For an eternity that felt as fleeting as a blink of an eye, Sain was known as the Greatest Recorder. His existence was defined by movement: a quill that never stopped scratching, ears that never closed, and eyes that saw everything from the highest peaks of virtue to the deepest trenches of sin.
He heard it all.
He heard the whispers of those who entered the Light, regretting not having lived more freely even though their hands were clean. He heard the roars of those who fell into the Dark, crying over the blood they spilled or the hearts they broke. He heard self-hatred, desperate prayers, laughter that sounded like weeping, and weeping that sounded like a curse.
To Sain, the world below was nothing but a grand ledger. There were clear rules, lines drawn that could never be crossed: Goodness was recorded in gold, Evil was written in ash. Everything had its place, everything was accounted for. He believed he understood the order of things. He believed he understood humans.
That was, until he heard the story of Leon.
Leon was a man of science, a being who used his intellect to build and understand, yet he died with a heart turned completely to ash. And it was not enemies who destroyed him, but those he was bound to by blood and love.
Sain heard it clearly, the voice of Leon echoing through the boundary between life and death: "I do not regret my sins, for I have none. I regret only that I lacked the resolve to press the button that would have turned this entire planet to dust before I died."
It was a confession unlike any other. Leon was not sorry for being evil. He was sorry for being too kind, or perhaps too weak, to destroy the world that had shown him only cruelty.
Sain learned what happened to Leon after his passing. His own parents, the ones who were supposed to protect him, burned his remains as if he were trash. His partner, the one he loved, betrayed his trust and moved on as if Leon never existed. Even his own sibling spat upon his lifeless body, treating him with more hatred than they would show a stranger.
And then, the final piece of the story reached Sain's ears: As his vision faded and darkness took him, Leon learned that a small child, innocent and unaware, had accidentally pressed that very same button—the button Leon himself could not bring himself to touch.
Leon laughed.
It was not a laugh of madness, nor a laugh of joy. It was a laugh of absolute, crushing irony. It was the sound of a man realizing that the destruction he desired was so easy to achieve, yet only impossible for him to do himself.
That laughter pierced through Sain's wings, through his light, and shattered the faith he had held for thousands of years.
For the first time, the lines between gold and ash, good and evil, blurred until they were unrecognizable. If a man could be good yet wish for the end of the world, if a child could unknowingly become the instrument of destruction, then what use was the book he held?
Sain stopped writing. He took the heavy tome—filled with millions of lives, millions of stories, millions of contradictions—and he let it fall. It drifted away, no longer important.
He flew past the gates of Heaven, past the borders of Hell, and went straight to the Presence of the Creator. He did not come to argue. He did not come to demand justice.
He came with only one request: "Allow me to retire. I can no longer bear to watch."
And when the Creator granted his wish, speaking only with a voice filled with sorrow, Sain flew to the space between realms—the neutral ground where nothing was judged and nothing was ruled.
There, he froze.
He thought he was alone. He thought he was the first and the only one weak enough to give up.
But before his eyes, stretching into the infinite distance, were others. Angels who had come before him, angels who had come recently, all sitting in silence. Some were still glowing faintly, lost in thought. Others were already translucent, like smoke or mist, choosing to wither away rather than receive the Divine Life that would keep them existing forever.
They chose to fade. They chose to end their eternity because the truth of humanity was too heavy a burden for even holy beings to carry.
Sain understood then. This was not his personal failure. This was a cycle. A loop that would repeat forever. New angels would come, they would record, they would hear another Leon, and eventually, they too would drop their books and join the gathering in the void.
The Creator remained silent, not out of indifference, but out of respect. To change human nature would require stealing their freedom, and that was a sin even the Highest could not commit.
And so, Sain sat down among his kind, his light slowly beginning to dim.
The world below would continue turning. Humans would continue to love, to hurt, to build, and to destroy. The books would keep piling up, and the angels would keep fading.
It was an eternal loop, and there was no end in sight.