The Eternal Chronicle
I remember the moment when all things began to fade—a final sliver of awareness slipping into oblivion. In that hushed, fragile instant, as the dying light cast long, trembling shadows upon a world on the edge of silence, I felt every breath heavy with the weight of an ending. Yet beneath that waning glow, a solitary spark of hope endured—a luminous ember defying the encroaching dark.
In that twilight hour, when the universe itself seemed to hold its breath, I stood at the threshold of eternity. The air shimmered with an otherworldly energy, and in the midst of that fading splendor, two souls emerged: one woven from the delicate threads of mortal longing, the other a celestial essence, aglow with ancient light. Their presence transcended form—a human spirit steeped in pain and determination, and a divine spirit, gentle and eternal.
I spoke then, my voice trembling yet resolute, as if echoing through the corridors of time:
"Everything... everything is fading. In this last breath, as time holds its final pulse, I feel the inevitable loss seeping in. At the edge of oblivion, a peculiar essence clings stubbornly—a spark of hope amid desolation, a promise that even in endings, new beginnings lie hidden."
As the light dimmed and the silent guardians of fate bore witness, a tapestry of grief and fragile hope was woven in that suspended moment. The cool embrace of the fading day, the gentle rhythm of a heartbeat on the verge of surrender, and the timeless presence of a soul not born of this earth—all converged in a declaration of quiet resolve.
With these words, the ephemeral boundaries between dusk and dawn blurred, and the universe seemed to whisper that every farewell carries within it the seed of renewal. In that sacred pause, as the last vestiges of light yielded to night, the quiet murmur of another voice stirred—a voice imbued with both celestial grace and human yearning.
And so, as the fading glow gave way to the gentle cadence of destiny, the dialogue between these two souls began to unfurl—each word a bridge between mortal sorrow and divine hope, a testament to the timeless dance of endings and rebirth.
In the soft murmur of twilight, the conversation of these intertwined souls is about to begin…
Akito (soft, exhaling slowly, a bitter smile curling at the edges of his lips)
"So this is it, huh? The final act?"
(His voice carries no fear—only a strange, knowing acceptance. As if this was always meant to be. As if he had walked this path before.)
Seralyn (whispering, steady but aching)
"No one has ever had a choice. Not truly."
(Akito's eyes flicker open—barely, just enough to search her face. Something in her voice, in her stillness, tells him she is not just speaking of this moment. She is speaking of every moment before it. Of every step he has taken to get here.)
Akito (softly, almost to himself)
"Then even freedom is just a mirage. A beautiful lie we tell ourselves to bear the weight of fate."
(Seralyn does not deny it. The silence between them answers louder than words ever could.)
Seralyn (gaze locked on his, voice heavy with time itself)
"Freedom is not a lie, Akito. It's a thread woven too deep to be undone. Your choices were yours… but the weight behind them? That was always waiting for you."
(A bitter chuckle escapes Akito's lips, fading as quickly as it came. He coughs, the taste of iron settling on his tongue like an unspoken truth.)
Akito (voice weaker, reflective)
"Then this was always where I would end. This precipice… my ordained fall."
(His gaze drifts upward, as if searching for something beyond the sky. Beyond time.)
Akito (voice barely a whisper, as if remembering something lost in the fog of lifetimes past)
"Seralyn… have we… ever stood in this place before?"
(Seralyn does not answer. Not at first. Instead, her breath hitches, a sound so small, yet it shatters the air between them. Then—slowly, painfully—she nods. A movement so slight, yet it holds the weight of eternity.)
(Akito watches. And in his dimming eyes, understanding dawns—quiet, weary, accepting.)
Akito (a final, exhaled thought, softer than the wind itself)
"Again, then."
(His eyelids flutter, closing like the last page of a book read too many times. A faint sigh escapes him, not of suffering, but of release. As if, for the first time, he is at peace with the inevitable.)
