A vast heavenly castle.
Chalk-white pillars rose in perfect lines through the audience hall, like the ribs of a sleeping god. The air itself felt sacred—too clean, too still—yet the silence was not peaceful.
It was ominous.
The hall was filled with angels.
Pure white wings. Perfect forms.
But they were unfinished—no flesh, no blood, no true weight in the world. They stood like sculptures waiting for a hammer to strike them into motion.
They had no will.
So they did not move.
That absence of intention made the room feel even more solemn, as if everyone was standing inside a shrine built for conquest.
In the front row, chairs had been arranged in a circle. Those who stood apart from the ordinary forces sat there—the reborn ones, now wearing bodies made from undead elf vessels and seraphim power.
Their presence was far greater than before.
Dense.
Sharp.
Dangerous.
They were called here because the plan demanded timing.
Because Feldway demanded timing.
And because the name everyone avoided still cast a long shadow over the palace:
Michael was gone.
Not delayed.
Not "behind schedule."
Not "asleep."
He had been eliminated by Atem of Eterna, the King of Games—an existence whose authority did not waver, whose judgment did not soften, and whose power did not need permission.
So the throne remained empty.
And Feldway stood where control used to sit.
The reborn circle watched the angels with cold interest.
Feldway had explained it plainly:
There was no limit to how many angels could be summoned at once.
But there was a limit to total energy.
Normally, that energy could form an army of a million.
This time, the energy had been condensed into seven seraphim—so the quantity was smaller, but the quality was terrifying.
No low-level angels.
Only mid-tier and above.
The rough count was clear:
1,000 dominion angels
3,000 virtue angels
6,000 power angels
Even without incarnation, the power angels alone carried combat ability above A-rank.
Their activity limit was seven days.
Seven days was enough to scorch continents.
Enough to turn nations into ash.
Enough to make the world beg.
And still… it felt insufficient.
One of the reborn voices spoke into the stillness, quiet but honest:
"It's not enough."
No one laughed.
No one mocked.
This was a room where arrogance got you killed.
"With only this," the voice continued, "it will be difficult to break the forces that stand at the top."
That was the true problem.
Angels could burn cities.
But the enemies Feldway faced were not cities.
They were thrones.
They were beings like the Eight Stars—monsters who ruled by force and presence alone.
The reborn circle understood it clearly:
If this invasion began, it would not be a clean victory.
Not with the enemy forces still standing.
Not with the Labyrinth still holding its defenders.
Not with watchers and planners on the other side who could read the flow of war like a map.
Not with Solarys, Sovereign of Wisdom at Atem's side—an intellect that could analyze, predict, and strip secrets from a battlefield without mercy.
This was not a world where Feldway could afford delays.
And yet—
Feldway had already lost the one thing that made domination easy:
Michael's absolute control.
That was why the reborn circle existed.
That was why the seraphim were condensed.
That was why the angels stood like statues, waiting for the signal.
Because Feldway no longer had the luxury of slowly tightening a net.
Now he needed a spear.
The tension shifted when Zelanus spoke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to make the air feel heavier.
"I heard talk of the Labyrinth," Zelanus said, eyes half-lidded. "Speak clearly."
No one wanted to explain anything to him.
But pressure like his made honesty happen.
One of the reborn—someone who had been forced to learn the hard way—answered carefully:
"In the Labyrinth, defenders have the advantage. There are many strong ones inside. Especially an insectar: the beetle-type called Zegion."
Zelanus's eyes sharpened.
"A beetle-type."
The reborn continued, choosing each word like stepping over blades.
"And a bee-type called Apito. Dangerous."
Zelanus did not speak for a moment.
His silence was worse than anger.
He did not look satisfied.
He looked… interested.
Interested in the way a predator becomes interested.
The implication hung in the air:
If Zelanus decided to move for personal reasons, the alliance could twist into something unstable.
Feldway watched that reaction without comment.
He would use anything that served the plan.
And discard anything that didn't.
The reborn circle fell into their own thoughts.
Their power was real.
