Aron's hand hovered near his glasses. He pulled them off slowly; his golden eyes shone again. The room hummed, the lights stuttering as if the bar itself were taking a breath.
'Unlock Tier 1.'
A warning flashed across his vision.
[Warning: Surrounding area will be damaged. Would you still like to Proceed?]
"Yes," he said.
[Unlocking Tier 1.]
All the men lunged with bats and hammers. For a second they moved fast—too fast—but then the motion around them began to thin, like film slowing on an old projector. Fingers, feet, the arc of a swing: all lengthened, then lost momentum, then...they all finally stopped. The entire room fell into a molten, suspended silence.
Only Baal remained unaffected.
"You're breaking the rules, Slayer," Baal said, voice even. "You use your divinity in our dominion."
Aron's lips curled. "I stopped caring about your shitty rules a long time ago." He lifted a hand. "you know what, I won't make much of a mess here, My divinity is enough."
Baal's smile vanished.
"You will regret this Slayer..." He snapped his fingers and a red cape unfurled, hiding him for a blink—then he was gone.
"...pussy," Aron muttered.
[Divinity release detected.]
Divinity — the power of angels, the essence of those who dwelled above. A gift from the Creator to the faithful, granted only to those who served His will.
But Aron hadn't been given divinity.
like Adam, Eve, or Lilith.
He had been born with it — woven into his being from the start.
Perhaps the Creator had meant it as a blessing once.
But now, it was nothing more than a weapon — a way to vent, to lash out, to destroy.
Divinity—raw, ancient power—spilled out of him. It was not a weapon but a law. A devastating law for the demonic patrons under the bar felt the pull like gravity turned inside out: joints collapsed, chests compressed, bodies crumpled as if every cell were being squeezed by an invisible fist. Flesh and blood hit the floor with a wet, final sound. The bar became a tableau of ruin.
Outside, Uriel felt it—like a bell tolling through her bones. Her mouth fell open. Angels were forbidden to use such force in a demonic lair; jurisdiction and treaties existed for a reason.
"Aron," she gasped, watching the exit flood with frantic patrons. "What...what have you done?....You just started a war."
Divinity didn't touch the human beings, the chosen Gods Favorite; those left staggered, screaming, some already running into the rain. The hidden demons that had worn human faces were left where they fell—pulverized or broken beyond recognition.
Most of the people came out, screaming, panicking. Some of their clothes bloody, utterly bloody. Of course, it would indeed be an traumatic event, if you saw someone squashed before you own eyes.
When the last echo faded, Aron stepped out of the room. Blood streaked his boots and hem; a splash marked one cheek. He walked to his car as if the gore were nothing more than morning dew.
BANG—the door closed. He started the engine.
Uriel's voice was a raw wire. "Do you know what.. you ...just... fucking ...did?"
Aron revved the engine. "I thought angels weren't allowed to curse," he said, almost conversational.
"We get a pass if the situation is dire," she whispered. "Aron—this will ruin centuries of fragile peace. This will change everything....EVERYTHING!"
He didn't look at her. "Eve. I'm searching for Eve. I've been granted a new mission."
Silence filled the space between them for a long moment.
"....So the Lord truly did—" Uriel began, then stopped, a complicated light in her face.
Aron drove on, predatory calm. "Chaos is necessary to flush her out," he said. "I'll do here what I must."
Uriel's face hardened. "You mean… you're going to—"
"Yes," he said flatly.
"All the remaining forty-eight original demons?" she whispered.
"Yes."
She was quiet, because she had to be. Every station in heaven would know what this meant: once Aron accepted a mission, he completed it—no matter the cost, no matter the carnage.
"You already wiped out a quarter of them," Uriel said.
"Then more will die until I get what I want," Aron replied simply.
Uriel fell silent. It wasn't only her who understood—every high seat in heaven knew. From Michael at the head of the legions down through the once seventy-two demonic stations, even Lucifer himself would hear the echo of what Aron did.
When Aron accepted a mission, it was absolute. He completed it, no matter the chaos it unleashed. No matter the cost. He would make it happen—bloody and inevitable.
She swallowed. "So it begins again. And I thought we might have decades of peace."
He said nothing. He drove too fast through the rain—ignoring red lights, threading through pedestrians as if the city were a game and nothing mattered but reaching the next point. The car was old porcelain on the outside, but it moved with the brutal speed of a predator.
Within minutes they stopped before a towering white monolith—the Angelic Tower, headquarters of the brigade. Uriel peered out, stunned.
