The tip of the scythe brushed against Liah's carotid artery. A single press from Seven, a mere tremble, and the onyx steel would slice her throat.
Eden's pure air grew heavy, laden with a suffocating murderous intent. Liah did not step back. Her amethyst eyes, still red after reliving her sealed memories, locked onto the reaper's electric blue pupils. The ultimatum hung between them, heavy and absolute.
Yet, Liah's face softened. A faint smile, completely disconnected from the violence of the moment, erased the harshness of her features.
"I'll do it," she whispered, her voice broken but unsettlingly sincere. "Whatever Malakiel did... if he manipulated my existence, it doesn't really matter anymore. I'll do whatever you want, Seven. If he has to die for me to stay by your side, I'll do it without hesitation."
Seven's murderous aura vanished. The reaper blinked, thrown off balance by a blind devotion that casually swept aside the cosmic betrayal she had just endured. With a sharp hiss, the onyx blade retreated and melted into the shadows of his coat.
Seven looked away, suddenly unable to meet her gaze. He scratched the back of his neck, his icy arrogance giving way to obvious embarrassment.
"Uh..." he muttered, furrowing his brows. "You know, you don't *have* to go that far either... I just wanted to be sure you weren't going to stab me in the back."
Eden's winds, until then frozen by the tension, blew softly once more, carrying away the remnants of their confrontation. They sat on the marble terrace for a long time, catching their breath in the restorative silence of the celestial realm, letting the truth that now bound them sink in.
Later—an hour, perhaps two, since time had no tangible hold here—a halo of light pierced the indigo sky. The divine summons enveloped them, tearing them from their makeshift sanctuary and projecting them into the very heart of the citadel: the Hall of the Archangels.
The architectural immensity of the place defied human understanding. But neither the crystal vaults nor the golden pillars captured Seven's attention. Instead, he stared at the man waiting in the center of the room.
Michael.
The General of the heavenly armies exuded raw, martial brutality. He was a colossus, towering at a solid seven feet. His massive physique, carved in a V-shape, evoked the implacable build of an absolute predator. His asymmetrical armor, forged from an unknown divine alloy, deliberately exposed part of a sculpted torso crisscrossed with ancient cosmic scars. His divine weapon rested on his back—a majestic sword sheathed in immaculate white and veined with luminescent gold.
Yet, his face provoked an unspeakable unease. Short, strict blond hair framed Michael's flawless features. Humans would likely have placed him in his thirties, a mature man armed with devastating charisma.
*How old is this guy, damn it?* Seven wondered, indignant. Comparing himself to this Archangel—whether in raw power, presence, or staggering beauty—the black angel felt royally outclassed. Above all, Michael's gaze chilled him to the bone: pupils of liquid silver floating within irises of pure gold. Eyes that had watched entire worlds be born and die.
"The time for contemplation is over," Michael's voice resonated, deep and vibrating, making the floor tremble beneath their boots. "Your souls are fractured, your powers unstable. If you face our enemies in this state, you will be nothing but dust."
He didn't give them time to answer, sweeping the space with a sharp wave of his hand.
"Uriel will take the girl. Gabriel will purge the boy. Do not disappoint me. If you survive their training... then come back to see me."
With a resounding crack, reality distorted once more, violently separating the two allies.
Liah's vision cleared. She knelt atop a peak of raw quartz, battered by golden winds. Before her, sitting cross-legged on a floating stele, was Uriel, the Archangel of Justice.
Unlike Michael, Uriel radiated no physical aggression. She possessed an unbearable angelic beauty, draped in a long, slit toga that accentuated her flawless curves. Her long, pearlescent white hair flowed gently. Quiet authority radiated from her face.
The Archangel slowly opened her eyes, silently appraising the human. For long minutes, she probed Liah's ether, analyzing her channels, her spiritual scars, and the density of her light.
"Stand up, Liah," she finally ordered, her voice like silk.
Liah obeyed, her fists clenched.
"Your flow is chaotic," Uriel noted. "But the way you compartmentalize it... Your mastery over your aspect borders on excellence for a human."
Liah looked down at her hands.
"But it won't be enough. My current body... it's not like the old one. I lack the same ether reserves, and its full power escapes me."
"Correct," the Archangel of Justice confirmed, descending from her stele. "In your past life, with that density, you might have held your own against a minor Blasphemy like Abezethibou. Today, your reserves would run dry before you even brought him to one knee. With your current strength, you have almost no chance."
Liah clenched her teeth, frustration knotting her throat.
"Are you telling me it's a lost cause? That even with training, I won't be able to beat them?"
Uriel stopped a meter away. The wind died down abruptly.
"That is not what I said."
