I left the scene where Chloe and Lucifer were still sorting through the details of the investigation. My brother had clearly found a new pastime, which meant I had time to deal with more pressing matters. The demons hadn't just violated my prohibition—they had dared to do so on territory under Heaven's protection.
I could, of course, snap my fingers and be there instantly. The Father had endowed me with the ability to move across any distance in an instant—all of creation was within my reach, my authority second only to His. With a single thought, I could fold space like a sheet of paper and step from one point to another. But such displays of power always leave a trace, an energy signature that other supernatural beings could sense. The gods of the Pantheons, though born of human faith, had grown overly confident in their power over thousands of years. Like in other worlds, they considered themselves the creators of all. Masters. Foolish and small, but their influence over human minds was too great. Every time an angel encountered these minor deities, they were convinced of their own strength. Too convinced, and thus brazen. I would not tolerate insolence. Which meant no unnecessary slaughter was needed now. Kill one spirit that's gained divinity, and a hundred others raise a clamor.
No, better to use a more… traditional method.
I raised my gaze to the starry sky, feeling an ancient, primal part of my essence awaken. My shoulders ached with anticipation, as if muscles were recalling a forgotten motion. Behind me, wings unfurled—not the small, decorative appendages humans depict angels with in their art, but the true wings of an Archangel.
Each feather shimmered with shades of gold and silver, each movement leaving a trail of pure light in the air. Their span was wide enough to cover a small house. This was part of my true form, a lesser one, but my original form, granted by the Father at creation, was magnificent.
One powerful beat—and the ground fell far below. Nighttime Los Angeles became a scattering of lights, then a glowing web of roads, and soon vanished beyond the horizon. The Pacific Ocean stretched beneath me, a dark expanse broken only by white crests of waves that, under starlight, looked like silver lace.
Flying over the ocean is a unique pleasure. No bustle of human cities, no thousands of prayers and curses constantly ringing in an angel's ears. Just the wind, the stars, and the boundless water. Here, one can think.
And there was much to think about. Lucifer had changed. Not outwardly—he always knew how to take an appealing human form. The change was within. Something new had appeared in his soul—a capacity for empathy, for genuine pain for another being. The death of that girl, Delilah, had caused him suffering he hadn't felt in ages.
Was this good or bad? Emotional attachment makes us vulnerable, but it also makes us… alive. It's the ability to love and suffer that distinguishes living souls from mere automatons carrying out their creator's will.
The Japanese islands appeared on the horizon as the first rays of dawn broke behind me. I descended, approaching Tokyo. The massive metropolis was already waking—millions of people starting their day.
I folded my wings and landed on the roof of a skyscraper in the Shinjuku business district. The wings vanished, dissolving into the morning air, and I assumed an ordinary human form again. Dark blue suit, white shirt, no adornments. To all appearances, just a foreign businessman.
Morning Tokyo is a symphony of sounds, smells, and motion. The hum of traffic, voices of people, the scent of food from street stalls, a blend of modern technology and ancient traditions. I descended from the roof and melted into the crowd, observing.
People here moved with remarkable synchronicity, like parts of a single mechanism. Streams of pedestrians at crossings, overcrowded subway trains, office workers with identical briefcases—all created the impression of a perfectly tuned system. Of course, that was only if you didn't look beneath the surface of this beautiful but deceptive picture.
Beneath this outward order, I sensed thousands of individual dramas, hopes, fears. A young mother rushing to work, worried about leaving her child with a nanny. An elderly man afraid he'd soon be laid off. A teenager unsure how to confess bad grades to his parents.
Human nature is astonishing in its diversity. Over billions of years of observation, I still couldn't fully comprehend it. They're so fragile, these mortals. They live mere decades yet manage to experience more emotions in that time than some angels do in millennia. They suffer, love, dream, get disappointed, hope again—all within a single short life.
A pity my brothers aren't so adaptable.