"This is—" she began.
"He ran here," Aron said.
"This… Baal? Why is a demon in our jurisdiction?"
Aron stepped from the car, blood leaving prints on the curb. He tossed the keys to a parking attendant without looking and walked toward the entrance. Uriel followed, whispering protests that died on her lips.
"Aron—this is forbidden, you are banned from coming here!" she hissed as they reached the all-white lobby. The receptionist froze at the sight of him, knowing too well, who he was, then whispered into her comm.
Blood marked his coat, a stark red on the sheen of white tiles. People—angels, half-angels, clerks—turned to stare.
"Security breach! SSS-class danger in the headquarters! All units report to the Tower! I repeat, The.. Aron...is back, he is FUCKING BACK!!!!" the receptionist broadcast, fingers already flying across her console.
She looked at Uriel, her eyes in chaose, her forehead sweating like stream. "Yo..your Holiness, he must be stopped...please Stop him."
Uriel didn't argue, didn't even turn towards the recpetion. She fell into step at Aron's side as they entered an elevator bank. The other angels watched with a mix of suspicion and awe. Giving him the way, the panic and fear in their eyes clear.
Even the ones who were inside the elevator, quickly came out, letting Aron and Ureil enter.
The doors closed with a soft ting.
Aron turned to Ureil...like he was waiting for her to do something.
"Oh, what would you do without me?" Uriel muttered, pressing a hidden panel. A new button gleamed above the 300 mark—999+.
Aron pressed it.
As the elevator climbed, the ride blurred past floors like pages turning. The air grew thinner, humming with the weight of centuries.
He finally spoke
"You think I broke the rules?
.... The rules were broken long before.you talked about peace, This wasn't peace you lot were experiencing—just quiet betrayals.
Angels betraying their Creator; demons betraying the one below all, Lucifer."
"...what...? Aron, that's impossible—" Uriel began.
"Ting."
The doors opened. The same cold silence that lived at the center of the world welcomed them.
"You will see," Aron said. "You all will see."
The elevator doors opened slowly.
Light from the realm beyond spilled in, forcing Aron to adjust his glasses before the brilliance of the middle heaven could burn his eyes.
Uriel, of course, remained untouched by it.
Beyond the doors stretched the realm of white—the middle ground between heaven and earth.
Only the high-ranked angels were allowed here. Angels like Uriel.
The sight still made him sick.
The endless white columns, the domed roof painted with scenes of forgotten gods, the glass floor glowing with sanctified light. It was too clean, too perfect—suffocating. Every angel dressed in white, and white only. Centuries had passed, and they still hadn't developed a sense of style.
Their wings were hidden too—ever since the day God had left them.
Still there, unseen, just like the faith that once filled them.
Every gaze turned toward Aron as he stepped out—the lone figure in bloodstained clothes, a flaw in their immaculate world.
Behind him, Uriel's garments had already turned pure white, adapting to the sanctum's laws.
Aron took another step forward when a voice thundered from the stairway ahead.
"Stop!"
He looked toward the echo, meeting the eyes of the one who dared command him—a man with dark skin, cold blue eyes, and a bald head, clothed in spotless white.
"...Gabriel," Aron said. "...Where is he?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. And need I remind you? You are not allowed here anymore," Gabriel's voice rolled through the hall like distant thunder.
Aron ignored him and took another step. His boots stained the glass with blood—but the stains sizzled, turning to ash. The same happened to the red on his coat and face.
He exhaled, amused. "I was digging the red look," he muttered. But the middle heaven demanded purity. White. Always white.
And Aron knew better than anyone—beneath that purity, this place was anything but clean.
"Gabriel," Aron said, voice echoing. "I know he's here. I can still feel him. Your dear old partner...Baal." he teveao, ever so nonchalantly.
Gasps spread across the chamber.
Gabriel's eyes flared wide. "Preposterous!" he roared, shaking the marble halls. "Aron!!! that's a grave accusation."
Gabriel hated him.
He hated Aron—the one who still bore the Creator's order.
The one gifted with the blessing of the System—the only being who could commune with God Himself.
He told himself jealousy was a sin, yet every word from Aron scraped against what was left of his pride. When the Creator abandoned the throne, leaving them all in silence... Gabriel's faith had cracked.
Still, he composed himself. Rage wouldn't serve him here. Not against him.
"Why are you here, Aron?" Gabriel asked, voice steady now. "You already know Michael despises disobedience."
That name made Aron pause. Michael—the one who trained him.
