The gods had never known fear.
They were eternal, beyond death and decay, masters of the universe and creators of worlds. Their reign stretched across the heavens, across the realms of mortals and the divine. There had been challengers before, those who dared to defy them, but none had ever threatened their dominion in the way that Azrael did.
The news had spread like wildfire: Lucifer, the ruler of Hell, the fallen prince of light, had been reduced to nothing.
The gods sat in silence, their faces as impassive as stone. Yet, deep within their immortal hearts, something stirred. A faint tremor, an ancient unease, echoed through their ranks. Lucifer—who ruled hell, and watched over—was gone. Not killed, not merely overthrown. He had been erased.
Azrael was no god. No mortal either. He was something far more insidious. A force that defied the very laws of existence. A being of pure malice, a harbinger of death, whose very touch unraveled reality itself. His immortality was unlike any other—he was dead, yet alive. A walking contradiction. His existence was anathema to the gods' very concept of eternity.
As the gods gathered in their celestial halls, a quiet dread settled over them. Despite their eternal strength, despite their power over creation and destruction, they could not understand Azrael. And that uncertainty, that lack of control, gnawed at them.
They had thought they could control him. They had thought they could bend him to their will.
When Azrael had been in Hell, the gods saw him as an opportunity—a puzzle to be solved. If they could strip away his humanity, his weakness, perhaps they could contain him, understand the power he wielded. Perhaps, in the depths of their arrogance, they believed they could turn him into a tool.
But they had been wrong.
They tried to take his humanity, rip away his soul and leave him a soulless shell. They dissected him, breaking him down piece by piece, trying to find the source of his immortality, his dark power. They tried to make him just another prisoner in their realm, to tear him apart and study what made him tick.
But instead, they only unleashed more horror.
When they removed the human parts of him, Azrael's form did not wither. Instead, it twisted. His human face, once soft, once an echo of the mortality he had once known, became a grotesque mockery. The gods watched in silence as his features warped—his eyes hollow, black as the void, the skin of his face stretching and pulling in unnatural ways. His body was still human, but now it was insidious, a walking nightmare of death itself.
The gods had tried to strip away his humanity—but in doing so, they had created something far worse
As Tarthelos, the God of Wisdom, stood in the divine council, his voice echoed through the vast halls of the celestial realm. The gods, weary from the threats Azrael posed, gathered to hear his decree. His brilliant eyes shimmered with the weight of countless eons of knowledge and experience.
"Azrael, the embodiment of death and decay, is a force we cannot control. His existence is anathema to our very nature. However, I propose a solution—one that could balance the forces at play, and perhaps provide a safeguard against the chaos he brings."
A hushed silence fell upon the gathering of gods. Tarthelos continued, his gaze steady and filled with purpose.
"We need to create a being, not born of malice or destruction, but of order, life, and restoration. A force to counter Azrael's unrelenting shadow, a being who embodies hope, renewal, and balance."
His voice rang with authority. "We must shape the antithesis of Azrael—a being of pure light, growth, and creation. A protector of life who does not simply oppose Azrael in battle, but in essence. A divine guardian who will bring back that which Azrael seeks to destroy."
The gods looked at each other, some with skepticism, others with a flicker of hope. A being opposite Azrael would not just have to possess unmatched power—it would need to stand firm against the very essence of decay and destruction that Azrael represented. The challenge was monumental, but Tarthelos's wisdom was unquestioned.
One god, Seraphine, the Goddess of Healing and Compassion, spoke up. "We can create such a being—a lightbringer, one who can mend the broken, heal the sick, and restore that which has been lost. A being who walks the mortal plane to undo the damage Azrael causes."
Another god, Valkyria, Goddess of War and Strength, nodded. "A warrior of the light, strong enough to stand against Azrael's endless destruction, but compassionate enough to preserve life. A champion of justice."
Tarthelos smiled, his ancient mind already working through the details. "Yes, this being should not simply be an equal match to Azrael in terms of power, but someone who can undo the suffering he leaves in his wake. A being of infinite mercy, yet unyielding in the defense of life."
The gods, with Tarthelos at their helm, began to work on this new creation. They forged Liora, a being whose very presence would cleanse the world of darkness, whose touch would heal the afflicted and restore hope to the hopeless.
Liora was designed to be a guardian of all that is good, a protector of creation. Where Azrael represented the end, Liora would be the beginning. Where Azrael spread plague, Liora would spread vitality. Where Azrael crushed the spirit, Liora would uplift the soul.
But the gods knew that Liora's strength was not in her ability to fight Azrael alone. It would be in her capacity to revive what was lost and turn despair into hope. She would be a symbol of the undying will of life, a beacon that would shine even in the darkest of times.
And so, Liora was born—a perfect opposite to Azrael, crafted not from destruction, but from creation itself.