I walked Tokyo's streets, pondering this, when I caught the familiar scent of despair. Sharp, bitter, it cut through the morning air like a cry for help.
I looked up. On the roof of a high-rise, about two hundred meters away, stood a small figure. I focused. A schoolboy, judging by the uniform. He gazed down at the street full of morning pedestrians, and I felt waves of his emotions—pain, fear, despair, and a terrifying resolve.
No.
I vanished from the crowd and materialized on the roof behind the boy. He didn't notice my arrival, too lost in his dark thoughts.
"Nice view," I said calmly, looking around. And it was. The progress of humans, who not long ago fished with their bare hands, was beautiful.
The boy flinched and turned. A sixteen-year-old, thin, with disheveled black hair and eyes red from tears. His school uniform was rumpled, his tie crookedly knotted. His face bore the expression of someone who'd reached the end of the line.
"Who are you?" His voice trembled with fear and surprise. "How did you get here?"
"Stairs," I pointed to the service exit door behind us. "I work in this building. You?"
He turned away, looking down again.
"I… I was thinking. Just thinking."
"About what?"
"That it's all over. That there's no point in going on."
I stepped closer slowly, careful not to startle him with sudden movements.
"What's your name?"
"Hiroto," he whispered.
"Hiroto, can you tell me what brought you to this roof? What reasons?"
Tears streamed down his cheeks. He was in deep sorrow.
"Exams. I failed the university entrance exams. Third time. My parents… they invested so much in my education, had such high expectations. And I let them down. Again. I let everyone down."
Ah, that's it. The pressure of the education system, parental expectations, fear of failing societal standards. In Japan, this hits especially hard—society here doesn't forgive failure. Though, really, it's the same everywhere.
"And you think this will solve the problem?"
"What's the difference?" he sobbed. "I have no future anyway. Without a university, without a good job… I'm just a burden to my family. Better to die with honor than live in shame."
I sighed. Human logic sometimes baffles me. They're ready to destroy the priceless gift of life over temporary setbacks, not understanding that those setbacks are but a moment in the scale of eternity. Their souls are so beautiful, immortal, always finding new life, yet they squander their chance at reason to settle scores with existence.
"Hiroto, let me tell you a story."
"I don't want stories!" He turned to me, eyes burning with despair. "You don't understand! You're an adult, you have a job, status. I'm nobody!"
"You're right, I'm an adult. A very old one. Far older than I look. And in my long life, I've seen many people in situations like yours."
"And what happened to them?"
"Those who chose the easy way stayed trapped in that moment of despair forever. But those who chose to keep fighting found that life can take astonishing turns."
Hiroto shook his head.
"Pretty words. Really. But my situation's hopeless. I'm a disgrace to my family. Better an honorable death than a life of shame."
"Hiroto," I placed a hand on his shoulder, "let me ask you: do you believe in life after death?"
He looked at me, startled.
"What?"
"Just answer. Do you believe there's something after death?"
"I… I don't know. Maybe."
"Good. And if there is, how do you think they'll judge your action up there? If you jump off this roof right now?"
Hiroto frowned.
"I don't understand."
"You were given life. A precious, unique gift. You have a healthy body, a working mind, the ability to feel, love, dream. And you want to throw it all away over a failed exam?"
"But I let my parents down…"
"Hiroto," I turned him to face me, "your parents love you not for your grades. They love you because you're their son. And trust me, no exam is worth the grief they'll feel if they lose you."
"You don't know my parents," he gave a bitter smile. "My father works sixteen hours a day to pay for my courses. My mother gave up her own plans for my education. And I…"
"And you're their son," I interrupted. "Not a project, not an investment, but a living person with the right to make mistakes. You're a choice, not a given."
"But in Japan…"
"Forget Japan on this!" My sharp tone made him flinch. "Sorry for scaring you. But listen carefully. Forget you're in Japan, forget you're on Earth, forget everything that's not you. Public opinion, traditions, expectations, order—it's all smoke. Only one thing matters: you're alive. You have a chance to change your life, find your path, become who you want to be."