He respected him, yes. Even feared him. But fear was not obedience.
"Scan the area," Aron commanded quietly.
[Scanning middle heaven.]
[245 total souls detected. 7 souls resisted the scan. 238 souls scanned. 237 souls registered holy. 1 soul registered corrupt.]
Aron's lips curved. The System had never lied to him.
And that meant Gabriel was lying now.
"You throw Michael's name at me," Aron said, stepping closer, "but go ahead—call him. Let's see what he says when he finds his brother-in-arms, the great Gabriel, sheltering an original demon."
The crowd of angels froze.
Whispers rippled through the pure hall. Even suspicion flickered in their eyes.
Because Aron's word still carried divine weight—the word of the last one who could commune with God.
Gabriel felt their stares burn into him. His composure fractured.
"I should kill you here and now," he said, his voice trembling with fury.
Aron smiled faintly. "Threats, Gabriel? Really? What happened to you? Since when does Heaven's messenger sound more like a sinner than a saint?"
"Blasphemy!" Gabriel's roar cracked the air.
Invisible wings beat once, sending wind slicing through the room.
In a blink, he was before Aron—towering, radiant, his eyes burning with restrained violence.
"Don't get in my way, Aron," he growled. "Tell me what you want, and then leave. Before I forget who you are."
Aron didn't flinch. "I already told your partner what I need....I want Eve," he said simply.
Silence dropped like a blade.
Every murmur, every breath in the hall vanished at once.
Gabriel's fury dimmed to disbelief. Even Uriel turned sharply toward Aron, eyes wide.
The name hadn't been spoken aloud in centuries.
Aron stood unmoving.
The light of middle heaven reflected in his lenses, hiding the fire in his eyes.
"....haha.... hahahaha."
Gabriel finally laughed—his earlier fury dissolving into something almost amused.
"You want Eve? Eve? The one who vanished with Adam after the Day of Sacrifice?" His tone was incredulous. "They're a myth, Aron. A bedtime story for the faithful."
Aron didn't bother to argue. He already knew where Adam was—and what he'd become. But that secret wasn't for anyone else to follow.
"Yes," he said simply. "If you have the information, give it to me, and I won't smear your authority here."
He slipped off his glasses.
Gabriel saw the flash of gold in his eyes—the same burning hue once said to belong to the Creator Himself.
No... perhaps not the same. Gabriel had long forgotten what God even looked like. But he remembered enough to feel uneasy.
And he knew Aron was serious. He only got this serious a few times in all of history.
Gabriel's gaze drifted to Uriel—the angel he had assigned to watch over the man.
She met his eyes and gave a small, silent nod.
That was all the confirmation he needed.
Another mission from the Almighty, Gabriel thought.
"So you won't stop," he said quietly, "until you succeed—like before."
"No," Aron answered, voice steady, absolute.
Gabriel's expression softened. That single word carried the weight of certainty—divine certainty. He stepped closer, resting a hand on Aron's shoulder.
"Aron," he said, tone almost pleading. "I can help you. Tell me what the Lord said—give me the details."
Aron scoffed and brushed his hand away. "I already told you what I want. And what you wanted to hear. The exchange is done. Give me the demon."
"Aron, listen, I can—"
But Aron shoved him aside and kept walking, heading toward the grand stairway.
Gabriel stumbled back, eyes blazing. "ARON!" His voice cracked like thunder.
"APPREHEND HIM!"
The angels hesitated. Orders were orders—but he was Aron. The one who still bore God's mark. The one who'd survived every divine purge before this. Confusion rippled through their ranks.
Still, some of the younger ones obeyed—rushing forward, wings unfolding, light flaring.
Aron was ten steps from the upper floor when the first wave reached him—twenty angels in total, grabbing his arms, his shoulders, his legs.
He didn't even flinch.
Then five more leapt in, piling on, trying to drag him down.
"Why the hell is he so strong?" one gasped, straining.
"Hold him—pull him down!" another shouted, wings beating furiously.
Uriel exhaled, watching the chaos unfold. She knew this was only the beginning—the first domino falling.
Gabriel steadied himself and roared, "All of you! Leash him! GO!"
The remaining angels moved at once, fear and duty clashing in their eyes as they dove in.
Dozens now clung to Aron, covering him completely, burying him beneath a storm of white wings.
The great hall fell into silence—only the sound of struggling breath, feathers, and cracking marble remained.
Beneath them all, Aron's muffled voice rumbled like an earthquake.
