Everything that can be created can also be destroyed. But who destroys life? Gods create life, watch it grow, and end it when they decide it is unworthy. Where do gods reside? That place is called Celestial Realm although resembling any other planet it consist of Heaven and Hell. Heaven shines brightly on the surface, while hell lurks in the shadows beneath. 

The God who created life also made minor gods, each with unique powers, to help Him with His creations. He built both heaven and hell for these minor gods to dwell in and oversee His work. He then established a hierarchy to govern the gods, before vanishing without a trace. 

Heaven is ruled by the god of creation, while hell is ruled by the god of destruction. These minor gods are not immortal; they rule and judge for a few million years before passing down their power and titles to their children. This cycle continues for nine generations, after which an immortal heir is born to rule forever. This was one of the orders given by the creator god. 

During the fourth generation, a war broke out between heaven and hell. Hell initiated the conflict, but heaven emerged victorious. To prevent future threats from the immortal heir of hell, heaven decided to wipe out the lineage by executing the ruler of hell. This act stopped the birth of the immortal of hell. The rule of hell was then passed to the sibling of the former ruler, and hell became a part of heaven. This transition did not upset the residents of hell, who saw it as a blessing. 

In the tenth cycle, a momentous event unfolded: twins were born—a boy and a girl—both of whom were immortals. Their arrival marked a new chapter in the celestial realm, and this story follows the boy, Ronan Arcanveil. He was named by his father, Cyrus Arcanveil, a figure of authority and wisdom, who recognized the significance of this new life. His sister, Liviya Arcanveil, was named by their mother, Elara Arcanveil, whose gentle spirit and nurturing heart enveloped them both. On the day of their birth, the celestial court gathered in anticipation, and with great fanfare, Ronan was declared the crown prince of Heaven. The moment was filled with joy and celebration, though young Ronan, still a child, simply basked in the warmth of his family's love, unaware of the immense legacy that awaited him in the years to come. 

Now, with millennia of preparation behind him, the weight of his destiny pressed upon his shoulders as he stood at the brink of his final judgment. For millions of years, he had watched over worlds, weighing their worth, and now his duty brought him to this one—his last trial before claiming the throne that had awaited him for eons. To judge a planet meant living among its people for twenty years, experiencing their ways, their flaws, and their hopes. This time, however, the decision had already taken shape in his mind: this world was destined for destruction. 

He called out, his voice steady and unwavering, "Celia." His fiancée, the one destined to ascend alongside him as the Goddess of Creation, appeared by his side. Celia Ashcroft, daughter of Draven Ashcroft, a man once close to his father, had been chosen by his mother long ago to be his wife. Over the years of growing up together with her and her brother, Dante, something deeper had formed. He had come to care for her, perhaps even love her, though that part of him remained buried beneath his focus on duty. 

"I have decided to judge this planet for destruction," he declared, the finality in his tone undeniable. 

Celia's gaze sharpened, her thoughts aligning with his effortlessly. "Your judgment aligns with mine," she said softly, though there was steel in her words. "This world lost its way long ago when they began war against each other." 

He nodded, eyes narrowing as the gravity of his task settled on him fully. "Looks like I have a big report to write when we return home." 

Turning to her brother, Celia's voice took command. "Dante, summon the portal. He has a judgment to complete." 

As the swirling energy of the portal began to take shape in the sky above them, Ronan reached for his armor. Its pristine white gleamed under the dimming light, a symbol of his divine role as the God of Creation. Golden energy coursed through the intricate lines etched into the armor, glowing like veins of raw power, pulsating with purpose. He suited up with deliberate precision, each piece locking into place as if it were part of his very essence. 

Far above the planet, the sky itself seemed to part as a streak of light shot down from the heavens. The satellite had done its part, launching his weapon from orbit with pinpoint accuracy. A brilliant spear-like polearm tore through the atmosphere, its descent burning with fiery intensity. And then, in one breathtaking moment, it arrived. The polearm halted just before reaching the ground, hovering in front of him, the very air humming with its power. 

With a mere flick of his wrist, the weapon snapped into his grip as though it had been waiting its entire existence to be held by him. The golden energy from his armor surged into the polearm, igniting it with divine brilliance. He stood now, a force of judgment, The god of creation ready to pass his final sentence with his weapon Traphel. 

His eyes, burning with purpose, turned towards the horizon. The time had come. The end was near. 