(Seralyn watches. And though she has seen this scene before—felt this grief carve itself into her bones time and time again—this time, something breaks. A tear spills, tracing a slow, solitary path down her cheek. A single, silent witness to the weight of a thousand goodbyes.)
Seralyn (softly, almost trembling)
"You were always meant to find me... and I was always meant to lose you."
(Her voice fractures at the edges, splintering like a blade pressed too hard against stone. Akito, even in his fading, hears it. And somehow, he still finds the strength to offer her the smallest of smiles.)
Akito (whispering, regret laced in warmth)
"It must be hard for you… watching me die. Again and again."
(Seralyn swallows hard, her hands clenching into fists. The weight of history, of memory, of knowing what comes next—it is unbearable. And yet, she bears it still.)
Seralyn (voice raw, breaking under its own weight)
"Compared to my pain… my pain never ends. Yours does."
Akito (eyes closing, voice barely audible)
"I'm sorry, Seralyn."
(A pause. A hesitation. Then—her voice, trembling, barely a whisper.)
Seralyn (a confession, an unspoken prayer)
"'Tis I who needs forgiveness… I couldn't save you. Not the boy you once were, nor the warrior you became. I hold on, though I know I cannot keep you."
(Her breath shudders. A single, irrevocable truth spills from her lips—the one truth she can never escape.)
Seralyn (softly, yet heavy with the weight of lifetimes)
"My sorrow is of my own making."
(And in that moment, as the words settle between them, Akito understands. Truly, finally, understands.)
(The world felt too still, as if it too was holding its breath. The cycle had never allowed hesitation before—it moved with the relentless, unyielding force of time itself. Yet here, now, something wavered. Something cracked.)
(Seralyn's sorrow was of her own making. And for the first time, Akito truly understood.)
(The weight of it settled in his chest like stone. Her suffering, her choice to stay—none of it was bound by duty or fate. She had carried this burden not because she was forced to, but because she chose to. Again and again.)
Akito (whispering to himself, realization sharp as a blade)
"She was never bound like I was. She could have left."
(His breath hitched. The thought was like a foreign thing, jagged and raw. And yet, it fit. It made too much sense.)
(She had watched him fall, had stood beside him, knowing the inevitable outcome, knowing the pain that would come. She could have walked away. She never did.)
(Because she saw him as hers to protect.)
(Not as a warrior. Not as a soldier in a war lost before it began. Not even as a friend.)
(As something more. Something deeper. Something she could never name.)
Akito (eyes darkening, voice thick with grief and understanding)
"Like a mother would."
(The realization was a knife between his ribs, twisting, twisting. He clenched his fists, his breath coming uneven, uneven. He had never seen it before—never let himself see it. But now, it was so painfully clear, so undeniable, it left him reeling.)
(And the worst part? She didn't even know. Not fully. She had spent lifetimes mourning him, believing she had failed, believing it was her fault that he was trapped in this endless, merciless cycle.)
(But it was not her fault. It had never been.)
(The truth settled over him, heavy, crushing. And with it, a terrible certainty took root in his soul: If this cycle continued, she would never be free. She would keep watching him fall, keep breaking, keep carrying the burden of his existence as if it were her own.)
(And that? That was something he could not allow.)
(Resolve coiled around him like steel. The decision had already been made the moment he saw it—truly saw it. If he could not escape, he would end it.)
(For her.)
(His movements were swift, deliberate. The blade was in his hands before she even registered the shift, the soft whisper of steel slicing through the silence like the final note of an unfinished song.)
(Her sword, the one she had carried for lifetimes, the one that had saved him more times than he could remember—now, it would serve its last purpose.)
Akito (softly, a ghost of a smile, a final goodbye wrapped in gratitude)
"Thank you, Seralyn."
(For everything.)
Before she could fully comprehend the irrevocable act unfolding before her, before her trembling hands could even attempt to defy fate, Akito swung the blade with unerring precision—driving it deep into his own chest. In that suspended heartbeat, the universe itself seemed to shudder into silence. His sacrifice was not merely a final act; it was an echo of every ending, a culmination of countless lifetimes of despair and duty. Blood burst forth like a crimson bloom reversing its course, staining that moment with a sorrow far beyond any she had known.