"...What a waste of time," he growled.
Then his eyes burned gold through the gaps of light and shadow.
He didn't like to think. He didn't like to plan. He only moved—only acted. And his thoughts, his purpose, his mission narrowed to a single, burning point.
'Unlock Tier 2.'
[Tier 2 unlocked.]
Aron wanted to call himself just.
Slow to anger. Patient. Righteous.
But no—he was none of that. Not anymore.
The more he tried to mirror God, the more he felt the hollowness of the act. He could mimic His manner, His voice, even His compassion—but the result always rang false. He was a shadow wearing light. A weapon pretending to pray.
And somewhere along the way, he'd stopped pretending.
He had shed that false holiness piece by piece—until nothing pure remained.
He wasn't a man.
He wasn't an angel.
He wasn't a demon.
He was a force.
The force that moved when God went silent.
That was his truth.
That was what the System had chosen him for.
Once, his divinity had shared the same root as Adam's and Eve's—to nurture, to preserve creation.
But the gift had twisted over the centuries. Where their touch healed, his erased. Where they gave life, he brought silence. His divinity wasn't born for mercy.
It was born for endings.
"...Gabriel..." Aron's voice cut through the tense air, calm but heavy.
Gabriel, shielding his face behind his wing, sneered. "What? You surrender?!"
Aron crouched lower, his palms pressed against the broken marble, cracks forming beneath his touch. His golden eyes pulsed brighter, the glow rising from within his chest like a star about to go supernova.
"The destruction of Middle Heaven..." he said softly, almost to himself. "Don't put it on me, Gabriel. I warned you."
Then came the hum—low and growing, vibrating the entire hall.
The air thickened; sound itself began to distort. The angels pressing against him trembled, their strength dissolving under the weight of that power.
Uriel was already retreating toward the elevator, her hand hovering near the door controls. Her expression was blank—resignation, not fear. She had seen this before.
Gabriel could feel it—the divinity swelling, bending the air, shaking the marble columns.
His wings instinctively wrapped around his body, the feathers glowing white-hot as he whispered, "This much divinity... how...?"
And then—
BOOOOOOOOOOM!
The explosion wasn't sound. It was light.
A pulse of golden radiance erupted outward, folding the world into brilliance.
For an instant, Middle Heaven turned into the surface of a sun.
When the light faded, silence reigned.
Angels—those proud, shining warriors—were gone. Reduced to silhouettes burned into the marble. Their halos had disintegrated mid-flight, leaving faint rings of ash. The great hall, once white and perfect, was marred by blackened imprints—hundreds of them.
Gabriel was thrown halfway across the chamber, his wings half-seared, his body pinned against a cracked wall. Unconscious. Barely alive.
Aron stood in the center of the devastation.
Smoke rose from his coat. His golden light dimmed, retreating under his skin.
He exhaled slowly. "Haa... Michael's gonna kill me after this," he muttered.
Then shrugged. "Later problem."
He looked around at the ruin—angels scattered like fallen petals. There was no triumph on his face. Just weary irritation.
Blood had been spilled. Again.
And he was ready to spill more.
It was always this way. Always his way.
The path of destruction wasn't something he chose—it was something that clung to him, like an unholy inheritance.
'Show me where he's at.'
[Scanning...]
[Target located: left corner of the chamber.]
Aron turned toward the far side of the room. The light flickered from his boots as he walked across the debris.
"There you are..." he murmured. "You bastard."
He stopped before a tall, carved door—Gabriel's personal chamber.
The symbol of the Messenger burned faintly on its surface, cracked from the explosion.
He rested his hand against it. For a second, he hesitated—not from doubt, but from the bitter taste of familiarity.
He and Gabriel had never seen eye to eye.
Maybe none of them had. They all hid behind obedience and prayer. Even Gabriel, with his calm wisdom, had worn that same mask—just a little better than Lucifer once did.
"Always hiding something," Aron muttered. Then he pushed the handle down.
Click.
The door creaked open.
Inside, the air was thick—like something ancient had been breathing in the dark for centuries.
And there he was.
A demon, chained in sigil-marked cuffs, kneeling in the center of the room. Its aura reeked of corrupted divinity—angelic energy twisted into something foul.
But that wasn't what stopped Aron cold.
It was the other presence beside it.
The one standing in the half-shadow, staring back at him with quiet, knowing eyes.
"...Cain..." Aron said softly, disbelief cutting through his calm. His voice broke for the first time in ages.
"What the fuck are you doing here?"