"But how? Without a university…"
"Hiroto, billions of people live full lives without a university degree. There are thousands of professions, ways to make a difference, to contribute. Maybe academia isn't your path? Maybe you have a talent for something else?"
I saw a spark of interest in his eyes.
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Art, craftsmanship, working with people. Maybe you'll become an entrepreneur and create something new. The key is to give yourself the chance to find out."
"But my parents…"
"Bring them here, to this roof. Show them this view. And ask: 'What's more important to you—my diploma or my life?' I guarantee, their answer will surprise you."
Hiroto fell silent, processing my words. I felt the waves of despair in his soul gradually give way to doubt, and doubt to a faint but growing hope.
"And if I fail again? At anything?"
"Then you fail. So what?" I shrugged, letting go of him. "Failure isn't a sentence, it's a lesson. Every mistake makes you wiser, stronger. Do you know how many great people started with failures?"
"How many?"
"Almost all of them. The difference between successful and unsuccessful people isn't that the former never fall. It's that they get up and keep going."
He took a step back from the edge. A small step, but to me, it was louder than any words.
"You… you really think I have a chance?"
"Hiroto," I gave a slight smile, "you don't just have a chance. You have thousands of them. Every new day is a new opportunity. Every meeting with a new person can change your life. The world is full of paths you can't even imagine. This world is vast, like any other. You can do anything here."
"But it's scary…"
"Of course it's scary. Life is always a risk. But you know what's even scarier? Never finding out what an incredible person you could become. Never meeting someone who loves you for who you are. Never feeling the joy of creating something with your own hands or helping someone in need."
The tears in his eyes changed. They were no longer tears of despair but of relief.
"You… you saved my life." He slowly bowed his head.
"No," I shook my head, lifting him from the bow. "You saved your own life by agreeing to listen. I only reminded you of what you already knew deep down."
"What do I do now?" He looked up at me, a child who simply didn't know who he was.
"Now? Go home. Hug your parents. Tell them you love them. And start looking for your path. Not the one they expect, but the one your heart feels."
Hiroto nodded, wiping his tears.
"Thank you. I don't even know your name."
"Michael," I replied. "Just Michael."
"Michael-san, I'll never forget you."
He headed toward the service exit door but turned halfway.
"And you? What will you do?"
"I have problems to solve too," I smiled. "Go make peace with your family."
When Hiroto disappeared behind the door, I remained alone on the roof. The sun rose higher, and Tokyo stood in all its morning glory—an endless maze of streets, buildings, lives. Somewhere down there, a boy was heading home with new hope in his heart. That was good.
Humans are remarkable creatures. They can reach the edge of the abyss, then, with one decision, one word, turn back and find the strength for a new life. There's something divine in that—the ability to be reborn, to transform.
Time to move on. Matters wouldn't wait.
I descended and headed to the Shinkansen station—high-speed trains. A ticket to Kyoto, first-class car. As the train picked up speed, leaving Tokyo behind, I thought about the upcoming meeting.
Kyoto is a special place. Japan's ancient capital, city of a thousand temples, the heart of traditional Japanese culture. But for beings like me, it's also one of the few places on Earth where the physical and spiritual worlds touch closely. Here lies the abode of the Japanese pantheon's gods—Takamagahara, the High Heavenly Plain.
Kitsune would meet me at the entrance. Inevitable—they've guarded all paths to their realm for millennia. Clever, cunning, powerful fox spirits, messengers between worlds. I'd need to talk with them.
The train sped through the Japanese plains at three hundred kilometers per hour, and I reflected on how much the world had changed in recent centuries. The last time I cast my gaze on Japan, samurai still ruled. Now, this country was a hub of modern technology while preserving its ancient traditions.
Humans truly are remarkable creatures.
