WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE ILLUSTRIOUS CITY OF ANARITH, a growing unease permeated the air, crackling with palpable, fervent anticipation. The city's foundations trembled under the weight of the brewing aura, akin to a storm on the horizon; fueled by righteous anger and united bloodlust.
Like a brewing storm, the aura intensified, surging higher and higher, until the thickening silence shattered beneath the weight of the resounding steps that drew nearer. Heralding an event which no citizen would dare miss, as the distant thundering of steps signaled an event of paramount importance, drawing every citizen of the angelic city of Anarith—aptly known in translation as Wicked's Demise—to attend.
The marbled city, which glistened in the light, as its tiled roads sparkled, was lined with ivory structures, and flanked by opulent palaces and resplendent towers—overflowing with a hushed yet tumultuous sea of white-winged beings.
Every street and thoroughfare became a tapestry of celestial beings, as throngs upon throngs of winged individuals occupied every inch of the city, both land and sky. Their proximity was so tightly packed together that their wings melded, erasing any trace of individual distinction, for the throngs of angels formed a collective essence, blending into a unified whole.
Although the angels were not only unified in appearance and aura, but in emotion as well, for the once graceful expressions of angelic purity only furthered the contrast of the visages they wore now.
Contorted with masks of anger and trepidation, the angels' eyes shone with a primal thirst for merciless retribution. The crowd simmered with anticipation that bordered on excitement, swelling until it reached a fever pitch!
Children perched upon their parents' shoulders and citizens pressed forward, eager to witness the unfolding event as close as possible. Even the sky bore witness, as angels hovered above, eclipsing the ethereal backdrop of the sixth heaven. Casting a long stretching shadow, which matched the atmosphere perfectly, for it blocked the view of the sky's white wisp and golden stained beauty—a beauty, which seemed unintentionally out of place, on this day and on this occasion…
The thunderous resonance of footsteps, once distant, now blatantly reverberated off the city's walls and buildings, their echoes filling the still and hushed streets. Even the city itself, alongside its citizens, quivered in response, as the mounting suspense doubled.
The resonant echo of the increasing bass drew closer, intensifying the collective murmurs that rippled through the immense crowd of nearly half a million angels who had gathered.
All eyes, regardless of power and influence, were locked onto the downhill slope that stretched from the far end of the city; leading towards the grand amalgamation of twinkling towers, and the presence of an Angelic King, one of the seven angels who held the title and power of a Seraphim, a being of power rarely rivaled: Zerachiel, the angel of judgment, and commonly known as the "Heavens' Retribution".
Curiosity and disdain intertwined within each angel's heart, their expressions etched with a venomous blend of eager anticipation—which bordered on feverish, bloodlust-induced excitement—and contemptuous loathing.
The gaze of all the angels in the various throngs, fixated on the forthcoming procession, each yearning to witness the condemned souls—those of the fallen angels who were deemed impure due to their tainted bloodlines, and thus, their deviation from an angels' "purity", which served itself as direct evidence of their corrupted nature!
The air pulsated with anticipation again, with the nearing sight of the long-lined procession. However, it was not born from trepidation or solidarity, like before. Rather, the air itself seethed with discrimination and festering hatred, fueling the fervor of the angels' collective disdain.
Angels shifted uncomfortably among the crowd, for they had awaited the procession, and now as it neared, the air was suffused with a relentless torrent of palpable emotions and auras as they watched on.
Two lines of angels were dragged through the winding streets, as their once majestic wings—now tattered, frayed, and marred beyond recognition—hung lifelessly, wilted at their sides, drooping onto the ground, showcasing not only their lowly physical state, but also the remnants of their withered pride... mere shadows of their former selves.
Trudging through the streets in an almost robotic way, mindlessly steeping forward as they kept their heads down, the interlocking chains that shackled the corrupt angels from foot to neck, appeared unyielding in their burdened weight; clinking and clanking with every step and swing of momentum—visibly forcing the malnourished and weakened angels to shamefully slink down, even if they desired not to.
And as if the weakly appearance of the slaves weren't enough, angelic sentinels adorned in gleaming golden armor, and equipped with vibrant swords and spears at the ready, were spread throughout the procession, appearing as a grandeur of mockery. Some towered over them, as their elegant white wings flapped in a constant rhythm to hover above the ground, mesmerizing in the way they reflected the sixth heaven's light. While the other sentinels stationed on the ground surrounded the shackled-lined formation, flaring their wings high above their heads, extending them as far out as possible from their muscular shoulders, casting an intimidating and imperial pious-like presence.
The contrast between the resplendent sentinels and the degraded, and "corrupted" angels was far too stark; the juxtaposition between the opulent and holy ones versus the broken and corrupted ones only amplified the prevailing sentiment of disdain and contempt.
