. The echo of bells and the priests’ angry shouts still rang in her ears like ghosts of judgment.

Her heart pounded as she darted through narrow streets, passing bewildered pedestrians and merchants closing their stalls for the evening. The scent of baked bread, smoke, and distant incense mixed in the air.

‘I have to keep running… I can’t stop now. If they catch me, everything might end here.’

But even as she ran, a strange pressure tugged at her thoughts. The memories from before, the future memories were guiding her like threads of light in the dark.

She turned down an alley, ducking behind a car just as two armed exorcists sprinted past, their robes marked with the seal of the Vatican.

“Spread out! The heretic cannot leave the city! If she resists, subdue her!” One barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Asia covered her mouth, holding her breath as they passed. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. She waited until their footsteps faded, then cautiously peered out.

And then another flash.

Her surroundings shifted before her eyes, a dizzying ripple in time. For a moment, she saw herself standing in the same alley, captured, bound by chains of light as the exorcists dragged her away. The image vanished as quickly as it came.

She stumbled back, gasping. “That… that was supposed to happen…” She whispered. “But it didn’t.”

It quickly dawned on her, the memories weren’t only visions of what was, but what could be. If she followed them carefully, she could change her fate.

The thought filled her with fragile hope.

—---------------------------------------

Hours passed. The streets grew darker as night wrapped around the city like a shroud. Asia’s steps slowed; exhaustion gnawed at her. She had run across nearly a third of Rome, taking backstreets and weaving through old plazas. Her stomach growled painfully, she hadn’t eaten since morning.

She found herself slumped against a cold brick wall in a narrow alley, the dim light of a streetlamp flickering above. Her hands were shaking as she clutched her satchel.

‘I can’t keep running forever… I have to find a way out of Italy.’

Her mind flashed to Issei, his smile, his kindness, his warmth. She whispered his name softly, as though it were a prayer.  “Ise-san… please wait for me… I’ll come to you… somehow…”

Tears welled in her eyes as she pressed her hands together in prayer. “My Lord, please… please send me a sign… help me find a way…”

But the moment she uttered those words, a chill ran down her spine. From the new memories that had awakened within her, a terrible truth surfaced, one that froze her prayer on her lips.

‘The Biblical God is… dead.’

The words echoed hollowly in her mind. Her hands fell to her lap, trembling. Then what was she praying to all this time? Who had guided her? Who had forgiven her sins?

The despair struck deep, coiling inside her chest like an empty void. For a moment, the world seemed darker, the stars dimmer.

“…Then… no one is listening?” She whispered, her voice breaking.

She shook her head violently, wiping her tears. “No… even if the Lord is gone… I can’t give up. Ise-san… he’s still out there. If he could forgive me, that’s enough.”

But then —

Pop.

A small, strange sound broke the stillness.

Asia blinked and looked up just in time to see something float down in front of her, something small, round, and glowing faintly white.

Then another appeared. And another.

Three tiny puffballs hovered in the air, each with little angelic wings like cherubs and tiny golden halos floating over their heads. Their eyes were bright and innocent, their bodies soft and round, resembling living cotton clouds.

Asia’s jaw dropped. “Ah—!”

The little creatures flitted around her curiously, their wings fluttering with a soft fuwafuwa sound. One tilted its head and squeaked, “Pii~!” before booping her cheek.

Asia’s tension melted instantly. “You’re… you’re so cute!”

She reached out slowly, afraid they might vanish if she moved too fast. But instead, one landed gently on her palm, nuzzling against her thumb like a kitten.

“I… I don’t understand,” she murmured, her green eyes wide with wonder. “What are you little ones? Are you… angels?”

The puffballs chirped again, spinning in the air like tiny stars. Their angelic wings gave off a faint, divine glow, not like any light she had ever seen. It was soft, warm… comforting.

For the first time since fleeing the cathedral, Asia smiled through her tears.

“Did… did you come to help me?”

The puffballs bobbed up and down enthusiastically, their little halos twinkling.

Asia clasped her hands together, whispering a shaky laugh. “Thank you… thank you so much. I thought I was alone.”

Her exhaustion lingered, but the ache in her heart lessened. Surrounded by the three floating beings, the cold Italian night didn’t seem quite as lonely anymore.