For an instant, agony seared through him—a brief, blinding pain that was quickly overwhelmed by a tide of peace, as if his anguish had been the price for a liberation too long deferred. As his knees buckled under the inexorable pull of gravity, he fixed his gaze on her. In those final, lucid seconds, his eyes shone not with regret, but with an almost sacred serenity—a mirror reflecting not the despair of an ending, but the promise of escape from an eternal cycle.
In that silent communion, his unspoken words reached deep into the recesses of her heart:
Akito :I'm sorry. Be free, Seralyn. You no longer have to bear this burden.
Then, as if time itself exhaled its final breath, his body went limp, collapsing onto the cold, unyielding earth. The sword lay discarded beside him, its purpose fulfilled beyond mortal reckoning. A heavy, absolute silence descended—a silence so potent that it seemed as though the cosmos had paused to mourn the loss of a spirit brave enough to shatter the chains of fate.
Yet for Seralyn, this was no ordinary end. It was the most agonizing culmination of all endings she had borne witness to—each a fragment of perpetual sorrow now coalescing into one final, devastating truth. Her soul, carved from the pallor of endless nights, felt the weight of that silence like an unrelenting storm. The very ground beneath her quivered as if in sympathy, while shadows gathered and the air itself grew thick with unutterable grief.
In that moment, the world around her fractured into a thousand shards of despair. Every heartbeat, every labored breath, became a testament to the unbearable reality of loss. It was as though the cosmos itself had conspired to etch this sorrow into the fabric of existence—a sorrow so profound that even the gods would weep if they could.
The cycle, which had once promised rebirth and continuity, now lay shattered beyond repair. This ending was unlike any other; it was a breaking point, a rupture in the endless march of fate. And as the final vestiges of Akito's light faded, Seralyn was left alone with a truth that resonated with an excruciating clarity: the most searing grief is that which is born not of destiny, but of the choices we make—and the unbearable cost of those choices.
In the silence that followed, amid the echo of her own ragged breaths, she understood with a painful, crystalline certainty that this was the saddest ending of all. It was a sorrow that was hers alone—a sorrow of her own making.
In the aftermath of that shattering, soul-wrenching end, a new resolve began to kindle within her—a quiet, algorithmic calculation born not of fear, but of a transcendent clarity. Seralyn's eyes, already filled with celestial sorrow, now shone with a determination that transcended the familiar cycle of endless loss. She saw it clearly: the outcome of this ending was different, a spark that held the promise of a new beginning.the cycle had repeated with relentless precision—each ending a mere prelude to another futile reunion, each ritual an echo of the same despair. But now, as she gazed upon Akito's still form, something shifted within her. No longer would she accept the fate that had long chained them both. She knew that his final act was more than a surrender—it was a calculated step
Her mind raced, swift and sharp as that of a higher being, deciphering the intricate algorithm of their intertwined fates. She recognized that the ritual he had performed was not simply an end but an invitation—a silent promise that, should the sacred rite be reactivated, they might one day meet again. This time, however, the outcome would not be the same; it would be born of her will, not the immutable decree of the cycle.
Without a trace of fear or hesitation—only a resolute defiance that bordered on divine clarity—Seralyn reached out. She took Akito's cold, blood-stained hand, feeling the echo of his sacrifice pulse through her fingertips. With delicate, determined care, she guided his trembling fingers to trace the ancient, sigil-carved symbols upon his skin. Each stroke was a deliberate act of rebellion, a prayer against the endless night that had so long bound them.
In that moment, as the sacred symbols were inscribed with his blood—the very ink of their shared fate—Seralyn vowed to restart the cycle. This was not a return to old despair; it was the birth of a new era, an opportunity to rewrite destiny with the fierce, uncompromising hope that had eluded them for so many lifetimes.