Even the sight of the crowd made the procession all the more poignant, as their wings remained unsullied in their pristine white. In addition, almost everyone in the crowd had a tanned white complexion, blonde hair, and yellow eyes. Directly opposed to the many who walked now as slaves, for they differed in complexion, eye color, and even the natural shading of their wings. Representing the slaves' mixed lineages, as their physical traits differed due to their racial sides, sometimes clashing in the form of rare mutations.
The difference between what the imaginary conception of what an angel meant, and what an angel was supposed to appear as... was painfully clear with the filth-ridden looks of the marching slaves in contrast. And the ruling class knew exactly what this would arouse…
Like poison dripping from their lips, insults spewed forth, laced with accusations of betrayal and impurity; like tangible strikes, which made many flinch back in horror. Each word cut through the air like a singular arrow, combining with other insults and jeers, creating a torrential barrage of arrows; amalgamating into a loudening dissonance, yet in the minds of the ones who spewed this malice, it was a collective harmony of justified anger... !
But in the minds of the slaves, it was simply a cacophony of noise, which only fanned the flames of hatred, be it for themselves, their situation, or even existence itself.
The crowd, composed of their own angelic brethren, filled with once family and friends, basked in the perverse delight of this twisted pleasure. Some reveled so much so that insults were not enough—which seemed to be the case, as more than half of the crowd participated—and so, the projectiles of disdain were tangible, as well as the fact that they too, came from the same malicious intent as the shouting insults.
Rocks and stones, pebbles and even bent up metal, including rusted nails were launched with sickening glee towards the steel bound angels, who remained immobilized due to their tightly confined shackles. Thus, sickening thuds of impact resounded out, only to be overtaken by howling screams of despair, which clawed their way out of the slaves' hoarse throats.
But all the humiliated screams and cries out for help or mercy were only met with sadistic satisfaction. For the crowd smiled in twisted pleasure—and in their minds in righteousness—at the physical pain and mental degradation inflicted upon their fallen kin.
Consequently, the cruel treatment continued towards the near two dozen slaves who marched in a macabre parade of impending death: enveloping the bound souls in a ceaseless storm of torment and contempt.
- - - - -
ADMIST THE STORM OF INHUMANNESS, where a sea of battered and broken slaves stretched as far as the eye could see, a figure emerged—a young man who was like another slave, enduring the ceaseless onslaught of degradation and cruelty.
His presence was both haunting and poignant in the sea of broken souls; showcased by his unruly black hair—punctuated with poignant streaks of white—dancing through the ephemeral breeze… eventually flying upwards, as the blacked-out sky cast a forlorn light upon his desolate yet youthful face.
Weathered beyond age, the young man's face bore the scars of untold pain. Additionally, his lips were crusted and parched, exacerbating his emaciated and sickly appearance.
However, even with his now dirty, pale complexion, and the various jagged monstrosities of scars that littered his forearms and body, one feature captivated the onlookers who caught a glimpse at such a sight.
Glistening with an eerie yet effulgent golden glow, the young man's red irised eyes shone with a mix of despair—a tragic sight, and yet striking in the way they shimmered—alongside a longing look of… lost innocence, which was all the more distinct against the others who marched onwards.
Almost all the slaves exceeded the celestial standard of full adulthood, which was 250 cycles (years). However, the young man who walked alongside them had not even reached one-third of that... not even considered a young adult in the eyes of celestial life and culture.
Barely a teenager, his already underdeveloped body was further weakened by the months of oppression and the heavy metal weight. His fragile frame mirrored the exhaustion that filled his being, a testament to the despair he had endured these past few months; each step he took was a painful reminder of the toil it had inflicted on his body, and each step he took was a painful reminder of his inevitable fate.
A fate he actively shuffled towards; his gaze unwavering from the pristine expanse of white marbled road, seemingly stretched into eternity. Knowing nothing worthwhile would come of acknowledging his surroundings that seemed distantly numbed from his senses; as the screams were endless, and the crowds stirred in anger, which he could glimpse from out of his peripheral vision.
The weight of shame and the burden of the tarnished bronze collar clasped around his neck forced him to bow in resignation. Though he himself had no desire to hold his head up high anyway, what had he accomplished?
Nothing!
Unequivocally, nothing…
Thus, he kept his eyes downcast, watching the chained links between the slave in front of him and himself sway with their slow ebbing movements. The steel links were rusted and bronze like their shackles and collars, making them appear like mundane metal.
However, since he could see the top of the links, the young man had long analyzed the faded but still working angelic runes etched atop the metal, proving otherwise. These runes were rudimentary, basic scripts any intelligent kid could learn, though still effective nevertheless; serving as a suppressant of power, draining whatever remnants of his already lowly power could offer him.
With that knowledge that even if the shackles were miraculously unlocked, he possessed neither the strength nor the power to seize his freedom… only deepened his despair.