One of the puffballs tugged gently at her sleeve, then pointed its tiny wing toward the east — toward the rising moon.

Asia blinked. “Do you think I should go that way…?”

She didn’t know why, but something told her to follow. Maybe it was divine intervention. Maybe it was fate.

Either way, she stood up, clutching her satchel and whispering softly to herself. “Then… to Japan.”

And with the little angelic puffballs lighting her path, Asia continued running into the night streets of Rome.

—--------------------------------

The streets of Rome were quiet now, bathed in the silvery hue of the moon. The once-golden domes were now shades of blue and gray, and the cobblestones reflected faint glimmers of lamplight. 

Asia Argento walked carefully along the narrow streets, her small hands clutching the strap of her satchel while the three fluffy cherubs floated beside her. Their tiny halos glowed softly, casting a faint warmth on the old walls around them.

She couldn’t stop glancing at them, full of curiosity, fascination, and confusion all at once.

“Where did you come from?” She whispered softly, her voice almost lost in the night air. “I’ve never seen anything like you before…”

The three puffballs chirped at her, soft little “Pii~!” noises that made her heart melt. One twirled in the air, another bounced on invisible wind currents, and the third tugged gently at her cloak like a child seeking attention.

Asia smiled, though her mind was racing. ‘From all the memories I saw… neither I nor my other selves ever had anything like this happen before. Not once. Not even after meeting Ise-san again. So… what are you?’

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sharp growl.

She froze. It wasn’t a monster, instead it was her stomach. The sound echoed embarrassingly loud in the quiet street.

Asia blushed and pressed her hands against her stomach. “Oh no… not now…” She murmured with an embarrassed laugh. “I haven’t eaten since this morning…”

The puffballs stopped midair and turned toward her, their round eyes blinking curiously.

“I’ll be fine,” she said quickly, smiling despite her hunger. “You don’t need to worry. I just… need to find somewhere safe to rest and—”

But before she could finish, the three cherubs suddenly floated upward. Their halos flared brightly, and with three soft pops, they vanished in little bursts of light.

“Eh?!” Asia gasped, spinning around in alarm. “W-wait! Where are you going?! Please come back!”

Her voice echoed down the empty street, but there was no reply. Only silence. The panic set in fast. Her heart clenched. ‘Did they leave me? Did I scare them away?’

She clasped her hands together, whispering softly, “Please… come back… I didn’t mean to—”

Then, without warning, another pop filled the air and followed by two more.

Asia blinked, startled, as the three puffballs reappeared right in front of her. But this time, they weren’t alone. Floating around them in a lazy orbit were several warm, freshly baked loaves of bread, ciabatta, focaccia, even a few croissants — all steaming and golden, as if just pulled from an oven.

The scent hit her instantly, soft, buttery, and intoxicating.

“Ah… food…” She breathed, eyes wide.

The cherubs chirped proudly, circling her with cheerful little squeals as the loaves hovered within reach.

Asia clasped her hands over her mouth in disbelief. “You… you brought these… for me?”

The puffballs nodded happily, bouncing in midair.

Her hunger overwhelmed her hesitation. “T-thank you… thank you so much!”

She grabbed one of the loaves and tore into it eagerly, her eyes bright with relief. The bread was still warm and crisp on the outside, soft inside, and just a little salty.

“Mmm!” She made a delighted noise, quickly finishing it and grabbing another. “It’s delicious!”

For the first time in what felt like forever, she laughed. The sound was small but pure, the laugh of a girl who almost had forgotten what joy felt like.

But then, from somewhere down the street, a man’s voice bellowed in outrage.

“N000!!! Who took my bread?!”

Asia froze mid-bite, her cheeks puffed full of food.

Across the quiet plaza, a baker stood in front of his shop, waving his rolling pin like a weapon and glaring at the sky. “I swear it just vanished! Saints above, thieves now steal with magic?!”

Asia’s heart dropped into her stomach. Slowly, she turned her wide eyes toward the cherubs.

“…You three didn’t…” She whispered.

The puffballs floated innocently, tilting their little heads.

Asia pointed toward the bakery. “Did you… take that bread from there?”

One of the cherubs blinked twice, then nodded proudly, as if expecting praise.

Asia gasped, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “Oh no, no, no! You can’t just take food without asking!”