Her voice, soft yet resolute, carried through the heavy silence:
Seralyn"I will not let our fate remain unchanged. This ending... it is different. It is the beginning of our liberation."
And so, with the weight of the past easing beneath the promise of a future rewritten, Seralyn embraced her role—not as a mourner bound by grief, but as a guardian of hope. Determined to defy the ancient cycle, she set forth to reshape their destiny, to forge a path where endings gave way to new beginnings, and where their souls, scarred by countless farewells, could one day be reunited in a dawn that transcended despair.
There were endings, and then there was this.
Seralyn had watched countless cycles, each shattering into the next, an unbroken chain of ruin and renewal. She had endured tragedy, bore witness to sorrow, and learned to accept that even loss was never truly final. Every fall had always led to another rise. Every death, another beginning.
But now—this was different.
This was not the closing of a cycle. This was annihilation.
For the first time, the spiral did not return to its origin. It did not coil back into itself, did not whisper of second chances. Time, which had always bent, now stood still, cold and unyielding.
Akito lay before her, his breath shallow, his presence fading. Seralyn's mind worked faster than her body could move, calculations unraveling like threads of fate, tracing every possibility, every variation—none led to survival. None led to another chance.
For the first time, she saw an outcome she could not accept.
For the first time, she felt fear.
Her fingers tightened around his. He no longer had the strength to carve the symbols himself. It didn't matter. She would do it for him.
With steady hands, she guided his trembling fingers across the space between them. The first sigil formed, glowing faintly, its lines bending reality itself. The ritual was beginning.
It had to work.
It would work.
A perfect ring took shape beneath Akito's touch, shimmering with the weight of eternity. The Chronos Circle—the unbroken law of time, ever-flowing, ever-consuming. A silent witness to all things lost, to all things yet to come.
A line followed, stretching infinitely from one end to another—the Temporal Line, marking the passage of all that had been and all that would be. A road without deviation, without mercy.
Seralyn swallowed back the rising dread in her chest. No. Not yet. Not this time.
She moved his hand again, forcing the next mark. A spiral unfolded, curling inward, collapsing to a single point before breaking outward once more. The Spiral of Return. The law that all things must come back—again and again, bound by fate, bound by time.
But even fate could fracture.
Even time could be stolen.
Another shape emerged, drawn with desperation. A simple form, a figure crowned with a single hollow circle. The Soul Glyph. A fragile thing, a tether between body and eternity, the promise that existence does not fade into nothingness.
But Akito was fading.
Seralyn pressed on, forcing movement, forcing the symbols to take form, to hold. An hourglass with no sand, an empty vessel caught between past and future. The Hourglass of Flow.
The air around them grew heavy. Reality strained under the weight of what she was doing.
She ignored it.
The final symbol took shape—a diamond enclosing a single point of light. The Locus Point. The anchor. The final tether. The one place where existence must remain.
The lines pulsed with energy. The symbols burned themselves into the fabric of time, defying its stillness, rejecting its finality.
Seralyn's grip on Akito tightened.
"He must reset the cycle," she whispered, her voice trembling, filled with both conviction and dread.
Seralyn's "I must return him to the anchor. I have to do this."
Even if it meant tearing apart time itself.
The Eternal Chronicle
I have watched.
I have watched every cycle, every return, every departure. I have seen the rise and fall of moments so many times that time itself has lost meaning. I have watched Akito perform the ritual, as he always had, as he always must. His hands had carved the symbols, his voice had woven the words, the spell had unraveled the old and stitched the new.
And yet—this time, it had been different.
This time, he had not stood.
This time, he had not spoken.
This time, he had died.
This was beyond anything I had ever seen. This was not how the cycle moved. The spell had never been cast like this. The cycle had always begun with his hands, his voice, his will. But now—now there was only silence.
And Seralyn?
She had knelt beside him, her fingers pressing against the still-warm skin of the boy who had never failed, who had never faltered, who had never left the ritual undone.
The symbols had been drawn. She had known the steps, and she had followed them.