Kyoto greeted me with the scent of antiquity and incense. Even the air here was different—steeped in spirituality, the prayers of thousands of generations. Hearing so many holy voices in this era was new. I stepped off the train and headed toward the temples, where the boundary between worlds was thinnest.
Fushimi Inari Shrine, with its thousands of red torii gates. Here, among ancient paths leading up the mountain, was one of the entrances to Takamagahara. But approaching it directly wasn't so simple.
I climbed the mountain trail between vibrant gates when I sensed a presence. Ahead, sitting right on the path, was a woman in a white kimono. Young, beautiful, with long black hair and golden eyes. Behind her swayed nine fluffy fox tails.
Kyubi—a nine-tailed kitsune, one of the oldest and most powerful. She raised her head and smiled, revealing snow-white teeth.
"Michael-san," her voice chimed like silver bells, soft but distinct. "What an unexpected honor. The Archangel of the Most High graces us with his presence."
I stopped at a distance and nodded. No need to bow like others.
"Kyubi. Your soul's unease has grown with my arrival."
"Oh, no unease at all. Quite the opposite—I'm curious to learn what brings you to our lands. Are matters so grave they require the Archangel's personal intervention?"
"Demons," I replied curtly. "They're breaking the ban on appearing in the human world. I need to speak with Amaterasu-omikami."
Kyubi's eyes glinted.
"Demons? Here?" She stood, her posture tensing with alertness. "That's serious. Come, Michael-san. But remember—in the Abode, our laws apply. Even to an Archangel."
"I understand. I'll behave accordingly."
She nodded and gestured with her hand. The air before us shimmered like water, opening a passage to another dimension.
Time to meet the gods of Japan.
I stepped through the shimmering portal, and the world around me transformed.
Takamagahara stood before me in all its splendor. This was a place where the laws of physics bent to the will and imagination of its gods, where beauty existed for its own sake. Beneath my feet stretched a path of polished jade, each stone glowing with inner light. The sky wasn't blue—it shone with soft gold, threaded with silver clouds.
But the most striking sight was ahead.
At the center of the firmament hung a massive black sun. Not grim or ominous—on the contrary, warm, life-giving light streamed from its dark surface. This paradox was beautiful in its impossibility. The black disc pulsed like a heart, each beat scattering sparks of golden radiance.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Kyubi walked beside me, her nine tails swaying in rhythm with her steps. "Amaterasu-omikami created it in memory of the time she hid in a cave from her brother's wrath. The black sun reminds us that even light can carry darkness, and darkness—light."
I nodded, not taking my eyes off the celestial wonder. Each divine realm reflected its creators' character. Here was a unique worldview—a striving for harmony in opposites, an understanding that beauty often arises from contrast.
Around us floated islands—massive chunks of rock covered in gardens and palaces. They drifted slowly in the air, like planets orbiting a sun. On one nearby island, I saw a traditional Japanese castle with curved roofs and red pillars. On another, a modern glass-and-steel building adorned in traditional style. Past and present coexisted here side by side.
A magnificent place.
Sakura petals fell everywhere. Not the usual spring shower of petals—here, the blossoms fell constantly, swirling slowly like snowflakes. Pink, white, golden petals created an endless dance of beauty. They didn't wither upon touching the ground but dissolved in soft flashes of light, only to reappear on the trees' branches.
"A reminder that all beauty is fleeting," Kyubi explained, noticing my gaze. "Mono no aware—the sad beauty of transience. But here, that transience becomes eternal."
We walked along a path that rose into the air, forming arched bridges between islands, then descended to the banks of crystal-clear rivers. The water here was alive—literally. It murmured and sang, telling stories of those who'd ever come to drink from its banks. In the depths, golden fish the size of dolphins glinted, their scales reflecting the black sun's light.
"It's been many years since an Archangel set foot on our land," Kyubi remarked. "When was the last time?"