The puffballs looked confused, their halos dimming slightly.

She sighed, lowering her voice gently. “I know you meant well, and I’m so thankful you wanted to help me. But stealing… even if it’s for someone else, it’s wrong.”

The three little angels drooped instantly, their wings hanging low as soft “pii…” sounds escaped them. Their light dimmed to a pale blue — the glow of guilt.

Asia’s heart ached at the sight. “Oh, please don’t be sad,” She said softly, kneeling so they could see her face. “I’m not angry. I just want you to understand. We can’t take what isn’t ours. We have to make things right, okay?”

The puffballs looked up at her again, blinking. After a long pause, they chirped softly in understanding.

Asia smiled, her expression warm and forgiving. “Good. Then let’s return the bread, alright?”

The cherubs twirled in unison, their halos glowing bright gold again. In an instant, the remaining loaves floated up from Asia’s arms, encircled by tiny rings of light — and with a soft flash, they vanished.

Far across the street, the baker gasped in shock as every missing loaf suddenly reappeared neatly on his counter, still steaming hot. He blinked, scratching his head. “...Was it… angels?”

Back in the alley, Asia giggled softly, clasping her hands together. “There. Much better.”

The cherubs floated around her again, this time chirping apologetically. One nuzzled her cheek in a silent plea for forgiveness.

Asia smiled and gently patted its round little head. “It’s alright. I forgive you. Thank you for caring about me.”

She leaned back against the cool stone wall of the alley, gazing up at the moonlight filtering through the clouds. The warmth of the bread still lingered on her tongue, and for a moment, she felt… safe.

Even if the world had turned its back on her. Even if she was alone. These three little beings, whatever they were, made her feel watched over and protected.

Her eyes softened. ‘Maybe… God is still watching after all.’

The cherubs chirped softly, their halos shimmering as they settled around her like glowing fireflies.

—--------------------------

Seventh Heaven

High above all mortal skies, beyond the light of stars and the veil of mortal world, there existed a realm untouched by sin, the Seventh Heaven, the innermost sanctum of divinity.

It was a place where the air shimmered with golden radiance, where the light itself sang hymns of eternal praise. The vast expanse of the holy kingdom stretched endlessly, its crystalline architecture glimmering like carved starlight. Floating scripture inscribed with divine energy weaved across the skies, forming patterns that dictated the will of Heaven itself.

At its very center stood a colossal sphere of radiant white, the Core of the Sacred Gear System, humming softly in harmony with its counterpart, the God System, the great mechanism that governed the angels, souls, and miracles. Together, they had once obeyed only the will of the Biblical God.

Now inside the Celestial Chamber, the Archangel Michael, the current leader of Heaven, stood before the two systems, his brow furrowed in deep concern.

Streams of pure light cascaded from the twin orbs, fracturing into unstable flares that lashed out like living lightning. Holy runes flickered erratically across the marble floor, and the usually serene hum of Heaven’s heart had turned into a discordant roar.

Michael’s robes fluttered in the surging energy, his golden wings unfurled to shield himself from the volatile light. His voice rang with authority as he stretched out his hand, trying to calm the chaos.

“Command override: Michael, Seraph-class designation. Reinitialize both systems under my authority. In the name of the Lord who is gone, heed the order of His successor!”

But the only response was a deep tremor.

The divine machinery that had once been the heartbeat of his father’s greatest creation now screamed in defiance. Lines of holy code unravelled midair, shattering into fragments of light that scattered like broken glass.

Michael winced as the feedback hit him, an immense pressure against his soul. He staggered slightly, his normally calm expression cracking into alarm.

‘This shouldn’t be happening…’

He moved quickly, wings spreading wider as he called upon layers of ancient protocols written before his birth. “Seventh Heaven Emergency Lockdown! All lower gates, seal yourselves! Do not let the contamination spread!”

Across the expanse, thousands of angelic seals ignited, but one by one, they faltered and died.

Michael’s breath caught in his throat. His hands hovered over the swirling streams of divine code. The Sacred Gear System, the mechanism that controlled the holy relics bestowed upon humans was pulsing wildly, shifting between frequencies it shouldn’t have been capable of.

“Why… why won’t you listen to me?” He whispered. “Why are both trying to reject me?”

