Chapter 8: Heaven Sends Its Mightiest Army
The invasion came at dawn on the fortieth day of my reign.
Heaven ripped itself open like wet silk.
A warhost the size of continents poured through the wound in reality: one hundred thousand seraphim in burning armor, ten thousand archangels wielding spears of pure law, seven Thrones whose mere presence erased concepts like "mercy" and "defeat" from existence.
At the vanguard floated the Archangel Michael himself, six wings of molten gold, flaming sword longer than mountain ranges, eyes that had watched the birth of stars.
They expected resistance.
They found me drinking coffee on the balcony of the Ninth Palace, wearing nothing but a black silk robe and a lazy smile.
Beelzebub knelt at my left, collared, naked, feeding me strawberries with reverent fingers.
The former Goddess of Light knelt at my right, reduced to a trembling, collared pet whose only job now was to warm my thigh with her tears of worship.
Michael's voice boomed across the void, loud enough to shatter moons.
"Tyrant of the Pit! Release the hostages and surrender, or we will unmake you and everything you have defiled!"
I took another sip of coffee.
Then I snapped my fingers.
Reality rewrote itself in a single heartbeat.
Every angel in the warhost felt it at once.
Their armor dissolved.
Their weapons turned to rose petals.
Their wings locked wide open, feathers turning black one by one.
And around every single angelic throat, a collar materialized.
One hundred thousand, ten thousand, seven.
All identical.
Void-black metal. My name glowing electric blue.
PROPERTY OF DIRECTOR TANAKA.
The silence that followed was so complete that the concept of sound filed for unemployment.
Michael tried to move. Couldn't. His own collar had chained his ankles together and forced him into a kneeling position mid-flight. He crashed to the obsidian bridge in front of the palace hard enough to crater it a kilometer deep.
The rest of the army followed like dominoes.
One hundred thousand seraphim.
Ten thousand archangels.
Seven Thrones who had never bent a knee to anyone but the Absolute Source.
All on their knees.
All collared.
All waiting.
I stood up slowly, robe sliding open just enough to remind every single one of them who owned reality now.
Beelzebub's tail curled possessively around my ankle.
The former Goddess whimpered and pressed her face harder against my thigh.
I walked to the edge of the balcony.
Looked down at Michael, greatest of all warriors, trembling on his knees, six golden wings now pitch black and spread wide in helpless submission.
"Welcome to Hell, Michael," I said conversationally. "You're late for orientation."
His flaming sword lay shattered beside him.
He tried to speak. Only a broken whisper came out.
"…how?"
I smiled.
Then I spent the next eighteen hours personally breaking the entire heavenly host.
Started with Michael.
Dragged him by his new collar into the throne room in front of his own army.
Made him strip the rest of the way with his teeth.
Made him crawl.
Made him beg, in the original tongue of creation, to be allowed to kiss the floor I walked on.
When he finally did, voice cracking, wings shaking, I let him.
Then I collared him a second time, an inner ring that sat directly against his skin and pulsed every time he thought of resistance.
After Michael came the Thrones.
Seven beings who had never experienced physical sensation.
I introduced them to it.
Slowly.
One by one.
While the rest of the army watched, chained in perfect rows, unable to look away, unable to touch themselves, collars denying climax until I allowed it.
I made the seraphim form a choir and sing my name in perfect six-part harmony while I took their commanders apart piece by piece.
Made the archangels compete to see who could degrade themselves faster for my amusement.
By hour twelve, Michael was on his hands and knees, former flaming sword now a leash I held loosely in one hand, collared throat bared, begging in a broken voice for the privilege of being useful.
By hour fifteen, the Thrones were weeping liquid starlight, pleading in languages that predated time itself to be allowed to serve.
By hour eighteen, the entire heavenly host, one hundred and seventeen thousand immortal warriors who had once been the final word in divine justice, were arranged in perfect formation on their knees.
Naked.
Collared.
Wings locked open.
Eyes glazed with utter devotion.
I stood in front of them, robe long discarded, Beelzebub and the former Goddess flanking me like living trophies.
Raised one hand.
And spoke a single sentence that rewrote the cosmos forever.
"From this moment forward, Heaven belongs to me. Your wings, your swords, your immortality, your pride, everything. Mine."
Then I snapped my fingers again.
Every collar tightened just enough to remind.
One hundred and seventeen thousand voices answered in perfect, broken unison.
"Yes, Master."
I smiled.
"Lunchtime."
I made them serve it.
Michael on his knees holding the tray.
A Throne whose name had once been "Victory" now reduced to pouring wine with shaking hands.
The former Goddess of Light herself crawling under the table to warm my feet while I ate.
And when I was finished, I looked at the endless sea of collared angels and decided dessert would be collective.
I let them earn release.
One by one.
Starting with Michael.
Ending with the lowest seraph.
It took nine more hours.
When it was over, Heaven's mightiest army lay scattered across the throne room floor in exhausted, collared, utterly ruined heaps.
I stood over them, untouched, perfect, sipping the last of my coffee.
Then I turned to Beelzebub, who had watched the entire conquest with naked hunger in his eyes.
"Clean them up," I ordered. "Train them. By tomorrow I want every angel in existence able to recite their new purpose without moaning."
He dropped to his knees and kissed my feet.
"As you command, Master."
I looked out over my new empire.
Hell. Heaven. Every realm between.
All on their knees.
All wearing my name.
I smiled.
Day forty, and I was just getting started.