The ascent began in silence.
No trumpets this time. No choirs. Only the hum of wings and a promise heavy enough to drag empires into the dirt. The gates of Heaven had not been opened since Asmodeus last defied them—but he had never needed permission.
He tore the sky apart.
Reality folded inward; clouds burned black from their own holiness. Zephyrus followed, his cloak snapping like a storm-bound flag, laughter shaking the firmament. Gabriel came last—his halo dim but steady, carrying the unbearable look of someone returning home to burn it down.
Asmodeus spoke without turning.
> "He will know we come."
Gabriel's reply was a whisper.
> "He already does."
---
The gates of Heaven loomed ahead—twelve layers of light, each alive, each screaming as Asmodeus approached. The wards recognized him, tried to rewrite him as myth, as warning—but Zephyrus's energy shattered the sigils before they could close.
"Interesting," Zephyrus murmured. "He built this place like a story that refuses to end."
"Then let's finish it," Asmodeus said.
The gates fell open.
Heaven gasped.
---
The first to stand against them was Uriel, the Flame of God. His wings were swords, his eyes burning with judgment unspent. When he spoke, the air caught fire.
> "Asmodeus Morningstar. You defile this sanctuary with your name alone."
Asmodeus smiled thinly.
> "A sanctuary that drowns its own children isn't worth saving."
Uriel struck, his blade made from the first sunrise. It split time as it cut, light folding around it like silk. But Zephyrus moved first—his four arms forming a wall of motion, every strike rewinding the moment it landed, erasing its own consequence.
When the fire cleared, Uriel was bleeding light. His wings faltered.
Gabriel stepped forward.
> "Brother… it doesn't have to be this way."
Uriel turned, anguish cracking through his fury.
> "Then kneel, Gabriel. Beg for forgiveness and be restored."
Gabriel closed his eyes.
> "I did kneel. And I learned that forgiveness is a chain."
Uriel hesitated. That was enough.
Asmodeus moved—faster than wrath, slower than mercy—and drove his hand through the angel's chest. When he withdrew it, the flame went out.
Heaven dimmed.
---
They didn't rest.
Raphael came next—the Healer, halo fractured into a wheel of glass. He fought without rage, without sound. Every wound he took healed in an instant, every strike he landed meant to subdue, not destroy.
Zephyrus admired him. "A healer pretending to be a god of war," he said, ducking under a strike that cut gravity itself. "How poetic."
Asmodeus met Raphael's gaze.
> "Why do you protect him? You see what he's done."
Raphael's answer was a whisper, barely audible beneath the clash of light.
> "Because if God dies… there will be nothing left to forgive."
That answer earned him mercy—a rare gift. Asmodeus struck his wings, but spared his heart. Raphael fell, silent, to the marble below.
Gabriel watched him go. "He'll live," he said quietly. "He always does."
---
Then came Michael—the Warden, Heaven's spear. His armor was the dawn itself; his sword sang with history's rage.
He appeared in a burst of gold that blinded even Asmodeus for a moment.
"Traitor," Michael said to Gabriel. "Brother no more."
Gabriel's voice broke. "Then let me die standing."
They clashed—Heaven's perfect soldier against its first defector. The air around them shredded, hymns dissolving into static. Michael's blows were sermons; Gabriel's defiance was scripture rewritten in blood.
Asmodeus and Zephyrus watched from below, their power contained only by respect. When Gabriel finally disarmed Michael, the silence that followed was worse than any scream.
> "You've grown," Michael said, collapsing to one knee. "Or perhaps… you've remembered."
Gabriel looked away. "Both."
---
Only Samael remained—the Judicator.
He descended not as a warrior, but as a shadow with a crown. His eyes were hollow stars.
"Asmodeus," Samael said softly, "you misunderstand. God is not a being. He is the structure. You cannot kill what defines existence."
Asmodeus smiled faintly. "Then I'll redefine it."
Samael sighed. "Then you are more like Him than you wish to believe."
For the first time, Zephyrus didn't laugh. "He might be right," he said, his voice low. "But that's the fun of it."
Samael didn't attack. He stepped aside.
> "Then go. If you reach Him… let Him know His angels remembered what fear feels like."
Asmodeus walked past without a word.
---
Beyond the four thrones lay the Hall of Creation, where the air itself sang in divine chords. The Throne of God flickered—empty, or maybe too full to see.
A single voice spoke—not from the Throne, but from everywhere. Calm. Endless.
> "You would unmake the order I set. You would free the worms from the soil, and call it mercy."
Asmodeus looked up, unflinching.
> "I would give them choice. Even if it kills them."
> "Then you will watch them destroy themselves. And in the end, you will understand me."
The light pulsed once—gentle, terrible, final.
And then it was gone.
---
Gabriel lowered his blade. "Did we win?"
Asmodeus stared into the void left behind by God's voice. "No," he said quietly. "We began."
Zephyrus laughed softly. "Good. I was getting bored."
Heaven shook—not collapsing, but changing. The walls began to bleed color, no longer pure white but the full spectrum of what had been forbidden.
The war was not over.
It had only become real.