Space had neither sky, nor ground, nor horizon.
Only an immense, unfathomable void—saturated with shades of gray and a sickly red, like dried blood.
Seven drifted through the abyss.
Around him, the air vibrated with a terrifying cacophony.
This was not the First Arc of the Abode of the Dead.
This was what lay behind the curtain.
The other side.
A place where the echoes of every harvested soul resonated for eternity.
Thousands of muffled screams.
Whispers of despair.
Pleading voices capable of shattering sanity.
Demons. Angels. Humans.
He could hear the dying breaths of Eryndor's citizens.
He could hear the cracking of Nils' bones.
Seven was no longer the Angel of Death.
Only a lost child, wandering through a storm of suffering that did not belong to him.
His lungs burned.
His sanity fractured under the weight of the damned.
Then—
Silence.
A hand touched his.
Gentle. Immutable.
The maelstrom stopped instantly, as if crushed beneath an absolute authority.
Seven lifted his head.
A figure stood before him.
Blurred. Unreal. Woven from light and peace itself.
Its sea-green eyes shone with a clarity capable of repairing broken worlds.
Its smile…
The most beautiful, the saddest, and the most comforting he had ever seen.
"I'm proud of you."
The voice was not sound.
It was a wave that passed through his soul, stitching his fractures together.
A pause.
The crimson void bowed.
"And so is He."
Seven understood—not through logic, but through something deeper.
His soul accepted it.
Then—
He woke.
The first thing that hit him was the smell.
Cold ash. Burned stone. Dried blood.
Mixed with the damp scent of fallen leaves.
Autumn.
His eyes opened to a cracked concrete ceiling, rain slipping through fractures above him.
Eryndor.
Still here.
Still ruined.
Still his failure.
He lay on an improvised cot inside a shattered civilian building.
Cold wind entered through broken windows like a blade.
Then memory returned.
Not gently.
But like a knife.
The Symphony of Shadows.
Entrails on the streets.
Nils… torn apart, devoured before his eyes.
Seven jolted upright, ripping away the soot-covered blanket.
His body trembled violently.
He ignored the pain screaming through his muscles and looked around.
Liah was there.
Sitting on an overturned ammunition crate.
Exhausted. Eyes red. Completely drained.
She stood immediately.
"Seven…"
Relief broke her voice.
But he didn't see her.
His eyes searched behind her.
Corners. Shadows. Streets beyond the ruins.
His breathing broke.
"Nils…"
The name shattered as it left his mouth.
Liah froze.
The silence that followed was heavier than the Abode of the Dead itself.
Seven stepped onto the freezing floor.
His legs almost collapsed.
"Kael."
His voice cracked into panic.
"Kael. Where is she?"
Liah lowered her gaze.
She said nothing.
That was enough.
The world collapsed again.
Nils—dead.
Kael—taken.
A dark, viscous rage began to rise from within him.
The temperature dropped instantly.
The air froze around his ether.
"You still reek of corruption, Seven."
Cold voice.
Sharp as execution steel.
Raguel stood at the entrance.
Armor damaged. Scars from battle still visible.
His gaze carried no mercy.
"You don't understand what you're using. The dead answer your call… and one day, that resonance will consume you."
Seven slowly raised his head.
Not fear.
Rage—compressed into silence.
"You dare talk about corruption?"
Step forward.
Unsteady.
But deliberate.
"Where were you?"
Before Raguel could answer—
The air collapsed.
Pressure descended like a god's weight.
Michael appeared in the shattered doorway.
The Primordial Archangel.
A presence like cold war incarnate.
"Enough, Raguel."
A voice that made the rubble tremble.
"Leave us."
Raguel hesitated… then left.
Liah followed silently.
Only two remained.
Michael. Seven.
Silence stretched.
Then—
"Young Azrael…"
"WHERE WERE YOU?!"
The scream tore through the building.
Seven broke completely.
"I saw children die under rubble! Angels torn apart! Entire families burned alive!"
His voice cracked.
"I saw my friend eaten alive! I saw the girl I was meant to protect dragged into Hell!"
"If Eden had arrived sooner—if you had done your duty—NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED!"
Silence.
Michael did not react with anger.
Not offense.
Only sadness.
Heavy. Absolute.
"You are right."
A pause.
"We arrived too late."
"And that fault is mine."
"I will bear it before the Eternal."
Seven froze.
The admission shattered part of his rage.
Only emptiness remained.
Then Michael changed.
Commander returned.
"But your anger will not bring back the dead."
A sharper gaze.
"You should be used to loss by now."
"After all… you lost everything as a human."
"And even among angels, you are the last of your generation."
"Death follows you, Seven."
"It is your nature."
The word—
Human—
Exploded inside him.
Pain lanced through his skull.
Flashes.
A street.
A shadow.
A warmth he could not name.
Then—
Nothing.
A black void where his human memories should be.
He collapsed, clutching his head.
Michael watched.
No mercy.
War did not allow softness.
"Open your eyes, Young Azrael."
"You either protect what remains… or you lose everything again."
"Fight. That is all we have left."
Then—
Another voice.
"O Lord Azrael…"
Ophaniel.
Tired. Respectful.
"We were not abandoning Eryndor."
"A sealing barrier blocked the entire region."
"Even Lord Michael had to tear space apart himself to reach us."
Seven stopped breathing.
A sealing spell.
Army-level obstruction.
Michael personally breaking space.
Then the conclusion became unavoidable.
An Anathema.
Existential-class entity.
A being beyond classification.
For the first time—
Fear.
Real fear.
Kael wasn't taken.
She was claimed.
For something far larger than war.
---
Hours later.
Seven walked alone into the ruins.
Eryndor was a graveyard of reality.
Ash. Blood. Broken steel. Autumn wind.
And among it—
Survivors.
Humans. Awakened.
Working.
Cleaning corpses.
Building perimeters.
Holding what remained together.
Even after everything.
One group stood out.
The Legion of Relics.
Humans refusing divine help.
A woman gave orders.
Nicole Lawyer.
Nearby, Ophaniel spoke quietly.
"They've worked three days without rest."
"They call themselves the Legion of Relics."
"And their commander?"
"Elyos Vangar."
"Currently absent."
"He is searching for two unstable Awakened."
"Blain Adonaï… and Frame."
Seven stopped listening.
Everything felt distant.
Mute.
Irrelevant.
He walked.
Past corpses.
Past ash.
Past silence.
Until he reached a crater.
The center of everything.
No tears left.
No prayers left.
Only a truth Michael had carved into him.
Death followed him.
So he would become something stronger than death.
His ether pulsed again.
Colder.
Heavier.
More absolute.
The horizon burned with unseen weight.
The Anathema loomed somewhere beyond it.
And Kael…
Seven clenched his fist.
Blood dripped again.
Autumn held its breath.
Watching the birth of something irreversible.
Not a boy.
Not an angel.
But an executioner of fate itself.
This time…
I'm coming for you.