The white flames of Heaven still clung to Metatron's form as he descended back toward the mortal world. His new wings shimmered like galaxies, his sword and shield pulsing with divine resonance. Yet, before he could even breathe, a voice thundered from the heavens.
"Metatron."
Michael, the Archangel of War, stepped forth. His presence bent reality itself—the ground beneath him turning to crystal, the sky trembling in awe. His armor blazed like a sun, and his gaze pierced through Metatron's pride.
"You carry the crown, but you are still untempered. Do not think yourself beyond discipline. Even the chosen must be trained."
Metatron clenched his fists, defiant. "I don't need training. The power burns within me. I can feel it. I can fight without—"
Michael's laughter shook the air, neither cruel nor kind, but filled with terrifying certainty.
"You believe you have tasted power? You have seen only a drop of eternity. Angels are not a single kind of being—they are layers of fire, layers of glory. Seraphim, Thrones, Dominions, Powers… each infinitely transcends what man can comprehend. And at the summit are the Cherubim, bearers of the Presence of God."
Michael's tone hardened.
"Do not underestimate Asmodeus. He was a Cherubim before he fell. Even bound, he rivals kingdoms. Unshackled, he will rival legions."
Before Metatron could reply, Michael lifted his hand, and in an instant, reality dissolved. The two of them stood in an endless white room. It stretched infinitely in all directions, neither ceiling nor floor distinguishable, space itself unbroken.
"This is the Chamber of Trial," Michael said. "Here, no destruction can spill into the world. No judgment will be invoked. Fight me, Metatron. Show me what you believe you are."
The Trial
Metatron's wings spread wide, divine fire surging around him. With a roar that shook eternity, he lunged at Michael, blade flashing. The Sword of Silence carved arcs of blinding light, slicing through infinite air.
Michael parried with a single movement, his own sword a pillar of flame. One strike from Michael shattered Metatron's guard, another drove him backward across endless distance.
"You are powerful," Michael declared, his strikes shaking the room itself. "But power without discipline is chaos. And chaos is Hell's domain."
Metatron roared, his shield flaring, blocking Michael's onslaught. For moments that felt like eternities, their blows shook the infinite chamber—clashing, striking, unleashing energies that would have undone galaxies had they not been contained.
But still, Michael's mastery was absolute. With one decisive motion, he disarmed Metatron, struck him down, and placed his blade against his throat.
"You are chosen, yes. But you are not yet ready."
For five hours within the timeless chamber, Michael drove Metatron to his limits. Strike by strike, fall by fall, wound by wound, Metatron rose again. His strength sharpened, his resolve hardened. The Chosen One was tempered in the crucible of trial.
Return to Earth
When Metatron finally returned to the mortal realm, exhaustion weighed on him. But no rest awaited. Police lights flashed in his eyes. Officers surrounded him, faces sharp with suspicion.
"Ernest Acura," one of them barked, "you've been missing for hours. And your family—what happened at that house? Do you realize—?"
The questions tore at him like knives. Ernest's heart broke anew. He could not explain divine flames, angels, or trials. Humanity would never believe him.
Tears welled in his eyes as he whispered a forbidden word of power. The spell rippled outward. Cameras flickered and went dark. Files dissolved into ash. Memories blurred. In an instant, the tragedy was unmoored from human records.
The world still mourned—their neighbors wept, and his parents were gone—but no evidence remained. No one to blame. It became the greatest unsolved mystery of their time.
And Ernest Acura, now Metatron, carried the weight in silence.
Anger simmered in his chest. And then—the air behind him split.
The Ambush
Twelve demons burst forth from the shadows, their forms twisted and towering. And at their center stood Asmodeus, eyes burning with lust and malice, wings of corrupted fire spreading wide.
Metatron did not hesitate. With a gesture, he created a void—a mirror of Michael's white chamber—trapping the demons with him.
"Twelve against one?" Metatron's voice thundered. "So be it."
The battle ignited. Demonic claws clashed against divine shield. Metatron's sword carved arcs of living light, severing limbs, cutting through unholy flesh. He struck down demon after demon, his wings tearing through the void like blades.
But Asmodeus did not fall easily. His strength was Cherubim-born, his blows shattering space, his presence shaking the void. Metatron pressed forward, sword aimed at his head—when agony seared his back.
Lucifer.
The Morning Star himself had pierced him from behind, hand closing around the Key of Seals.
"Did you think we would wait forever?" Lucifer's voice dripped with pride. His wings spread, brighter and darker than all the abyss.
Metatron roared, his wounds sealing as light poured from him. He turned, blade clashing with Lucifer's in a storm of sparks. But Asmodeus stepped between them, holding him back, wasting his time.
Lucifer smiled, raising the key. And with a single motion, the Gate tore open.
One by one, the Princes of Hell were unleashed.
The Unleashing
The sky split into rivers of flame and oceans of shadow. Mountains cracked, seas boiled, nations trembled.
Beelzebub rose, his hunger devouring fields and harvests.
Leviathan stirred, envy twisting seas into madness.
Azazel unfurled his blackened wings, whispering forbidden knowledge into the minds of mortals.
Lilith's beauty swept across the earth, bending rulers and kings to her will.
Mammon's greed burned in gold and fire, thrones toppling before him.
And more—each Prince returned to their domain, and in moments, half the nations of the world were consumed.
Cities burned. Governments crumbled. The earth twisted into an apocalyptic wasteland.
Metatron fought desperately, his final attack slicing Asmodeus in half. He seized the key back from Lucifer's grip and, with the last of his strength, hurled them all into the void.
He teleported away, the key burning in his hand. His chest heaved, his soul heavy with despair. The world was collapsing into Hell's shadow, and only one truth remained:
If he could not seal them back… everything would be lost.