"Thousands of years ago," I replied. "There was a conflict to settle between your sea gods and Chinese dragons. A dispute over who controlled typhoons."
"Ah, yes, I remember. You were less… diplomatic back then."
I gave a faint smile. Thousands of years ago, I was indeed more straightforward in resolving conflicts. Time teaches patience, even to Archangels.
As we progressed through Takamagahara, I noticed eyes on us. From palace windows, from terraces of floating gardens, from behind trees—dozens, hundreds of eyes followed our path. Japan's gods, from great to minor, watched the rare sight—an Archangel walking their land.
They didn't dare approach. I sensed their curiosity mixed with fear. Not malicious fear—more like reverent awe. They knew who I was, understood the scale of power I represented. Local deities, though mighty in their domain, felt the difference between themselves and one created directly by the Most High.
A tall war god with a red face and samurai armor peeked from behind a temple pillar but ducked away when I turned his way. An elegant moon goddess in a silver kimono froze on her palace balcony, her face a mix of admiration and caution. Even a dragon god of rain, majestic and ancient, merely bowed his massive head respectfully as we passed his waterfall.
"They fear you," Kyubi said quietly.
"They don't fear," I corrected. "They respect. It's different."
"For gods, the difference is slight. We're not used to encountering those who surpass us so vastly in power."
We climbed a staircase carved from solid emerald when a small figure appeared before us. I stopped, surprised.
It was a girl. About ten years old, with disheveled pink hair and a worn gray kimono. Her large eyes looked at me with fearless curiosity. On her thin shoulders perched a tiny crow, and in her hand, she held a battered alms cup.
"Kofuku-chan!" Kyubi exclaimed in undisguised horror. "What are you doing here?"
The girl ignored the kitsune's warning. She stepped close to me and studied my face intently.
"You're very handsome," she said with childlike frankness. "And you smell of Light. You're not a local god, are you?"
I crouched to meet her eyes.
"No, not local. My name's Michael."
"I'm Kofuku!" she smiled brightly, revealing a gap between her teeth. "I'm the goddess of poverty and misfortune. Not a very popular specialty," she added with a sad smile.
"Kofuku-chan, please don't bother the Archangel," Kyubi pleaded. "He has important business."
"Archangel?" The girl tilted her head. "Is that like a really important god?"
"Something like that," I agreed. "Why aren't you afraid to approach me when everyone else keeps their distance?"
Kofuku shrugged.
"Why be afraid? You're not evil. Evil people have different eyes. Yours are sad but kind. Like that boy I helped today find his lost coin."
Her words struck me. This little goddess of poverty saw what her mightier kin missed. Beyond my power and authority, she saw my essence.
"Tell me, Kofuku," I asked, "do you like being the goddess of misfortune?"
Her face darkened.
"Not really. People don't like misfortune, so they don't like me. I have few believers, little power. Other gods say I only bring trouble." She sighed. "But someone has to help the unfortunate, right? Someone has to be there when people are suffering."
I looked at this small goddess—rejected, lonely, yet not devoid of kindness. There was something special in her, a light that didn't depend on prayers or the strength of human faith. Her essence wasn't fully realized, and that was sad. Even for me.
"Kofuku," I said solemnly, "hold out your hand."
Without hesitation, she extended her small palm. I covered it with my hands and closed my eyes, letting a fraction of my power flow to her. Not a small amount—that would be dangerous. A drop, but enough to change her nature.
Light enveloped us both. Kofuku gasped in surprise, but not pain. Her gray kimono glowed, turning snow-white with golden patterns. Her pink hair shone like precious threads. And in her eyes appeared a new light—not commanding or proud, but warm and understanding.
"What… what did you do?" she whispered, staring at her hands, now radiating a soft glow.
"I gave you a new purpose," I replied. "You're no longer just the goddess of poverty and misfortune. Now you're the goddess of hope for the despairing, comfort for the grieving, a second chance for those who've lost everything. Your power will grow not from fear of failure but from faith that dawn always follows the darkest night."