He reached toward the Sacred Gear core, trying once more to steady it, but his hand passed through the light, and for the first time in centuries, he felt resistance.

The system pushed him back.

The light flared violently, and with a sound like a thousand shattering trumpets, the God System and the Sacred Gear System both surged in unison. The floor beneath him cracked with veins of holy light.

Michael gasped, stepping back, eyes widening as runic symbols flashed around him. They weren’t from his command language. These were foreign.

The glowing glyphs rearranged themselves in the air, forming a message only he could read.

“Access Denied.”

“User Unrecognized.”

“Heavenly Core—Resetting Authority.”

Michael’s golden eyes widened in horror. “Resetting…? That’s impossible! There’s no higher authority—!”

But before he could finish, a radiant pulse exploded outward.

The chamber’s walls warped, light twisting into spirals of chaos. The weight of Heaven itself pressed down upon him. He felt the systems sever his connection, not just to the mechanisms, but to the very essence of Heaven’s governance.

Then came the blinding flash.

“NO—!”

In an instant, the Archangel was engulfed by light. His wings spread in desperation, feathers scattering like molten gold. The next moment, the blinding brilliance collapsed inward — and Michael was gone.

—-------------------------------

Sixth Heaven - Zebel

He fell from the skies like a fallen comet, his wings dimmed and his robes torn. The serene glow that once marked his divinity flickered unsteadily as he reappeared in the lower heavens. The gates above him, those that led to the Seventh Heaven were sealed tight, glimmering with barriers he could no longer open.

He tried again and again to force entry, his palms pressed against the divine barrier. “Open! This is Michael, Seraph of the Highest Order! Authorize access!”

But no matter how much power he poured into the command, the gates remained silent.

He was locked out.

The realization hit him like divine thunder.

‘The systems have rejected me… The systems themself has cast me out.’

Michael stood there, surrounded by trembling angels who dared not approach, their eyes wide with fear. The very air around him was unstable, the heavenly light flickering like a dying candle.

One of the lower Seraphs hesitantly called out, “Lord Michael… What has happened? The Sacred Gear signals are fluctuating across the realms. We’re detecting multiple surges… one in Japan, another near the dimensional boundary—”

Michael didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on the sealed gates above. The normally serene archangel now looked shaken, almost human in his disbelief.

‘Father… what is happening?’ He thought, gripping his trembling hand against his chest. ‘Is this Your will? Or… has something else awakened?’

Above the silent heavens, the twin systems pulsed in eerie harmony, their light twisting into colors never seen before. Somewhere deep within the God network, a new thread of fate had been woven.

And in that instant, for the first time since the death of God, Heaven itself began to change.

—---------------------------------

Sixth Heaven - Zebel

The once serene expanse of the Sixth Heaven, the domain of order, command, and the Choirs of the Seraphim, now pulsed with chaotic light. Choirs of lesser angels flew hurriedly across the vast halls, their radiant wings blurring into trails of light.

In the center of the hall stood Michael, wings unfurled and eyes tense with resolve. He was surrounded by a dozen of his fellow brothers and sisters, all waiting on his command, their faces grim. The lingering shock from being locked out of the Seventh Heaven still haunted him, but there was no time to dwell on it.

He raised his hand, his voice booming with divine authority. “Listen to me, all of you. This is not a test. This is not a drill.”

Every angel in the hall froze. The air itself seemed to still be under the weight of his voice.

Michael’s tone hardened, his words carrying the force of a heavenly decree. “All angelic detachments are to return immediately. I want all active missions on Earth and across the realms terminated. No exceptions. Recall everyone, especially the Archangels. Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, all must return to Heaven now!”

The command rippled outward. Angels saluted with reverent cries of, “As you command, Lord Michael!” before vanishing in pillars of holy light, spreading across the skies like a storm of stars. Others darted toward the massive communication orbs hovering above the command platform, relaying his orders across the Celestial Network.

The choir of bells that marked Heaven’s calm was now replaced with the deep, resonant clang of the Trumpet of Summoning, a sound not heard since the Great War.

Even Michael himself felt a chill run down his spine as the echoes rang through the heavens.

He turned to one of the remaining Seraphs, a young, golden-haired messenger angel named Anael, who hovered nearby, her wings trembling slightly. “Seal all dimensional channels to Earth,” He commanded. “Until further notice, Heaven must cut all direct interference. I will not risk the contamination spreading beyond our borders.”

