For over billions—no, trillions—of years, the cosmos had never known true peace.
Across dimensions unseen by mortal eyes, demons rose again and again. They gathered in hierarchies beyond counting—lords, kings, ancient beings older than stars themselves. One after another, they tried to dominate existence. They tried to claim shrines of power, corrupt the roots of creation, and impose their will upon realities stacked above realities.
Their ultimate goal was always the same.
To rule the Higher Dimension.
To breach the Heaven of God.
But they never succeeded.
For every invasion, for every catastrophic war that shattered timelines and erased entire futures, they were stopped—slaughtered—by angels who did not fall, did not tire, and did not hesitate.
Yet even before angels took form, before Heaven was defended, something else already existed.
The First Sentinel.
Its origin was older than recorded existence—older than time as mortals understand it. Trillions upon trillions of years ago, when reality itself was still stabilizing, the First Sentinel stood alone. Not born, not created in any way humans could comprehend. It was a constant—an answer to imbalance.
After it came the others.
Nine Sentinels.
Each one faced demon gods that could collapse dimensions. Each one defeated beings that fed on death, time, and despair. And through battle, through sacrifice, they transcended—becoming more than flesh, more than angels.
They surpassed time.
They surpassed death.
They surpassed necromancy itself.
Their existence connected lives across parallel universes, across multiverses, and across futures that had not yet been born. They became shapes no longer bound by form, watching realities unfold from heights unreachable by gods.
Nine had risen.
And the last—
The final Sentinel—
Was not yet aware.
Rain poured violently from the sky.
Michael walked alone beneath it, unmoving against the storm. Water drenched his hair and clothes, but he did not react. His expression remained serious, distant—as if the rain was beneath his notice.
He did not know how to coordinate with other humans.
Despite being human.
Crowded places unsettled him. Conversations felt foreign, like languages he was never taught. People laughed, cried, argued—but he could only observe, never fully understand. It wasn't hatred. It wasn't fear.
It was distance.
He had no parents. No memories of being raised, no warmth of a hand guiding him forward. Yet strangely, he felt no sadness about it. Only curiosity. An unrelenting need to understand.
Who created me?
The question lingered, unanswered.
Michael stopped by a river swollen by the storm. Kneeling, he cupped the water in his hands and drank. His forearms were exposed—lean, defined, not bulky, not thin. The build of someone far older than fifteen. More like a grown man of twenty, shaped by survival rather than comfort.
Nearby, animals moved cautiously through the rain.
He hunted when he needed to eat. Not cruelly. Not emotionally. It was simply necessity.
As he stood again, rain cascading down his face, a thought surfaced—quiet, uncertain.
How do I live among humans?
The world felt vast, yet isolating. And somewhere deep within him—buried beneath instinct and silence—something stirred. A presence he couldn't name. A truth he couldn't reach.
For now, he could only hope.
Hope that one day he would realize who he truly was.
Hope that he would find himself.
Hope that the unanswered past would finally speak.
Unaware that destiny had already chosen him.
Unaware that the last Sentinel had begun to walk.