Cities that once sang with mortal laughter had become graves of smoke. The air reeked of ash and blood. Across continents, humanity had joined its scattered armies into one desperate host — a final defiance against the legions of hell that now ruled the earth.
From the heavens, we watched.
The legions of mortals stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons pointed toward a darkness they could not comprehend. Missiles roared like dying comets, aircraft swarmed like locusts, and the thunder of their engines shook the skies. For the first time since Babel, all nations stood united under a single banner — survival.
But unity could not save them.
The princes of hell moved through their ranks like tempests. Satan's flames carved continents. Belial's shadow swallowed the light of suns. Beelzebub's hunger tore through iron and flesh alike. And where they passed, reality itself screamed.
Then came humanity's last defiance — the forbidden light, the fire of their own making.
Nuclear dawns.
They fell like stars across the night, thousands of suns blooming over oceans and deserts, tearing open the sky in white fire. The world trembled. The seas rose. Mountains melted like wax. And for a moment — a heartbeat of divine silence — even the demons halted to watch.
But then came the truth.
The flames of man, forged in arrogance, could not burn the eternal. The legions of hell walked unscathed through that radiance. The air shimmered with radiation, yet the demons laughed — drinking it as wine, breathing it as incense.
The human armies broke. Their faith shattered.
And above it all, Metatron wept.
He who was called the Voice of God, the Living Sun, looked down from the firmament and saw the world dying — a world that once had sung praises to its Creator, now swallowed in despair. His wings folded close, his six hundred and fifty eyes dimmed. He had sworn not to return until the appointed hour — the final war of Heaven and Hell. But this was no war. It was slaughter.
And so, he descended.
The heavens split apart as a pillar of light carved through the clouds. The oceans boiled where it touched. The earth shook. And from that radiance, a figure stepped forth — wings unfurling like solar flares, eyes burning with endless stars.
Metatron, the Living Sun, had come again to Earth.
He landed amid ruin — what had once been the capital of a mighty nation. Now it was dust and bone. The air was thick with sulfur and sorrow. Demons prowled the wreckage, feeding on the fallen. When his feet touched the ground, shadows fled in terror.
"Fall back!" cried one of the surviving soldiers, his voice breaking. "It's— it's an angel!"
But Metatron said nothing. His sword — the Blade of Silence — hummed in his grasp, a weapon forged from the corpse of a god-serpent slain before the dawn of man. It shimmered with quiet fury.
He moved.
The first swing erased a thousand demons. The second carved a chasm of light through the earth. The third silenced the screams.
Every motion was perfection — light given form, judgment given breath. He cut through the legions as if striking through nightmares. Around him, reality bent and wept. Where his wings swept, the air turned to gold. Where his gaze fell, shadow ceased to be.
And yet… even as he fought, his eyes saw what could not be undone — the corpses of children, the prayers that had gone unanswered, the skies that no longer knew blue.
The world was dying.
He heard the mortals' radios crackle, desperate voices rising over static.
"Command! The nukes did nothing! I repeat, nothing! They're everywhere— they're—"
Then silence.
Metatron's grip tightened.
"Why?" he whispered — not to man, not to heaven, but to the silence that followed. "Why are they allowed to suffer so?"
There was no answer.
The sword in his hand pulsed faintly, as if mourning. And somewhere deep within the oceans of the world… something stirred.
The sea trembled.
At first, it was a ripple — then a wave — then a convulsion that split the horizon. Entire fleets vanished beneath the rising tide. The waters glowed with an eerie light, the color of dying embers. The air filled with the scent of ozone and salt. And then came the sound — not a roar, but a groan older than creation.
The deep was awakening.
Metatron turned his many eyes toward the ocean. The demons paused, their laughter dying. Even Satan's flames flickered with unease. From the darkness of the abyss, a shape began to rise — vast beyond comprehension, its ascent shaking the bones of the earth.
The Leviathan had awakened.
From the womb of the ocean, the beast emerged.
The waters frothed as mountains of black scales broke the surface, gleaming like obsidian in the dying light. Lightning danced across the sea, drawn to its presence as though the heavens themselves feared it. Each ripple of its movement sent tsunamis racing across the globe. The world's coastlines vanished beneath its birth cry.