Anael’s eyes widened in alarm. “B-but, Lord Michael, if we sever the Earthly conduit, many of the faithful will lose their divine connection.”

“I know,” Michael interrupted sharply, his voice edged with frustration. Then, softer: “But if we don’t, there may be nothing left to save.”

The young Seraph bowed her head and quickly departed, leaving a faint trail of golden light in her wake.

Michael let out a slow, weary sigh. His wings folded behind him, feathers shimmering faintly as he finally allowed himself to breathe. The chaos had dulled for the moment; orders were being followed, the chain of command restored.

‘At least the Sixth Heaven still listens to me…’ But the thought was hollow comfort.

He looked upward, toward the sealed gates that separated him from the Seventh Heaven — the divine core he could no longer touch. Even now, faint streaks of unstable light leaked through the seams of the barrier, like blood seeping through cracked glass.

Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Michael clenched his fist. ‘Father… if You can hear me, give me guidance. I no longer know what to do.’

But the silence that followed was deafening.

With reluctance, he raised his hand and summoned a magic circle of pure light. It shimmered with delicate, geometric patterns.

The circle hummed to life, pulsing faintly as it sought a connection across dimensions. For a moment, there was nothing but static.

Then, suddenly, a familiar, easygoing voice came through. “Yo. Didn’t expect you to call me, of all people.”

Michael froze. “…Azazel.”

On the other side, the image of the Fallen leader appeared — lounging in his usual black coat, a cup of wine in hand, surrounded by dim light. His amber eyes glimmered with sharp curiosity.

“Well, well. The great Michael himself reaching out to me?” Azazel smirked. “What, did you miss me, big brother?”

Michael’s expression didn’t change. “This is not the time for your jokes, Azazel.”

That caught the Fallen Angel’s attention. The humor in his eyes dimmed slightly. “...You sound serious. What’s going on?”

Michael exhaled slowly, looking away. “Something’s happening in the higher realm, something unprecedented. Both the Sacred Gear System and the God System went berserk without warning. I can’t control them. They… they rejected my authority entirely.”

Azazel blinked, lowering his cup. “…Rejected you? That’s not possible. You’re the highest-ranking Seraph left. The systems are bound to respond to your commands.”

“They should have,” Michael replied quietly. “But they didn’t.”

Azazel frowned. The smirk was gone now. “So… what are you saying? That Heaven itself has turned against you?”

Michael’s wings shifted uneasily. “It feels that way. And before I could stabilize anything, the systems forcibly severed me from the Seventh Heaven. I was expelled.”

For a moment, neither spoke. Even the air between them seemed to grow heavier.

Finally, Azazel sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “So the God System’s gone haywire… You do realize what that means, right?”

Michael nodded grimly. “If the systems remain unstable… miracles will fail, divine weapons could activate on their own, and the balance between Heaven, Earth, and the Underworld could collapse.”

“Not to mention,” Azazel added darkly, “every single Sacred Gear user on Earth could start experiencing… side effects.”

The two shared a long, tense silence.

Azazel leaned back in his chair, swirling the wine in his glass, his expression thoughtful but strained. “...You didn’t call just to tell me the world’s about to end. What do you need, Michael?”

Michael hesitated, his golden eyes flickering with exhaustion and humility. “I need… help.”

That single word seemed to hang in the air. The great Archangel of Heaven, asking aid from the leader of the Fallen Angels.

Azazel raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but also concerned. “Heh. Didn’t think I’d see the day. You must really be desperate.”

“I am,” Michael admitted. “Something or someone has triggered a reaction deep within God's network. If this continues unchecked, it could rewrite Heaven’s foundation itself.”

Azazel’s sharp gaze narrowed. “Triggered how?”

“I don’t know,” Michael said softly. “But… I fear it may be connected to something or someone on Earth. Something Heaven no longer has control over.”

Azazel sat in silence for a long moment, then sighed, setting the glass aside. “Alright, Michael. You’ve got my attention. Let’s talk.”

And for the first time in centuries, Heaven and the Fallen spoke not as enemies but as two beings staring down a catastrophe.

Done, tell me what you think and if I made any mistakes. This new story was commissioned by Dayfox, so do remember to thank him.