Saraphiel had always known, deep down, that this day would come.
It started when he was three, when he first realized he could not only talk to animals but also hear the whispers of another "self" lurking in the shadows of his mind.
That other him…
Cold as a snake's den, wild as molten lava, his words dripping with twisted persuasion and icy cunning…
Day after day, year after year, that voice never stopped tempting him, pleading with him, urging him to walk the so-called "true path" together.
Saraphiel didn't like it. His dad had always told him:
"Your life is yours to choose, Saraphiel. Don't let anything or anyone control you. Do what you want to do. You were born free."
But here's the kicker:
The biggest contradiction was that the whispering shadow—the one consumed by a thirst for destruction, the one calling him "brother"—was also him.
It was a part of him, woven into his very being from the start.
So… could he really choose his own path?
Saraphiel didn't know the ultimate answer to that question.
But in this moment—when the old wolf's warm blood soaked his fingertips, when the animals' desperate cries tore at his heart, when the cold barrel of a gun locked onto his soul—he knew one thing:
He had to stop it. He had to protect them. No matter the cost.
"Divine City," he whispered.
"Help me."
It was like a call of fate, or maybe a desperate last stand. The name, the plea, slipped from his lips.
No grand speeches, no hesitation—just a quiet calm, like dust settling after a storm.
And then, something primal inside him snapped awake.
His right hand rose instinctively, his small index finger tracing a casual line through the air—
Whoosh!
Space tore apart like fragile silk, ripped by an invisible force radiating absolute authority. A jagged black rift, edged with eerie purple-black lightning, yawned open in the air.
A chaotic torrent of energy roared out, whipping up a hurricane in an instant.
ROAR!
A dragon's cry shook the heavens—not just one, but the combined bellows of ancient beasts! Three or four shadowy golden dragons burst from the rift, their scales glinting like polished metal, their whiskers snapping like whips, their claws sharp as hooks. An ancient, primal, and ferocious pressure flooded the forest like a tidal wave, so overwhelming that the surviving animals trembled and froze.
The mechanical monster's red beams flickered wildly, its broken electronic voice stuttering:
"Alert… energy surge… unparsable…"
It raised its mechanical arm to fight back, but the dragon shadows moved faster than the eye could follow. One dragon roared, sinking its teeth into the machine's metal head, sparks flying as its jaws clamped down. Another coiled around its body, crushing its armor with a grinding screech. A third tore off its iron arm and hurled it into the distant trees, toppling them with a crash.
Under the dragons' raw power, the machine could only thrash helplessly. Its chest glowed green, flickering like a dying candle in the wind.
It fired a spinning buzzsaw in a frantic counterattack, slicing at the dragon shadows—but the blade passed through them like they were smoke, useless.
Saraphiel watched the destruction with cold detachment, his black hair whipping in the storm of energy. His left eye, glowing with molten gold and slit like a predator's, showed no trace of emotion—just a godlike indifference, as if he were looking down at ants.
"Go," he said, his voice flat. His hand—the one that had torn open space—waved dismissively, like he was shooing a fly.
The dragons roared as if answering a king's command. Their coiled bodies surged with even greater force, their jaws snapping with brutal strength.
BOOM!
In a deafening cacophony of snapping metal and sparking circuits, the massive machine was ripped from the ground and dragged, helpless, toward the ominous black rift.
"K… I… will… return…" it screeched, its broken frame crackling with defiance.
ROAR!
The dragons' final cry rang out, a proclamation of doom. In the next instant, the machine's wreckage was swallowed whole by the bottomless dark of the rift.
Buzz!
The rift snapped shut, leaving no trace it had ever existed. The air stilled.
Silence.
Absolute, bone-chilling silence fell over the forest.
All that remained was devastation: shattered trees, smoldering craters, and scattered metal fragments.
That familiar voice whispered in his ear again, now brimming with feverish glee:
"Look at that, dear brother… Feel this power! This is our birthright! This is who we're meant to be! Even without divine might, we're unstoppable!"
Saraphiel stayed quiet.
He didn't answer the voice's fervor or glance at the trembling animals around him. He just slowly lowered his head, opening his right hand.
At his pale fingertips, faint wisps of black mist curled and twisted, alive, whispering silently that what had just happened was no dream.
A wave of exhaustion and an aching loneliness crashed over him.
Dad… Clark… Dio…
He suddenly wanted nothing more than to go home.
---
The farmhouse's lights glowed warmly against the thickening night, but the food on the dinner table had long gone cold, untouched.
Locke stood by the window, his brow furrowed, his fingers tapping the frame unconsciously.
Outside, dark clouds churned, silent lightning flashing now and then, like a bad omen.
"Something's wrong," he muttered, a rare edge of worry in his voice. "Saraphiel never stays out this late."
Dio leaned against the doorframe, his book closed, his crimson eyes narrowing as he scanned the distant forest.
"Uncle," Clark said, already on his feet, muscles tense, blue eyes flickering with unease. "Even when he's out playing, he's always home before sunset…"
The three of them went quiet for a moment.
"Dio. Clark," Locke said suddenly, his voice firm.
"Yeah," they replied in unison, no explanation needed.
Dio snorted, tossing his book onto the couch. A faint shimmer of The World flickered behind him. Clark took a deep breath, his muscles flexing under his shirt, ready to bolt in a blur of speed.
Bang!
The door swung open. Locke grabbed his coat from the hook and strode out, the cold, damp wind hitting him in the face.
"Split up and find him," he called over his shoulder.
In a flash, all three vanished into the night.
"Saraphiel…" Locke whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the keening wind.
"You better be okay."
The wind wailed, as if in answer.
---