The sea still burned. Blackened waves hissed against the ruined shore, steam coiling upward like ghosts. The scars of Leviathan's rampage lingered—craters along the coast, broken ships, cities half-sunk beneath divine wrath. In the midst of that silence, Raphael stood beside a body of light charred to the bone.
Metatron's wings, once radiant as dawn, now hung in threads of gold-ash. The fire of Heaven had nearly consumed him. Raphael knelt, pressing a trembling hand over the angel's heart, murmuring verses in a forgotten tongue. Healing light poured from his palms—pure, white, unending—and still, the wounds resisted.
"Your flame burned too bright," Raphael whispered. "Even Heaven's fire can devour its own."
For hours, he poured grace into the fallen messenger until the air shimmered with divine heat. Slowly, the embers along Metatron's skin dimmed. A breath escaped the angel's lips—ragged, hollow, but alive. His eyes flickered open, pale gold beneath soot.
Raphael exhaled in relief. "You should not have survived."
Metatron's gaze wandered over the ruined coast, where Leviathan's corpse drifted beneath the waves. His voice rasped, "Then I will never fall again."
The vow left his tongue like a blade drawn from fire.
Days later, the streets of a once-holy city burned with a different light—neon instead of divine. Skyscrapers leaned over alleys slick with rain and sin. Humanity stumbled through despair, unaware that angels and devils walked among them.
Metatron moved unseen, wings hidden behind a shimmer of mortal disguise. He walked through the chaos, each step guided by purpose. A woman screamed from the corner, pinned beneath a demon's clawed hand—its eyes glowing like molten tar.
Metatron lifted a single hand. Words older than creation left his mouth, and the creature froze mid-motion, its body cracking like stone. A pulse of brilliance followed, and the demon dissolved into dust. Another hissed from the shadow, lunging—but he turned, his voice ringing like thunder.
"Return to the Abyss."
The street rippled with unseen power. In an instant, six more demons vanished, their shrieks swallowed by eternity. The air stilled. Rain resumed its whisper.
Metatron's eyes, still weary from his rebirth, scanned the silence. But then—he saw him.
A man leaned against a flickering lamppost, smiling softly as he spoke to a trembling girl. His voice was calm, almost kind."Don't worry, child. No one will judge you for what you desire. Follow your heart, and the world will follow you."
Metatron approached. There was something wrong with the air—too perfect, too still. He placed a hand on the man's shoulder."So," he said quietly, "you are Lucifer."
The man turned, smiling as though amused by an old joke."What are you talking about?" he said lightly. "I'm merely giving advice."
"Shut up, Lucifer," Metatron said, his tone cutting through the noise. "Or should I say… Satan."
The stranger's smile widened, a serpent's grin beneath human skin. He straightened, his eyes glinting with light that no mortal could bear.
"So the Voice of God finally descends from the throne," Lucifer said. "Tell me, Metatron… did He lose His voice, or does He send you when He fears to speak?"
Metatron's eyes narrowed. "The Lord does not fear. His will moves through creation like the wind through the reeds. You, who once stood beside the Light, should remember that better than most."
Lucifer's laughter rippled through the street, beautiful and terrible. "Ah, memory. A cruel gift. I remember light too well, Metatron. I remember His silence as I questioned the chains He called order. I remember being told to bow—to creatures of dust. And when I refused, He cast me down." His eyes burned brighter. "Tell me, messenger, what kind of justice is that?"
"The justice of the Creator over creation," Metatron answered. "You fell not because you asked, but because you demanded. You turned wonder into rebellion, and rebellion into worship of yourself."
"Self?" Lucifer's voice deepened, echoing beyond the alley, beyond the city. "If He made me perfect, then my will is His will. I sought freedom—the birthright of all thought! Yet He called it pride. Tell me, Metatron, how can free will exist beneath a tyrant's crown?"
"Free will does not absolve consequence," Metatron said. "You were free to defy, and He was free to judge. You are not condemned for choice, but for the intent that poisoned it."
Lucifer's expression softened—almost mournful. "And what was my intent? To be like Him? To understand what even angels cannot? Tell me, if the Almighty cannot be questioned, what separates devotion from slavery?"
"You keep calling me the Voice of God," Metatron said quietly. "But that title belongs not to me—it belongs to the One who defeated you. The One who conquered sin and death. The One who gave Himself for mankind." His eyes blazed. "Jesus is the Word. I am merely the echo."
Lucifer's face twisted, the faint smile curdling into contempt. "You dare invoke His name?"
"His name ends your reign," Metatron said.