A perfect ring—the Chronos Circle, the law of time itself.
A line stretching endlessly—the Temporal Line, the unyielding path of fate.
A spiral curling inward, then breaking outward—the Spiral of Return, the truth that all things must begin again.
A fragile glyph—the Soul Mark, the tether between life and eternity.
The hourglass with no sand—the Hourglass of Flow, waiting for time to move once more.
And the final mark—the Locus Point, the anchor of existence.
Yes, she had known the steps. She had always known them.
But knowing had not been enough.
The ritual had two parts.
The preparation—the drawing of the sigils.
And the incantation—the words that only Akito had ever spoken.
Without the words, the ritual was incomplete. Without the words, the cycle could not begin.
She had to have known this.
And yet—she had not stopped.
Perhaps she had believed that if she only tried, she would not feel the weight of his lifeless body against her.
Perhaps she had believed that if she only acted, she would not bear the guilt of failing him.
Perhaps she had already known that nothing would change, that the cycle was broken, that this time, there was no return.
And yet—she had carved the last symbol.
She had pressed his fingers to it, as if his body might remember what his voice could no longer say.
She had waited.
And I, The Eternal Chronicle, had waited with her.
Seralyn stood at the threshold of something unseen, something that even my gaze could not fully comprehend. It was the first time I had witnessed this, the first time I had seen the Seven summoned. For all my eternal knowledge, for all the moments I have inscribed into the tapestry of time, this moment was unknown to me. And so, for the first time, I stood merely as a watcher, as a witness to the unfolding of something greater than history itself.
Seralyn took a breath, steadying herself against the weight of what was to come. Her voice, though quiet, carried the weight of celestial command, an invocation bound to the very fabric of existence.
"Divine Summoning Arts—Manifest, O Seven of Light; respond to my call and stand before me. By the bond that binds us, I summon you to fulfill your purpose."
As the final syllable left her lips, the world trembled in answer. The air vibrated, distorting as though reality itself recoiled and reformed around the incantation. Shimmering waves of energy pulsed outward, bending space and twisting the unseen forces that lay beneath mortal perception. A great and unfathomable power surged forth, divine energy flooding the chamber, a force beyond anything Seralyn had ever known.
Then, before my eternal sight, something astonishing occurred. A barrier of divine light emerged, expanding outward until it sealed the chamber in radiance. And in that instant, I could see no more.
This was the Divine Domain—a sanctum beyond the reach of even my gaze. For the first time, I could not inscribe what lay beyond that threshold. I could not perceive the moment that followed. The Summoning of the Seven was an event veiled even from me, for within this sacred boundary, only they could bear witness. What transpired within was known only to Seralyn, the Seven, and the will of the divine itself.
But though I could not see, I could still feel. The air outside the barrier shifted, thick with an aura unlike any I had recorded before. This was not the overwhelming presence of power, nor the oppressive weight of fate bending to divine will. No—this was something different. Something humbling.
For all their might, for all their celestial grandeur, the Seven were not beings of dominance. They were not forces that ruled through sheer supremacy. No, as they emerged before Seralyn, something profound took hold. A presence so great that even time itself seemed to kneel before it—a reverence not born of fear, but of absolute devotion.
Inside the Divine Domain, Seralyn stood at the center of it all. And though I could no longer see her, I knew: for the first time, the Seven Archangels saw her not just as their King, but as something more. Something raw. Something real.
And in that moment, I understood. Even the mightiest beings are not immune to the weight of their choices. Even the divine can be humbled—not by power, but by purpose.
Thus, I waited outside the veil, unable to witness but keenly aware. And though I could not record what lay beyond that sacred light, I knew this: when Seralyn emerged, she would not be the same.
The Prologue
The Seven Archangels arrived, their presence heralded by a surge of radiant energy. They did not manifest power, nor did they seek to display it—for they had none beyond what was given by the one they served. Their forms shimmered with divine light, yet they stood only in reverence before Seralyn, unwavering in their devotion.
But something was different.