The Archangel leaned slightly toward her. Beneath her divine perfection, the temperature plummeted.
"I said your strength would not be enough to *beat* them in a fair fight."
Suddenly, Uriel's gaze shifted. Her celestial empathy vanished, replaced by a chilling pragmatism. A slow, terrifying smile stretched across her face. That smile served as a brutal reminder: Justice was not mercy. It was the silent execution of the law.
"Your objective is not to beat them fairly, Liah," Uriel whispered. "Your objective is to eliminate them."
Liah let out a nervous chuckle. She realized at that precise moment that she faced no pacifist saint, but a primordial predator.
"First, we will stabilize your ether," Uriel continued, instantly recovering her marble calm. "Then, I will show you how to kill a god."
Uriel's golden aura seeped into the rock, resonating through the mountain until it faded into the immensity of Eden, reaching the lower stratums.
In the Garden of Breaths, Seven knelt, panting, his forehead slick with sweat.
Around him, the sacred grass blackened, eaten away by his uncontrollable aura. Gabriel looked like an elegant hermit. Long ash-gray hair framed a pair of eyes forever touched by quiet melancholy. The Archangel watched him, making no move to intervene.
"You are losing yourself in their cries, Seven," Gabriel said in a soothing voice. "The regrets of the dead of Eryndor defile your ether. You cannot fight them with brute force; you must find an anchor."
"I don't have one!" Seven growled, veins bulging in his neck. "I remember nothing! I have no fucking past to hold on to!"
The tide of despair from the massacred souls threatened to drown him. He lacked the mental foundation of an ordinary human; his amnesia made him an empty shell into which the pain of others poured.
The air above them crackled. A sharp crack of thunder shook the garden, and a silhouette landed smoothly beside Gabriel.
It was Barachiel, the Archangel of Lightning.
The reaper threw a pained glance at the newcomer, estimating his height at about five foot ten. Barachiel clashed entirely with traditional divine aesthetics, carrying the demeanor of an insolent nineteen-year-old. A long lock of electric blue streaked through his messy blond hair, and his piercing azure eyes—ringed with gold—sparkled with frantic energy. On Earth, he would have been the undisputed star of any campus. Something in his casual aura painfully reminded Seven of Nils.
"You were always a boring teacher, Gaby," Barachiel threw out, stretching nonchalantly. "That's not how you talk to an angsty teen."
He stepped toward Seven, ignoring the arcs of corrupted ether whipping through the air.
"Stop crying over what you've lost, kid," Barachiel spat with irritating confidence. "You're acting like your existence absolutely has to be defined by some distant past. You look for memories from an eternity ago to anchor yourself, when you have everything you need right here."
The Archangel planted his index finger on Seven's chest.
"Your life. The one you live right now. Your current attachments. Your choices over these past few months. It might not be much compared to the vastness of the universe, but it's *yours*. That is your anchor."
The Archangel's words struck Seven with the force of a revelation. Obsessed with the ghost of his former humanity, he had forgotten the concrete bonds forged since his awakening. Nils's face, laughing heartily in the high school hallways; Kael's silent, reassuring presence; Liah's mute determination on that rooftop... His training sessions, this monotonous yet tangible everyday life. This was his current life.
Sensing the angel's mind waver, Barachiel grabbed Seven's shoulder. An influx of pure ether, crackling with lightning, flooded his meridians. It violently pushed back the miasma of Eryndor, giving Seven the space needed to solidify those recent memories.
Seven's black aura stabilized instantly. He took a long, deep breath, his body trembling but finally free from the crushing pressure.
"Thank you..." Seven breathed out, lowering his guard.
That was his mistake.
Barachiel's smile widened. In a quarter of a second, the Archangel pivoted on his footing and delivered a lightning-fast sweep to Seven's legs, sending him crashing violently onto his back. Before the reaper could react, Barachiel descended upon him. He pinned Seven's arms to the ground with colossal strength and slammed his luminescent hand into the center of the angel's chest.
An incandescent rune flared beneath his palm. It burned through clothing and seared Seven's flesh with an excruciating sizzle.
A terrifying sensation of internal mutilation flooded the angel. Access to his inner domain, the very connection to his legion of ghosts, vanished.
"What did you just do?!" Seven roared, struggling frantically beneath the Archangel's iron grip. "You just sealed the Realm of the Dead! That's my only weapon!"
Barachiel leaned in, his boyish face suddenly devoid of all warmth.
"A weapon you cannot control isn't a weapon; it's delayed suicide. Until you learn to fight with your own ether, without hiding behind an army of the dead, this seal remains closed."
He stood up smoothly, dusted off his pants, and looked down at Seven from his full height.
"Now, get up. Let's see what you're really worth when you don't have your toys."