Metatron's eyes widened — all six hundred and fifty of them — as the shadow stretched to the horizon.
The Leviathan.
A name so ancient that even angels whispered it only in dread. Born before the stars had cooled, forged from chaos itself, it was a beast that even the Creator had once called "too terrible to exist twice."For when the Leviathan had first risen in the dawn of creation, there had been two — male and female — twin serpents of chaos. But the Almighty slew the female, lest the world be swallowed by their offspring. From her slain body, He forged a blade — the Sword of Silence, now clutched in Metatron's hands.
And now, the surviving serpent had returned.
Its scales shimmered with every color of night — a mosaic of cosmic shadow, each plate thicker than mountains. Its body coiled through the ocean like a living continent, crowned with horns of molten stone. Its eyes burned with green flame — not the fire of hell, but the cold light of envy and ruin.
Then it opened its maw.
And the sea fell into it.
A ship — a titan of iron, armed with every weapon mankind possessed — floated helplessly before that abyssal mouth. The sailors screamed, their voices lost in the roar. For a moment, their lights blinked defiantly against the dark. Then the waters convulsed, and in an instant — the ship was gone.
Swallowed whole.
Not even wreckage remained. Not even light.
Metatron felt the shockwave ripple through the air — a tremor not of sound, but of existence itself. The beast did not hunger for flesh or metal. It devoured being.Its breath boiled the ocean into steam. Its very presence unmade reality. The Leviathan's voice followed — not words, but a vibration that shattered mountains and broke the minds of men.
"I AM THE FIRST CHAOS. THE SEA THAT REMEMBERS THE STARS' FEAR."
Its roar was thunder and storm, water and flame — creation's first rebellion given sound.
Metatron raised the Sword of Silence. The blade flared, ancient runes glowing along its edge. For a moment, the ocean froze, recognizing its own death — the weapon that had slain its mother. But the Leviathan's fury only deepened.
The sky darkened. The sea caught fire.
From its thousand gills burst torrents of flame that burned beneath the waves. The air ignited. The horizon bled light.
And in that apocalyptic glow, Metatron saw the full horror of it — a creature without magic, without cunning, without the deceit of devils. It was not evil in thought. It was evil in nature.A pure engine of destruction, as if God Himself had carved out His own wrath and given it form.
The humans, desperate, launched their final assault. Submarines, carriers, missiles — all turned toward the Leviathan. Nuclear fire fell once more. The waters exploded into pillars of steam. The blast waves reached the stratosphere.
When the smoke cleared, the ocean was gone — replaced by a chasm of boiling glass.
And then… it moved.
Unharmed.
The Leviathan's hide shone brighter, not weaker. The nuclear fire had not scorched it — it had fed it. The beast roared, and from its mouth burst rivers of burning light — photokinetic energy gathered from the sun itself, channeled through thousands of glowing feelers that pulsed like veins of lightning.Each beam tore through the sky, striking down entire fleets, melting cities on distant shores. Humanity's might, their weapons, their science — all became ash beneath that gaze.
Metatron hovered above the storm, his wings shielding what remained of the world beneath.
This… this is not merely a beast, he thought.This is what comes when creation is left unguarded.This is envy given breath — the desire to consume what cannot be understood.
The Leviathan turned its gaze toward him.
And for the first time since Lucifer's fall, Metatron felt fear.
The beast saw him — saw the sword in his hand, the light in his wings. It recognized him as the son of Heaven, the wielder of the weapon that had slain its kin. The ocean boiled around its body, steam rising like the smoke of an ancient furnace.
It spoke again — not with a voice, but with presence.
"YOU HOLD HER HEART."
The realization struck Metatron like a blade.
The Sword of Silence — his weapon, his gift from the Father — had been born from the Leviathan's slain mate. Every swing of that sword was a memory, a scar, a desecration to the beast before him.
He raised it nonetheless, golden wings flaring across the heavens.
"If you are chaos," Metatron declared, his voice echoing across worlds, "then I am order. I am the word that ends your storm."
The Leviathan reared back, titanic jaws glowing with searing light — not fire, but the burning energy of suns compressed into a single breath. The sea beneath it began to vaporize before it even exhaled.
Metatron braced himself.
And the apocalypse came.