The air in the Seventh Heaven was unlike any other place. It was crystalline and luminous, each breath tasting of sanctity itself. White marble halls floated above rivers of silver light, and choirs of unseen voices thrummed in the distance — a hymn woven into the bones of existence. Yet even here, unease stirred. The clouds below churned red in places, dark cracks spidering upward. Pandora's awakening had touched even the highest plane.
Baraqiel staggered, still reeling from his escape, only to feel hands steady him.
"Rest."
Michael's voice was gentle, yet carried the weight of a command. His golden wings shimmered faintly in the fractured light, his perpetually sorrowful eyes fixed upon Baraqiel. "You have endured more than most. But Raziel waits, and there is little time."
Michael guided him into a towering chamber of glass and scripture. A great codex hovered at its center, bound in living flame. Standing before it was Raziel, the Keeper of Secrets. His twelve silver wings arched like blades of moonlight, and his hooded face was half-hidden in shadow, only his eyes gleaming — eyes that seemed to know the shape of every truth ever spoken and every lie yet to be born.
"Baraqiel," Raziel intoned, his voice neither harsh nor kind, but inevitable. "You have walked through despair's maw and survived. That alone makes you worthy to hear what others cannot."
Baraqiel steadied himself. "Then speak, Raziel. What is Pandora? What has become of Hespera? Or sister?"
The Archangel of Secrets lifted his hand, and the Codex unfurled pages of burning light. Images spilled into the chamber — wars, gods, broken seals, and a shadow crowned with twenty-four wings.
"She is not a devil. Not an angel. Not a fallen one," Raziel said softly, though his words echoed like thunder. "Pandora is the Origin Trihexa. The Powers-That-Be wrought her as their last failsafe — a creature to rival even the Dragon Gods, a being to consume creation should it stray too far from their intent. She was the lock. The unmaking."
Baraqiel's heart lurched. "But the scriptures say—"
"The scriptures say what men needed to believe," Raziel interrupted, eyes narrowing faintly. "The beast you call Trihexa, sealed in legend, is but an echo. The truth is what you witnessed in the Gap. The first Trihexa, the one equal to Chaos, Death, Rebirth, and Order. The storm given form."
Michael bowed his head, grief flickering in his sad eyes. "And she wears the face of Hespera."
Baraqiel clenched his fists. "Then Hespera was nothing more than a vessel…?"
Raziel's voice sharpened. "No. She is more than that. She was chosen. Born twin to Lucifer Morningstar so that Heaven's greatest light and greatest darkness would share a bond unbreakable. She was the chains to bind him, the balance to his rebellion."
The Codex flared, and an image of Hespera shimmered in the air — not the Pandora they saw now, but the silver-haired woman with magenta fire in her eyes, teasing smiles on her lips.
"But God was not blind," Raziel continued, his voice softening into something mournful. "He knew that to make her chains alone would doom her to despair. So He left within her the last spark of His own essence. A hidden gift. A seed of light. The final Sacred Gear — one never revealed, never spoken of."
The Codex burned brighter, revealing the words: Dei Novissima – God's Last Creation.
Baraqiel felt his breath catch. "A Sacred Gear… inside her?"
Raziel nodded once. "A shard of His will. The only essence left when He perished. That is why Pandora cannot wholly consume her. That is why she whispers still in the voices of children, in the hearts she touched. Hespera is both prison and key."
Michael raised his head, golden wings spreading. His voice was heavy, resolute.
"To awaken that spark, to draw forth God's Last Creation, we cannot act alone. The Seven High Archangels must stand as one — not divided, but united as in the First Days."
Raziel's eyes gleamed brighter. "But even we are not enough. For she is the Origin Trihexa, on par with the oldest beings. To stand against her requires all powers that endure."
"The Dragon Gods," Michael said, sorrowful eyes steady. "Ophis. Great Red."
"And the Thrones," Raziel added, his voice like stone cracking. "The Four Heavenly Thrones, who exist beyond the Choirs. Those who sit not as Seraph, not as Archangel, but as pillars of the Throne itself. They have not moved since the Creator's death. But they must."
