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~ I'm planning to increase the number of advanced chapters to +50 this weekend!
~ I've edited some of the previous chapters to remove anything you might consider "cringe" or "unnecessary." I'll continue reviewing them from time to time!
~ Very soon, we'll return to releasing two chapters daily, including bonus privileges for Power Stone contributions
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The world around him exploded in a corona of expanding light. Disappeared in a flash of white heat. The sheer power behind it knocked everyone down, blew them off their feet with concussive force. Light-infused flame wreathed his surroundings with fire, yet they would not touch him, dared not touch him. He stood, in the middle of the crater, and looked up at the armored palm that had stopped the worst of the blast.
By his side, Thanatos let out a deep, throaty chuckle.
The hand was plated in silver. Sheathed in heavenly steel. Armored, articulated joints connected fingers with the palm, and they clenched with life as the rest of the body materialized.
Bladed wings extended into the air. Lifted above ironclad shoulders like a fan of knives. A face encased in silver stared unblinkingly at its surroundings and the fire that had been roaring at the edges of the crater abruptly flickered out, cancelled from existence by a single disapproving look. And then it spoke, the tone deep and resonant, every uttered syllable laden with heavy displeasure.
Kokabiel.
"No…" the Fallen Angel's visage was twisted in surprise, disfigured by fear. All around him, his minions recoiled as though physically struck, "It cannot be... You fell… You fell with Him."
Metatron tilted his head, a slight nod that carried immeasurable weight.
Through Fire and Flame. With Demon Blades in My Chest and Fallen Spears Impaled through My Limbs. I Fell. But before I did, I Cut Down a Hundred of Your Champions and Laid Them Low Beside the Body of My Lord.
The silver mask glanced upwards.
You were not One of Them, Kokabiel.
The Grigori snarled, and along with madness, fury glowed in his eyes.
Like a Coward You Fled, Unwilling to Taste My Wrath. Incapable of Standing Before My Fury. You Fled and in Your Place a Hundred of Your Allies Died for Your Crime.
Five pairs of crow-like wings stretched to their fullest extent. Their owner glared down at them, face an ugly mask hatred.
"I am the Slayer of God! I am the son who killed the father! I am the future of this world!"
You are a Vulture. A Carrion Bird Who Picks His Glory from the Corpses of Worthy Heroes. Why Do You Think the Others Stayed Their Hand? Azazel. Baraqiel. Even the Devils Would Not Touch Him. They Knew that In His Weakened State, There was no Glory in the Kill. More than that, They Knew What had Caused His Weakened State, and They would Not Kill the One Who had Saved Them All.
Kokabiel bared his fangs.
"It was a worthy kill!"
In contrast, Metatron's gaze remained utterly composed.
No more Worthy than the One Who Killed Him.
The Fallen Angel grappled with his rage. The lines across his face contorted in frightening patterns before settling into its normal sneer once more. Fury simmered under the surface, barely contained.
"Then let this be the reckoning that decides that. An antique from the past against the rightful inheritors of this world! Let us match blades, Metatron, and see which of us is the stronger!"
The reply the Grigori received was a slight nod followed by damning words.
You are Right, Traitor. There will be a Reckoning. All the Atrocities that You have Committed. All the Sins that You have Accumulated. They Will All be Accounted for This Day. Justice Calls, Kokabiel.
The way the gleaming helm was cocked to one side suggested amusement.
But Who Said it will be Done by My Hand?
Crimson eyes widened. Kokabiel's gaze darted to the dark form of Thanatos and the wisp-like figure that it still held protectively in its arms. Too late.
A silver palm lifted, rising toward the heavens.
Regret.
In the darkness that permeated everything, that one word became her whole existence. She clung to it with all her strength, huddled against it in fear, embraced it for she knew nothing else. In the infinite void she floated; a single soul adrift on an endless sea of nothingness.
The memories came. One by one they appeared before her in hazy imagery, haunting her with their existence.
She stared at a boy lying in a puddle of his own blood and regretted that it had come to this.
I'm sorry, she said, and kneeled down to close his eyes.
She stared at the sleeping features of a girl in an abandoned church and regretted that she could not do more.
I'm sorry, she said, and bent down to caress her face.
She stared at the exhausted form below her and then at the blade she knew she would not use.
I'm sorry, she said. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
More came. But she was losing track of the others. For every new reminiscence that came to light, another faded, gone forever, sucked away by the nothingness that surrounded her. It was like losing a piece of herself, each time, and she could feel her very existence disintegrating, made less whole with every missing fragment.
And then the memories she treasured most began disappearing, began fading. She saw them once before they vanished, ripped viciously away from her helpless grasp. The things she enjoyed, the things she loved. She could no more remember them than her age, her name, not even who she was.
No! Not that one!
Another memory gone. Another recollection lost to the void.
Leave me something! Anything! Please!
Instinctively she knew what would happen if all of them were lost. If the last memory vanished, then the last piece of her would as well. Oblivion sought to embrace her and her way of fighting it was only dragging her down deeper.
Give me something to hold on to! I beg of you!
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