In the seventh heaven, where the clouds shimmered like crystal, there stood a عظیم palace floating above the void. Its pillars were made of gold, its floor paved with black marble, and from within rose the шум of women's laughter and the clinking of wine cups.
At the head of the hall sat Centaurus, a demi-god between worlds, with long black hair, taut muscles, and green eyes gleaming with malice. Upon his ruby-adorned throne, surrounded by naked women dancing, the sounds of indulgence filled the chamber.
Suddenly… the ceiling split open with a radiant flash, like twin arcs of light, and Michael descended—the Angel of Mercy and Commander of the Heavenly Armies.
His height nearly reached the towering pillars; his curly brown hair shone, and his eyes were like mirrors reflecting the light of truth. In his hands, a blazing sword burned like the sun, and his wings spread with such majesty that the palace walls trembled.
One of the women approached him with a sly smile, placing her hand on his chest as she whispered: "Someone like you… doesn't belong among swords. Come, sit with us."
Michael looked at her with steady eyes and said in a calm voice that struck like thunder: "You attempt to tempt a mind that knows no desire."
The moment he finished speaking, black smoke rose from her mouth. Her body convulsed as she screamed madly, tears of blood streaming from her eyes, before flames erupted from within her, reducing her to ashes scattered by the wind.
Silence fell for a moment… then Centaurus's mocking voice rose as he lifted his wine cup: "The commander of angels in my palace? What an honor."
Michael replied with a calm smile, folding his arms: "I am not here to honor you… I bring you a message from God."
Centaurus leaned back on his throne, his eyes narrowing with interest: "And what does your God want from Centaurus?"
Michael tilted his head slightly and said: "A final warning… cease your tyranny, or God will send one who will kill you."
Centaurus burst into booming laughter, making the cups tremble: "And who would dare? You?!"
Michael stepped forward, his voice dripping with certainty: "You do not deserve the honor of facing me."
Centaurus's face flushed with anger. He crushed his wine cup in his hand: "Then who? Will He send a jinn? Or one of His dwarfs? What foolish creature would dare touch a single hair on my head?"
Michael answered as he turned away, the radiance of his wings filling the hall: "It will be a human… from the House of Ina. Prepare for the War of Resurrection."
The light vanished as he departed, leaving Centaurus alone in his palace, his terrifying laughter echoing through the void.
The hall fell still after the light faded. Nothing remained but smoke rising from where the woman had burned, and the scent of ash lingering in the air.
Centaurus sat upon his throne, tapping his fingers against the armrest, his laughter echoing through the emptiness—laughter that carried more anger than mockery.
He raised a new cup of wine, his hand trembling slightly without realizing it. He took a long drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes fixed on the ceiling where Michael had vanished.
He murmured to himself: "A human?… From the House of Ina?"
He laughed again, but this time it was short and sharp, as if fleeing a thought he refused to accept.
He struck the ground with his foot, shaking the hall, and shouted: "I am Centaurus! A demi-god, ruler of heaven and earth! Do you think I fear a human?!"
He fell silent for a moment, then looked at his hand and saw that he had crushed the cup, shards embedded in his palm. Drops of blood trickled from his hand unnoticed.
He slowly relaxed his grip, his eyes widening with something he had never admitted before… unease.
He rose from his throne and walked toward the high balcony overlooking endless clouds.
He stood there, the wind whipping through his long black hair, and grasped the massive sword hanging on the wall.
He muttered in a low voice: "If a human truly comes… I will make his blood a river to water this land."
Then he lifted his head toward the sky, a crooked smile forming between anger and defiance: "Let him come… and let the War of Resurrection begin."