Chapter 5

  “May I ask what exactly is going on here?” Ragiel, the Envoy of the Higher Realms, cried out indignantly through the Hall of Infallibility.

  His pure, young, flawless face shone as golden as the massive dome that arched dizzyingly high toward the sky. His mighty wings hung loosely down, the feathers as immaculate white as the polished, cool floor beneath his feet. No living being on Tirros or the Lower Realms could surpass the beauty, the geometric perfection of the Firstborn, as Ragiel was.

  But at this moment, he was not the Holy Angel, he did not serve as the Messenger of Light. Instead, he was chained. Thick, silver Fate-Metal, crafted to bind even cosmic energy, encircled his wrists and ankles, humiliatingly nailing him to the spotless, white floor in the center of the Hall.

  His brother, Metatron, stood majestically above him, on the Judge's podium. Metatron himself was a pillar of authority, his armor of platinum-white steel seemed to absorb the Hall's light and cast only cold, hard shadows. His eyebrows were furrowed in anger, and although he painstakingly kept his expression under control, the incessant tremor of his left arm betrayed the deep shock to his inner composure.

  “Why am I chained? Why am I being treated like a rule-breaker!?” Ragiel asked his brother loudly to his face, his golden voice echoing in the hall's unsettling acoustics. The anger was real, the incomprehension deep.

  “Because you are one,” Metatron said calmly, but with unmistakable reproach. His voice was deeper than humanly possible and echoed as if transmitted through a cosmic megaphone. Every Angel, every celestial being gathered on the Terraces of Infallibility, understood Ragiel’s judgment. But that was only the beginning.

  Metatron forced his arm to stillness, his fist clenched bloody under the white glove. He had to radiate the calm of the highest authority, even though he would have preferred to thrust his brother back into human form.

  “You were only supposed to deliver a message!” Metatron hissed. The volume remained controlled, but the intensity increased. “You had one. Damned. Job!!!”

  Metatron breathed quickly and fiercely, but he did not completely lose control. He couldn't. His role demanded eternal, cold seriousness. Instead, he continued speaking as calmly as possible, letting the accusation fall upon Ragiel like an icy rain.

  “Your mission was clearly defined, brother. You were to go to the mortal kings of Tirros and warn them. They were supposed to act on their own strength. You were to inform them that they must unite to combat a looming, cosmic threat. Non-intervention was the highest principle!”

  Metatron bowed his head, his voice now entirely frozen.

  “But what did you do instead? You founded a rebellion! A personal army of mortals and god-servants! You built and led them for years! You led mortals and wanted to fight the enemy—the Chosen One—on your own! You trampled on our authority and the rules of creation because you thought your personal morality stood above cosmic law!”

  Ragiel tugged at his chains, the silver shackles grinding against the white floor. “The inhabitants of Thulegard, they were lost! The rulers wouldn't listen! Death was too near!”

  “That was not your decision!” Metatron thundered, his voice cracking slightly. “Your task was information, not correction! And the worst of it…”

  Metatron pointed an accusing finger—which looked like a sword of pure platinum—at his brother. His golden eyes were now narrow and tormented.

  “…you saved a mortal’s life! You threw yourself into the annihilating beam to save that Paladin. Saved his life, after Ulthanox had already broken the rules and brought him back once!”

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  A deep, shocked murmur went through the Hall. The assembly of Archangels and celestial beings moved minimally. The reason for Ragiel’s accusation had been known to all, but Ulthanox’s rule break—the double breach of the rules of Death and Intervention—Metatron was now revealing at the trial as an escalation of the crisis.

  Metatron used the silence after the murmur to elaborate on the full extent of Ragiel’s crime.

  “Your action alarmed two factions in the Higher and Lower Realms! Your sacrifice, your heroic and completely unnecessary act, directly involved the powers of Death and Life in a conflict that should have remained mortal! That laid the cards on the table for everyone! You didn't just act; you triggered a chain of events whose consequences we can only now begin to guess. You exposed us—the Guardians of the Rules—by showing that you are willing to break them to pursue a personal ideal. Disobedience in this position is treason against the Principle of Order!”