They could feel it in the way the air bent around them.
In the way ordinary angels seemed smaller.
In the way fear stopped being a feeling and became a tool.
Many of them had gained new abilities embedded deep in the soul—abilities that were not "earned," but installed.
Because this was not freedom.
It was reinforcement under a leash.
A gift that ensured obedience.
Some had wills strong enough to remain themselves.
Others had merged, overwritten, or been consumed.
And the cruel truth was this:
Even those who still felt like themselves were no longer truly free.
Not while Feldway held the mechanism that could turn them into weapons with a thought.
Not while the seraphim inside them burned like a second heart.
Not while the purpose of their rebirth was war.
Vega stood among them as proof of the worst outcome.
He did not plan.
He did not measure.
He did not restrain.
He only waited for orders.
He had eaten power like a starving beast—devouring strength, devouring weapons, devouring rank—until his very soul began fusing broken fragments into something monstrous.
His evolution had reached a cliff edge.
A Unique Skill becoming something far worse.
A destructive force meant to overwhelm other abilities.
A disaster wearing skin.
And the terrifying part was not that he was strong—
It was that he was strong without judgment.
If Feldway pointed him at a target, he would annihilate it.
If Feldway's control slipped for even a moment…
he could become a calamity that devoured ally and enemy alike.
Feldway did not need conversation.
He did not need reassurance.
He needed results.
He watched the angels.
Watched the reborn.
Watched the silent throne.
And he understood the truth as clearly as anyone:
A war was coming that would burn the Cardinal World.
But it would not be decided by how many angels could be summoned.
It would be decided by whether Feldway could move fast enough…
before Atem moved first.
Because Atem was not naive.
Not playful.
Not someone you could trick with speeches.
He was a king with charisma that could bend armies.
Authority that could make even immortals hesitate.
And power so absolute he had already proven it once:
Even the one called Michael could be erased.
The angels continued to stand like statues.
Perfect wings.
Empty wills.
Waiting for the moment they would be given purpose.
It wasn't only the ones reborn as Yōten who were trying to understand what was happening.
Zalario and Obera were also measuring their new circumstances—quietly, precisely, and with the kind of caution that only truly dangerous beings possessed.
First, Zalario was grateful for the body he had gained.
His power had always been immense—but there was an old limitation that made it inconvenient.
In the Otherworld, he could wield his full might without consequence.
In the Cardinal World, the more power he exerted, the more he bled energy. His strength spilled away as if the world itself rejected it.
A body was necessary to stop that loss.
But a vessel strong enough to endure someone like Zalario was nearly impossible to prepare.
Now, that problem had been solved.
He could finally walk the surface world without constantly paying a price.
He could finally show his true strength without leakage.
And that should have been a victory.
But the moment he tested his new condition, a new problem surfaced—one he hadn't asked for, and one he didn't want.
Oh dear…
Because of my increased power, I seem to have acquired an angelic-system Ultimate Skill.
Judgement King Israfil.
Zalario didn't smile. He didn't panic.
He simply felt the weight of it settle into his soul like a brand.
And he understood the danger immediately.
With this… I can't freely oppose the will that once ruled angelic Skills.
Even though Michael had been eliminated by Atem of Eterna, the structure Michael left behind still mattered. Systems did not die just because the creator fell. The residue of control—methods, circuits, dominion frameworks—could remain.
Zalario's mind moved like a blade.
If I throw it away, I will be suspected of treason.
From Zalario's perspective, Feldway was a colleague. A superior in command, yes—but not an absolute master. Zalario did not worship him. He was not built to kneel without thinking.
And Zalario had always been skeptical of the very idea Feldway relied on:
A will arising from a Skill.
Feldway trusted that structure.
Zalario did not.
He could cooperate with a plan.
He could agree with a purpose.
But he would never accept his own will being rewritten without knowing it.
My will is my own.
I will not allow it to be altered in silence.
That was the line.
The unbreakable rule.
And now he needed to judge something critical:
How much does Feldway understand about angelic-system ownership now that Michael is gone?