Evident by what was shone within his eyes, void of the usual tremors that heralded one's imminent demise. The young man's eyes were ghastly in a haunting emptiness. Rarely flickering, and blinking in spaced out intervals, the ghastly red and yellowish hued eyes of the boy remained unflinching, frozen as if petrified by his own mind; of what churned within—the encroaching numbness that had long consumed his very being.
Therefore, with a heavy heart burdened by his own limitations, the young man continued to press forward in a quiet resignation that had long taken roots within him since his enslavement months ago.
The rhythmic clinking of his metal shackles blended seamlessly with the others in line. Creating a collective symphony of oppression, marking the somber cadence of their monotonous march toward an inevitable fate.
Positioned in single file on the right side, exposed and vulnerable, devoid of any protection, the young man bore the full brunt of the barrage—rocks thrown with malicious intent, as insults cut through the air, lingering within his mind and ears.
Howling screams and sobbing cries could be heard all around the boy, projected from behind and in front of him. Yet, he himself, unlike the rest of the slaves, simply stayed silent as he embraced each physical and mental blow; not revealing the slightest bit of annoyance nor anger.
His unyielding resilience became a source of speculation amidst the darkness, prompting some to wonder if he possessed an inner strength that surpassed their comprehension.
They watched in disbelief as the boy remained unfazed, unaffected by insults and attacks. Though in reality, unbeknownst to them, his weariness simply ran too deep, as he had already shed all the tears he could. Even now, his spirit felt weighed down by the countless nights of his wailing cries.
All due to the devastating betrayal that led him to this wretched fate, a fate he had no say in, just like the rest of his life. A betrayal of the highest degree, coming from those he cherished most, his closest friends who had become his family. Something he, as a poor and weak orphan, had never experienced before them.
Decades had passed between them, their bonds once considered unbreakable… and yet… and yet… they were the ones who shattered his world!
Hence, even as he walked forward, pelted by rocks that lacerated his skin and drew blood, it was only a distant acknowledgment, paling in comparison to the pain he held within. Whatever torment inflicted by these clueless and ignorant angels was far overshadowed by the anguish etched into his broken heart, and for that reason only, did he bow his head in despair.
Not from the physical pain or even the screaming insults that no doubt hurt him too... but what kept him oppressed the most, was the lingering and normalized yet painful, familiar feeling that had once been a comfort, but as time passed, he realized it to be the ultimate entrapment: Isolation... and… Loneliness.
The young man's mind had been a battle ground for months on end, an inferno of self-inflicted torment, fueled by the shattered remnants of trust, his severed connections, and the tortuous memories of the last few months; complimentary by the ones he loved.
Even with the evidence of his own experiences, of the undeniable situation that had played out, he still felt a lingering… no, it was a hollow feeling as though it was somehow his fault… when in reality, he knew it wasn't.
The young man had subconsciously made a mental cage of his own making, an enslavement to regret, what-ifs, and fear!
Consequently, his subconscious mind beckoned the one thing it knew best, a defensive mechanism that kept him alive and pushed him forward when he had no will to. The cold numbness of isolation coursed his veins in hopes of survival.
Although now, as the long-awaited day of reckoning loomed, it all felt hollow. His innate instinct to survive withered alongside any significance of whatever dreams and feelings he held.
With each monotonous step he took… all his buried passion and will… diminished. Whatever he had been through, whatever he wished he could do over, and whatever he could have accomplished, or rather, whatever he wanted to accomplish was pointless.
His shattered state of mind, encased in cocooning numbness, actively subdued the flickering flames of desire that had accumulated over the span of his life; all seventy-nine cycles of his pitiful existence. The tempestuous storms of his pent-up emotions and desires, once fervent and almost irrepressible… waned under his awareness, extinguished as if they had never existed, and swiftly dwindled into nothingness, all due to his knowledge.
The knowledge that, with a momentary rise, the city's outskirts would be in sight, becoming evident as he followed his line of thought by glancing upwards for a moment—beholden to a beautiful yet ironically depressing sight.
Towering before him was an array of intricately crafted golden pillars that rose high into the sky, glistening in magnificent splendor, upholding an expansive and regal temple-like dais.
And thus, with a chilling awareness, he knew this mesmerizing golden and ivory structure was the symbol of the end!
His end…
The young man marched towards his own inevitable fate, which, surprisingly and quite frankly in a twisted allure, had transformed into something he found most desirable.
His death…
- - - - -
A/N: I want to offer a warning that the first four chapters may seem stretched out in length, as they serve as a building block and foundation for the actual story. However, I assure you that reading these initial chapters will be worth it, as they lay the groundwork for the upcoming events. The pace of the story will pick up significantly beyond this point. However, rest assured that the progression has been planned out to ensure a thrilling and engaging experience for readers. With that being said, I hope you enjoy it... :)
P.S... I would recommend reading my novel on the lowest text font as it looks the best, but, of course, feel free to choose what suits you. It's your life, and you should make your own choices. I wish you all the best!
- Spatial Devil, The Author.