  Metatron closed his eyes. He inhaled the clear, pure light of the Hall deeply and forced himself to eliminate the last trace of fraternal love from his voice.

  “You have degraded yourself, betrayed the sacred mission, and jeopardized the cosmic order. All for a fleeting human rebellion that was doomed to fail anyway.”

  The two brothers stared into each other’s eyes for a long time.

  It was a silent, charged moment that felt like a stretched eternity, even for the immortal beings gathered in the Hall of Infallibility. The air was static, filled with the unspoken question: Would Ragiel capitulate and submit to his fate, or would he accept the accusation and defend himself?

  Finally, Ragiel did the latter.

  He put on his purest, most flawless grin—a grin that was disrespectful and cheeky, mocking the entire sublime seriousness of the Hall.

  “If I heard correctly,” he began, his voice now bright, clear, and brazenly self-assured.

  In that instant, without him making a visible movement or speaking a word of power, the silver chains around his golden hands suddenly came undone. The locks clicked open, and the shackles fell to the floor with a dull, meaningless sound.

  Immediately, the Heavenly Guard, the soldiers clad in platinum-white armor stationed at the edges of the podium, drew their blades. The hiss of the drawn, pure Lightsteel was the first loud noise since Metatron’s accusation and testified to the tactical danger of the situation.

  But Metatron raised his hand. It was a swift, categorical command to halt. He trusted his brother not to go mad and incite a rebellion. Ragiel was disobedient, but not malicious. Moreover, Metatron knew he couldn't stop Ragiel, the Firstborn of Power, with mere blades.

  Ragiel briefly rubbed his wrists, a cocky expression of relief and liberation on his golden face.

  “So you’re accusing me of involving the Gods, us, and Ulthanox in the conflict. Is that right?”

  Metatron nodded silently. His eyes were narrow and penetrating. He suspected what his brother was aiming for: Ragiel would try to shift the blame.

  The Hall of Infallibility—the dozens of celestial beings in the ranks—waited tensely for the next words of the Holy One, who now stood free and unbeaten before his Judge.

  In the next moment, Ragiel materialized a golden spear in his right hand. It was not an illusion, but pure, manifested power—his spear, the weapon of the Firstborn, which he once wielded in the Celestial Wars. The spear glowed with a warm, comforting golden hue, contrasting with the cold, harsh atmosphere of the Hall.

  “Well…” he continued, casually playing with the mighty weapon in his hands. He briefly juggled it with a playful dexterity that almost had to be interpreted as an affront. “That’s not entirely accurate.”

  Ragiel briefly struck the tip of the spear on the polished floor, the metallic echo piercing the silence.

  “The true trigger of this and the subsequent chaos began a long time ago. Before I even activated my avatar on Tirros. Before Ulthanox even knew that the Paladin needed to be saved.”

  Ragiel took a confident step forward.

  “To be precise, ten years ago.”

  Metatron raised an eyebrow questioningly. The numbers didn't make sense. The conflict with Reyn had only just escalated. He was ready to listen, as the significance of this time frame was serious.

  Ragiel sighed, as if he had to teach a boring but necessary lesson.

  “Very well,” he said, pointing the spear forward, directly into the empty center of the Hall.

  His golden mana flowed from the spear’s tip. It was not an explosion, but a gentle, targeted projection of the past.

  In the air, in the center of the Hall, a lifelike, three-dimensional projection appeared. It was a distant memory, retrieved from the cosmic archives of the Realms. The scene showed an opulent but silent bedroom in a human fortress, lit by faint candlelight. A young, sleeping man, Thivan Sothar, and a slender, green figure carefully sneaking away from him, a pouch in her hand, were visible.

  “Let me tell you two stories,” Ragiel said.