Never before had they seen Seralyn like this. Never had they seen their King—unchallenged, unshaken—so deeply affected. The stillness in the air was not one of majesty, but of sorrow. An ache that reverberated through existence itself.
The Archangels knelt as one, their movements slow, deliberate. Not merely an act of obedience, but of understanding. Of solidarity.
Seven Archangels (in unison): "Yes, my King."
Their divine presence merged into a protective sphere, forming a sanctuary around Seralyn and Akito, shielding them from the world beyond. The light they wove was not an act of power, but of purpose—an extension of their eternal service to the one they followed without question.
And within that light, Seralyn's voice cut through the silence, sharp with desperation.
Akito lay lifeless before her. The mortal she had come to cherish—fading, slipping beyond her grasp. The sight carved into her like a blade, deep and merciless. Time was an enemy she could not strike down, and it was running out.
Seralyn (her voice trembling, yet resolute): "Mendarel, I call upon you. Heal Akito's body. Restore what has been broken. Mend his fragile form."
Mendarel, Guardian of Healing, stepped forward without hesitation. Bound by fate, by duty, by something far greater than himself. The energy surrounding him pulsed in rhythm with the weight of the moment. Yet even as his hands hovered over Akito, there was a stillness to him—a reverence that carried the ghost of uncertainty.
Seralyn :Mendarel (softly, yet with unwavering devotion): "Understood, my Lord… I shall obey."
The chamber hums with a faint, trembling light, Mendarel's divine energy forming a fragile cocoon around Akito's lifeless form. The glow pulses weakly, its rhythm unsteady, as though struggling to hold onto existence itself. Seralyn stands before him, her presence an unshakable force, the weight of her command pressing upon the air. The other Archangels stand in solemn silence, watching, waiting.
Mendarel (kneeling, his voice steady but laced with sorrow):
"My King, I have bound together the shattered. I have woven flesh where there was none, returned breath to those whom time had forsaken. But this..." (He hesitates, the flickering glow reflecting in his downcast eyes.) "This is beyond my hands."
Seralyn (her voice edged with a rare fragility, but unwavering):
"There is nothing beyond you. You are the Guardian of Healing. If his body is broken, then restore it. If his life wanes, then call it back. You have done it before. You will do it now."
Mendarel (his head bowing lower, voice heavy with reverence):
"My King… I do not doubt Your will. Nor do I waver in my service. But there are wounds that do not belong to flesh. There are fractures that no hand, mortal or divine, may mend."
Seralyn (a sharp intake of breath, her fists clenching at her sides):
"He has to finish the ritual. He has to speak the words. Without them, all is lost. This war, this struggle—his struggle—it will all be for nothing. I will not allow that to happen."
Heal him, if only for a moment, enough to allow him to speak,
Mendarel (his voice lowering to a whisper, weighted with something ancient and sorrowful):
"My King… light does not disappear in an instant. It fades. Slowly, gently, as though the universe itself cannot bear to part with it. But there comes a moment… when even the stars must accept the dark."
Seralyn (her voice cold, commanding):
"I will not accept it."
Mendarel (his hands hovering over Akito's still chest,):
"I cannot heal a body that the soul has already abandoned. It is the soul that mends the flesh, not the other way around. As I deepen my power, I channel it through the essence of the soul itself, but his soul… has already been claimed. The path to healing lies not in my hands, but in what remains of him."
(He looks up, his eyes meeting Seralyn's with a weight of profound understanding.)
"I cannot force the soul to return; I can only guide it. If it chooses to return, then the body will heal, but without that, nothing can be done."
"Forgive me, My King…. I have searched for the thread that binds him to this world, but it is slipping. And I… I cannot reach it."
Seralyn (stepping forward, her presence a crushing force against the silence):
"Then reach farther."
Mendarel (his breath shallow, his hands falling away as the last flickers of light dissipate):
"I have tried. I have given all that I am. But My King…."
A silence deeper than the abyss settles between them. The other Archangels shift, the weight of the moment pressing even upon their immortal forms.]