With his weapon in hand, Ronan shot into the sky with a speed that defied comprehension, leaving a powerful gust in his wake. The winds roared as he moved, creating fierce currents that whipped across the planet's surface, causing devastation in his path. Tornadoes formed in the atmosphere, howling across the land and sea, wreaking havoc upon the unsuspecting inhabitants below. Buildings were torn apart, forests flattened, and the sky darkened with the chaos of wind and storm. 

In mere moments, he reached the planet's northern pole, his destination. The air itself seemed to tremble at his arrival, the pressure shifting ominously as Ronan floated above the frozen, barren landscape. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, as if the catastrophe unfolding around him were nothing more than a routine duty. Yet his heart remained steady, driven by a singular purpose—the throne awaited, and this judgment was but a step toward it. 

Hovering in place, his voice cut through the chaos like a divine commandment. "I, Ronan Arcanveil, summon the judgment of this planet, deemed unworthy of life." His words echoed across the pole, infused with the weight of a god's decree. 

He raised his polearm high, its tip glowing with divine energy, radiating power. "System Command: Authority of Creation 30%, Authority of Destruction 40%" 

With an unyielding force, he thrust the polearm into the ground. The ground beneath him responded on its own as if it were alive, cracking from the spontaneous impact. Volcanic eruptions began ripping through the crust, dried lava poured out in a terrifying display of destruction, and the planet shook violently as earthquakes ripped from the poles, shaking cities and continents to their foundations. Cracks splintered across the surface, swallowing anything in their path as the planet's core began to destabilize. 

The living felt it—their impending doom. Fear gripped their hearts as the ground crumbled beneath their feet, and the skies above seemed to collapse. Regret and guilt spread like wildfire among them as they realized the futility of their existence, the wars they had waged, the life they had squandered. They looked to the heavens for mercy, but none would come. 

The destruction was slow, agonizing, and absolute. The planet fractured from within, its life force extinguished by the authority of Ronan's command. It collapsed upon itself, the final remnants of its existence fading into oblivion. 

As the last tremor subsided and the planet dissolved into nothingness, Ronan remained still, observing the aftermath with cold detachment. His task was complete. The world had been judged and destroyed. 

Without a word, he turned away from the desolation, the portal now swirling before him. He stepped through it, the golden light of his polearm still glowing faintly, a reminder of the power he wielded. 

Together, they left the ruins of the doomed world behind, disappearing into the light as the portal closed. Judgment had been passed, and now the throne awaited him. 

The celestial realm turned into an area unlike every other, a sanctuary of mild and purity in which citizens were handpicked from the souls of mortals, chosen not through repute or wealth, but due their personality and usefulness to the world. 

This meticulous choice method had brought about the celestial town to progress rapidly into an exceptional hub of information, awareness, and innovation. The idea of such an high-quality city was the brainchild of Ronan, whose insight and compassion had earned him the admiration of the realm's people. His brilliance knew no bounds, and it was his visionary method that allowed the celestial realm to develop stronger. 

Even hell, which had once been a regular danger to the heaven, was restructured underneath Ronan's guidance, rendering the devastating war inside the fourth cycle all however meaningless. 

From an early age, Ronan had been cherished and nurtured with the aid of his mother and father—Cyrus Arcenveil and Elara Arcenveil—whose affection knew no bounds. They created a place for him filled with warm temperature and care, wrapping him inside the safety of their love. Their home changed into a place in which pleasure bloomed like plant life within the springtime, each corner brimming with laughter and lifestyles. 

He remembered the candy heady scent of the gardens where his dad and mom could sit down with him and his sister, Liviya Arcanveil, his twin who shared his immortal blood. The two had been inseparable, greater than just siblings. They were explorers, adventurers who roamed the celestial forests, climbed its golden mountains, and dove into its crystal-clean lakes. 

In the words of his parents, Ronan not only got entertainment, but also got his future results. Cyrus spoke of past battles, where courage defines victory, while Elara weaves tales of kindness and compassion, always reminding them that true strength is in the heart. 

These moments are etched in Ronan's memory, precious childhood moments which made him the man he is today and gave the shape. Livia, with her sharp wit and mischievous smile is always by his side, defying him, laughing with him, their bond stronger than the storms life can throw at them 

The realm of heaven always looked up to their family as an example, a beacon of unity and love. Cyrus and Elara instilled in their children the virtues of honesty, integrity, and indissoluble family ties, while the laughter the foursome shared at every public gathering was a reminder that power does not corrupt those who rule with compassion .For Ronan, their teachings were more than lessons—they were the foundation from which he would one day lead the realm of heaven. 