There was no doubt Feldway had access to methods once used to rule angelic Skills—Velgrynd and Velzard were proof that the system could still be applied.
But ownership awareness—how deeply one could sense or grasp the holders—might differ.
Zalario's actions would depend on that.
Throwing Israfil away was too loud.
Keeping it was too risky.
And the worst possibility was simple:
He might be manipulated without realizing it.
Zalario had always hated the operation that targeted the True Dragon sisters.
He had refrained from interfering only because the plan had a high success rate.
He had tolerated it for efficiency.
Now, he stood on the same blade's edge himself.
Really… what a mess.
And the cruelest part?
He couldn't pretend he was innocent.
He hadn't opposed incarnation in the first place.
So this was his own responsibility.
Still, responsibility didn't mean surrender.
Zalario began building countermeasures in silence—calm, controlled, and cold.
Obera was facing the same kind of problem.
Like Zalario, she had acquired an angelic-system Ultimate Skill upon incarnation.
Like Zalario, she had never wanted it.
Her new Skill was:
Salvation King Azrael.
It was an absurdly powerful ability.
And to Obera, it was almost worthless.
Because beings born as primordial existences already possessed something better than Skills:
Administrative authority.
They didn't need to "activate" power through a Skill like ordinary beings did.
They could rewrite magical phenomena instantly.
They could construct spells without incantation.
They could bend rules through sheer existence.
If Obera made full use of that, she didn't need Azrael for anything.
For someone like her, having an Ultimate Skill didn't elevate her.
It only added risk.
And she could feel it—this wasn't just any Ultimate Skill.
It carried the signature of the angelic system.
A system once ruled by Michael.
A system now headless… but not necessarily harmless.
This is not good.
If I do nothing, they might notice I'm not loyal.
Obera had originally planned to turn fully toward her own priorities without hesitation.
But this Skill made the situation sharper and more dangerous than Zalario's.
She didn't fear mind-reading.
Surface thoughts were easy to erase.
She could smooth her mind into still water and show nothing.
But that wasn't the real threat.
The real threat was being guided without noticing it.
Manipulated through a mechanism embedded inside her.
A leash hidden in a gift.
She needed a countermeasure.
So she decided on something extreme—something only an ultimate spiritual life form could even consider.
A self-imposed suggestion.
A rule carved into her own existence.
If a contradiction ever formed inside her—if Azrael ever attempted to force an outcome she did not choose—
She would not hesitate.
She would destroy Salvation King Azrael.
Not suppress it.
Not seal it.
Destroy it.
An unconventional act.
A violent act.
A final act.
But she was capable of it.
And she accepted the consequence:
If she did that, it would mean a complete break from Feldway's side.
It would mean becoming a target.
It would mean war.
And still… Obera believed it was worth it.
Because her loyalty was not to Feldway's selfish interpretation.
Her loyalty was to what mattered.
To the orphaned daughter of Veldanava—
Milim.
For Milim's sake, Obera believed there was no need to fear isolation.
If Obera stood against Feldway, she would not be alone forever.
And beyond that… there was another truth Obera carried like fire:
To assume you can "interpret" the Creator's will for your own convenience is disrespect.
Feldway's obsession was not devotion.
It was selfishness wearing devotion's face.
Feldway is too selfish.
Even if resurrection happened…
Even if the plan succeeded…
If it was done by trampling everything Veldanava loved, then it was not reverence.
It was domination.
And Obera had seen domination before.
She had seen what it did to worlds.
And now she knew something else that tightened the coming storm:
The Cardinal World was no longer guarded by naive rulers.
Obera didn't need to meet Atem to understand what that meant.
If Feldway's path ever crossed Atem's fully—
Then the war would not be decided by rituals.
It would be decided by whose will broke first.
And Obera believed—quietly, fiercely—that Milim was the rightful successor.
Not Feldway.
Not anyone who used Veldanava's name as a weapon.
That belief settled into her like a vow.
A vow she would keep…
Even if it meant burning her own Skill to ash.