The chamber shook faintly, as if even Heaven trembled at the words.
Baraqiel's jaw tightened, his heart caught between despair and duty. "And if they do not rise? If Ophis and the Great Red refuse?"
Raziel's gaze darkened, voice low. "Then all things end. The Gap will not hold. Not even Chaos will laugh then."
Michael placed a hand on Baraqiel's shoulder, his sorrowful eyes filled with quiet steel. "But if they do… then God's Last Creation may awaken within her. And Hespera Eveningstar — the woman, not Pandora — may yet be saved."
Silence hung in the Seventh Heaven. Even the choirs faltered, as though waiting for Baraqiel's reply.
He closed his eyes, remembering Akeno's trembling voice, his sorrow when he kissed her head in one last goodbye, the way she held Gasper as if to shield him from a collapsing world.
When he opened them again, his answer was steady.
"Then Michael, bring them."
Silence.
All of Heaven seemed to shudder at once as Michael extended his hand.
A flare of golden radiance bloomed between his palms. From it manifested a long, slender trumpet wrought of translucent crystal and etched with symbols older than creation itself. Each rune burned with the gravity of law. The Trumpet of Revelations.
Michael's sad eyes closed for just a moment. "Forgive me… for waking you."
Then he blew.
The sound was not a note. It was existence itself shaking free of slumber. The vibration cut through every Heaven, every Choir, every angel, every seraph. On Earth, priests shivered mid-prayer. In the Underworld, devils felt their blood burn like boiling iron. Even in the Dimensional Gap, Chaos tilted his many heads, and Pandora paused for a heartbeat, her trinary eyes narrowing.
The Thrones had been called.
Deep beyond the Seventh Heaven, past walls no angel had crossed since the Creator's fall, a colossal figure awoke.
Chains of white fire split apart, unraveling. A giant of flame and crystal rose, eyes like eclipsed suns. His voice was the crash of mountains falling into seas.
Elysion, the Throne of Dominion — embodiment of God's right to rule. He had not moved since the world was measured. His awakening sent rivers of authority spiraling through every soul alive. Kings bowed without knowing why. Tyrants wept in their halls. Even Sirzechs, standing far in the Gap, faltered in his aura, his own power bending for an instant.
From a temple carved of obsidian stars, a woman unfolded her wings — thousands of them, layered like a storm of razors. Her eyes shone silver, unblinking, filled with every sin ever committed.
Selaphiel, the Throne of Judgment. Her awakening was agony. Mortals across every plane felt their regrets rise like bile, their lies catching fire on their tongues. In the Underworld, Zeoticus Gremory staggered as though struck, sweat beading his brow. The very air whispered: You are seen.
In a sea of shattered mirrors, another form shifted. Pale and slender, draped in veils of ink. He reached out, and the fragments of every moment scattered across existence trembled.
Orifiel, the Throne of Memory. The keeper of what was and what should never be forgotten. When he opened his eyes, visions bled into every mind — wars, loves, betrayals, forgotten gods screaming in the dark. Even Nyx froze, breath caught in her throat, as she saw again the first night she laid eyes on Hespera.
And then came the last.
A colossus greater than the others, seated upon a chair carved of living light. His form was cloaked, his face unseen, yet his presence was unbearable. Seraphion, the Throne of Will, embodiment of God's command that reality exist and obey. When he raised his head, the fabric of the Heavens groaned.
Every angel in every choir fell silent. Every devil held its breath. Every mortal looked up without knowing why. For Will itself had turned its gaze outward.
The four Thrones now stirred, wings and flames unraveling across infinity.
Michael lowered the Trumpet, his golden aura flaring brighter than it had in centuries. His voice trembled not from fear, but from reverence.
"They rise."
Raziel bowed his head, for once his eyes not filled with smug knowing, but awe. "The pillars of the Creator's law have awakened. Pandora will not be faced by Primordials alone."
Baraqiel dropped to one knee, overwhelmed, yet his voice was steady. "Then let this be what helps prevent the ruin of Father's creation. Akeno would be sad if Hespera's spark got lost for good."
Above them, the heavens blazed.
The Thrones had answered the call.