As Ronan approached the gates of the celestial realm that day, it became not simply the load of his achievements that pressed on his coronary heart, but the joy of returning to his circle of relatives after twenty long years. 

The streets have been alive with power, the cheers of the celestial citizens ringing within the air, a celebration of his positive return. His name echoed from each corner as children waved banners, and adults bowed in reverence. The joy was palpable, a wave of warmth that washed over him as he made his way through the group, his eyes trying to find the faces that mattered maximum. 

And there she came—Liviya Arcenveil. She stood at the threshold of the grand plaza, her hands crossed, an amused smile gambling on her lips as she watched her brother technique. The years had been kind to her, and despite the passage of time, she still carried that identical spark of mischief that Ronan had usually adored. Without hesitation, he made his way to her, his coronary heart swelling with joy at the sight of his dual. 

"I missed you, sister! When was the last time we met?" Ronan's voice became thick with emotion, though he tried to hold it light. 

"Twenty years, idiot! And it seems like you've got any other chance to flex in the front of my sister-in-law," she teased, her tone playful as she nudged him with her elbow. 

Ronan chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I bet you'll have to call me 'His Majesty' now," he quipped, flashing her a smirk. 

"As if I will call you that," she shot lower back, her laughter infectious, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. 

Their banter felt like a bomb, easing the weariness that had settled in his bones after years of being away. But the actual second of fulfillment came when Ronan moved to include his father. Cyrus, robust and proud, stood expecting his son, his eyes shining with delight. The weight of the years melted away as Ronan stepped into his father's palms, feeling the comfort of that embrace, a reassurance that he had finally come home. 

"Father, I did it! I did it!" Ronan's voice changed into a combination of excitement and relief, his heart pounding with the joys of achievement. 

Cyrus chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "Alright, I realize you probably did it. Now stop being a kid—" 

But the sentence hung unfinished within the air. In that instantaneous, the warm temperature that had filled Ronan's coronary heart become ripped away, changed by using a chilly, creeping dread. A shadow handed over the solar, casting the world in a muted, eerie mild. Time regarded to slow as a chill swept through the plaza, ignored by way of the group nonetheless cheering. Ronan's senses sharpened, his instincts flaring, warning him of the darkness that had unexpectedly descended upon this moment of pleasure. 

He pulled far from his father, his eyes widening in horror. There, standing before him, was a sight that twisted his soul—a sword, bloodied and merciless, became lodged in his father's chest. The vibrant, regal robes Cyrus clothes were stained with red blood, and the light in his eyes become fading speedy. The fragrance of blood, metal and sharp, crammed the air, clashing with the candy perfume of the vegetation that surrounded them. It was a merciless irony, this splendor combined with dying. 

Ronan's breath hitched as his eyes dropped to his personal chest. A gaping wound stared again at him, dark blood pouring from it, the warmth of life speedy leaving his frame. The global round him have become a blur, the cheers of the crowd now remote, as if they came from any other international totally. The blissful birthday celebration were shattered, replaced through chaos and horror. 

Then came the very last blow—the sword, as soon as lodged in both his and his father's chests, become yanked free with a vicious pull. The person holding the sword it was none apart from Draven Ashcroft, his uncle, a person Ronan had trusted with his existence. A man he had loved as own family. 

As panic set in, Ronan grew to become, his eyes attempting to find his mother. What he noticed ripped what little remained of his heart to shreds. Elara, his cherished mother, lay dead on the ground, her mild snuffed out, her frame still and cold. "Mother!" he screamed, his voice uncooked with pain. His thoughts raced as he frantically searched for Liviya. Where became she? Had she met the same destiny? His coronary heart clenched with terror as his eyes darted round, but she turned into nowhere to be discovered. 

Behind him, he could make out the confused voices of his companions—Celia and Dante—rushing toward him. Their faces contorted in terror, disbelief writing in every angle as they tried to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before them 

"Ronan!" he said. he said, smirking. Celia's voice broke through the haze of pain and confusion. "what happened?" 

But Ronan couldn't answer. His ears had dropped, replaced by a deep, eerie silence. The world around him blurred into vague shapes, as if reality itself was slipping away. He could no longer feel the warmth of his father's embrace, only the cold, empty coldness of lies. His eyes met Draven's, and in that moment the weight of the lie fell on him like a rolling wave. "why?" He whispered, his voice barely audible, frustration heavy on every sound. His knees buckled, the ground rose to meet his fall, and the last of the light faded from his vision. 

As the darkness overtook him, a burning question gripped Ronan's heart: Why had this happened?