Tears of joy glistened in her eyes.
"Really? I can help people for real?"
"More than that," I smiled, "you can work with other gods and help all people."
Kofuku nodded, her face radiant with happiness. She bowed deeply, and I saw other gods watching from afar exchange looks of astonishment and awe. An Archangel blessing a minor deity—they'd never seen such a thing.
"Thank you," Kofuku whispered. "Thank you for seeing in me what I couldn't see myself."
"Go," I said gently. "Your new life awaits."
The girl ran off, practically glowing with joy. Her tiny crow cawed something approving and flew after her. I stood and found Kyubi looking at me with deep respect.
"That was… unexpected," she said quietly.
"Power without mercy is tyranny," I replied. "That girl deserved a better fate."
"You changed the very essence of a deity. That takes an incredible amount of power."
"Not so much. You just need to know where to direct the effort."
We continued on. Now the gods looked at me differently—not just with fear and respect but with something like hope. Word of what happened with Kofuku spread faster than the wind.
The path led to the base of a majestic mountain, atop which stood Takamagahara's most splendid palace. Its architecture was flawless—traditional Japanese forms scaled to divine proportions. Curved roofs were covered not in tiles but in plates of pure gold. Pillars were carved from solid crystals, and the walls bore living paintings—images that moved and changed, telling Japan's story from creation to the present.
"The palace of Amaterasu-omikami," Kyubi announced. "The heart of our world."
We ascended a wide staircase of white marble. With each step, the air grew thicker with divine energy—not oppressive, but a sense of nearing a source of pure light.
At the palace entrance, a procession awaited. Dozens of lesser gods lined both sides of the path, bowing in greeting. I recognized some— the god of thunder with drums on his back, the goddess of wind with fans for hands, spirits of mountains and rivers. All showed respect but kept a cautious distance.
The massive palace doors opened silently. Beyond them stretched a corridor lined with mirrors of all shapes and sizes. In each, I saw my human reflection. Interesting.
"Mirrors of memory," Kyubi explained. "They show not only what is but what was and what could be. But in your case, they don't seem to work."
I smiled and said nothing. At the corridor's end was the throne room. Its ceiling vanished into the heights, the hall vast enough to hold a cathedral. The floor was covered in tatami the size of small fields, and glowing orbs—perhaps miniature suns—drifted slowly in the air.
And at the center of this grandeur, on a throne of living wood, sat she.
Amaterasu-omikami rose as we approached. She was beautiful with the otherworldly beauty unique to true deities. Her dark hair cascaded to her feet like a living waterfall, glinting with reflections of the black sun. Her kimono was woven of light itself—golden flashes ran across the fabric like lightning in slow motion. Her eyes held surprise.
She descended from the throne and approached me. At three paces, she stopped and bowed deeply.
"Michael-sama," her voice echoed like distant bells. "Welcome to Takamagahara. It has been many centuries since an Archangel of the Most High honored us with his presence."
I nodded in return—a sign of respect.
"Amaterasu-omikami. Your land remains beautiful, your hospitality impeccable."
"You are too kind," she straightened, understanding flickering in her eyes. "But I presume this is not a courtesy visit. What brings you to us, Michael-sama?"
I looked at her intently. Amaterasu was one of the wisest rulers among all pantheons. She understood that events in the world extended beyond her domain and was always ready to cooperate for the greater good.
"We need to talk," I said seriously. "About something that threatens not only your people but the entire human world."
A flicker of concern crossed her eyes, but her face remained calm.
"Then let us retire to my private chambers. What an Archangel has to say is not meant for others' ears."
She turned, and we headed to a side exit from the throne room. Kyubi bowed and remained outside. What was to come concerned only the two of us.
The door closed behind us with a soft click, and I knew—it was time for a serious talk about the demons breaking the Rules.
***