Lucifer's wings flared behind him—six vast appendages of light and shadow. The disguise fell away, and the city trembled beneath his unveiled glory. Every glass pane shattered. Every human nearby fell to their knees, weeping or laughing in madness at the sight.
He was perfection. The pinnacle of creation. His beauty was so complete that even the air refused to touch him. His form shimmered with gold and crimson; six colossal wings of burning light unfolded like suns. Each feather held the memory of paradise. His face was not one, but countless faces—the image of every beauty humanity had ever dreamed.
Metatron shielded his gaze, feeling the weight of that glory press against his mind. There were no flaws—no imperfection. Lucifer was the definition of divine symmetry, and yet the very sight of him carried despair.
Lucifer's voice rang like a hymn. "Join me, Metatron. Rule beside me. I can end suffering, disease, death itself. We could shape this broken world into perfection again."
A whisper stirred in Metatron's mind—soft, calm, unshaken. Gabriel's voice, carried by the link of Heaven's thought.
'Do not listen. The serpent offers fruit that tastes of ash. Choose the Savior, not the fallen one.'
Metatron exhaled, his answer clear. "I choose Jesus." His blade of light formed in his hand. "Let this be the battle of the chosen against the fallen."
Lucifer's laughter echoed through creation. "You think this is the time? No. My war is not with you." His form dissolved, wings folding into smoke. "I will blend among them—among humans. I will be everyone and no one." His voice drifted away, taunting: "Find me if you can, little echo."
And he was gone.
Metatron stood alone in the rain, the reflection of fire dancing across puddles. For a long moment, he said nothing. Only the faint sound of human footsteps filled the silence. Somewhere, the world kept turning—oblivious that Heaven and Hell had nearly collided.
Elsewhere—Washington, D.C.
The great meeting hall of the world's leaders lay heavy with fear. Screens flashed reports of global anomalies: plagues vanishing, storms of fire in the Atlantic, voices echoing from empty skies. Presidents, chancellors, and generals crowded around the table.
Mike, the American president, slammed his fist against the desk. "You all know what's been happening this month. This year alone is chaos. Cities are crumbling, creatures are appearing, people are disappearing into thin air. We have to fight back!"
Germany's president leaned forward, pale. "Fight back against what? Against beings we can't even see? Tell me, Mike—how do you fight Heaven and Hell?"
"By understanding it," Mike growled. "By controlling what we can."
Another voice—Dylan, head of defense—spoke up. "Remember that angel, Metatron? The one who saved the coast, then vanished? What if we could use his DNA? Replicate his energy into technology? If we could harness even one percent of that power—"
"Or kill him," muttered a voice from the shadows—Hassen, the strategist. "Kill him and use his essence to fuel a new weapon. An angelic reactor. Imagine it—power drawn directly from divine energy."
Ryan, the youngest delegate, shook his head sharply. "No. You can't control something like that. Metatron walks alone for a reason. If we tamper with him, he'll burn the world before letting us chain Heaven's flame."
Silence followed. The flicker of the holographic screen painted tired faces blue.
Mikey, the secretary of state, whispered, "It's not even the Rapture yet. There's no sign of it—no trumpet, no return. So what would this be? False prophecy? Mass hysteria?" He rubbed his temples. "I'm scared, gentlemen. More than I've ever been."
The German president leaned back, his tone dark. "Fear will not save us. It's time to use the tech from Area 51."
Everyone turned. "You mean… that?"
He nodded. "The alien craft, the black archives. Technology not of this world. We've hidden it for decades—but perhaps it was never alien. Perhaps it was divine."
Tyler, a scientist, slammed his pen down. "I knew it! NASA faked half those videos because we can't pass the barrier! Space itself rejects us. You're telling me we've had divine tech all along?"
The German president stood. "Not divine. Dangerous. We either use it, or we die crawling under angels' feet."
A cold murmur filled the room.
Ryan whispered, "Then we become the very thing we fear."
No one replied.
Outside, thunder rolled without clouds. Somewhere in the distance, a faint laugh echoed through the air—soft, almost human.
Lucifer was listening.
That night, as the world's leaders prepared their final plans, Metatron stood atop a ruined cathedral, looking out over the city lights. Humanity glimmered like stars trapped in glass.
He could still hear Lucifer's words—"I will blend among them."
And he knew the war was far from over.
He drew his sword, the flame reflecting against his weary eyes. "Then so be it," he murmured. "If he walks among men… so shall I."
The wind howled through the broken spire.
And once again, Heaven's flame descended upon the earth.