Second Archangel (softly, yet with the same unwavering reverence):
"My King, would You ask the river why it cannot flow backward? Would You command the sun not to set? Some forces do not bend, even to the divine."
Seralyn (her voice brittle, sharp as fractured glass):
"Do not speak to Me of inevitability. There is always a way. You will find it."
Mendarel (his head lowering, his voice carrying the weight of an unbearable truth):
"My King, this is not a matter of will, nor of power. It is the nature of what we are. We may delay. We may mend. But we do not command life itself. We do not pull souls from the abyss, nor do we weave them back into being once they have begun their journey beyond." (His voice falters, breaking slightly as he kneels fully, pressing his forehead to the ground.) "My King… ....
Seralyn (her breath sharp, unsteady—her fury a silent storm):
"No. You have not failed Me. You will not fail Me. You will try again."
Seralyn (her body trembling, though from grief or rage, even she does not know):
"He is still here. He is slipping, not gone. There is time. There must be time."
Mendarel hesitated, his hands trembling as they hovered over the pulsing purple box that enveloped Akito. The glow, once steady and resolute, now flickered erratically, its light dimming with each passing second. His arms, heavy with the weight of futility, began to lower despite his desperate will to keep them raised. It was a silent admission, a gesture laden with sorrow—the healing was not working.
Mendarel (his voice strained, barely above a whisper):
"My King... I have never failed in my duty. Not once. Not in all the ages I have served. But as the universe had a beginning, so too does my failure begin now."
His words hung in the air, thick with anguish, as he slowly withdrew his hands. The purple box dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the cold stillness of the room behind. Mendarel's shoulders slumped under the weight of his own grief, and for the first time, Seralyn saw the cracks in his divine composure. He knelt before her, his head bowed low, his voice breaking as he spoke.
Mendarel (his voice a mournful resonance, each syllable heavy with celestial sorrow):
Mendarel"My King... I am sorry. He has ascended beyond the reach of even the divine."
Seralyn's eyes burned into Mendarel as his trembling hands fell away, the last remnants of the purple glow dissolving like smoke in a tempest. His words—if he had spoken them—were lost to her entirely, drowned out by the deafening roar of his failure. Her chest tightened, each breath sharper than the last, as an unrelenting tide of fury surged within her veins. Something primal awakened—a power that had lain dormant, buried beneath centuries of restraint.
An aura unlike anything ever seen burst forth from her, shattering the fragile stillness of the room. It was blinding, a searing white light so pure it should have been holy—but instead, it felt wrong. Heavy. Oppressive. Like staring into the heart of a sun that refused to warm. The air around her twisted and churned, bending under the sheer weight of her presence. This was not just the power of an Angel King—it was the collective wrath of every king who had come before her, channeled through her very soul. Yet it was darker, heavier, suffused with a desperation that bordered on madness.
The light may have been white, but it carried shadows within it—shadows born of grief, anger, and something far more dangerous: defiance against the natural order itself.
Mendarel staggered back, his composure cracking for the first time in millennia. Fear—not for his own fate, but for hers—seized him. He had served countless rulers across eons, witnessed their triumphs and failures alike, but never had he encountered such raw, volatile energy. It wasn't merely divine; it was cataclysmic. A force that could unravel worlds if left unchecked. Even the fabric of existence seemed to recoil, trembling under the weight of her rising ire.
Then came her voice—a thunderclap that tore through the warped atmosphere, sharp enough to cleave mountains in two. Each word dripped with venomous fury, cutting deeper than any blade forged by mortal or celestial hands.
Seralyn (her voice a tempest of rage, shaking the very foundations of the chamber):
"Mandarel! Who gave you permission to lower your arms?! Who gave you leave to stop?! "
Mendarel remained frozen, his gaze lowered as if the weight of his failure pressed upon every fiber of his divine being. Around him, the chamber resonated with an unspoken grief—a quiet lament that even the eternal could not escape. The other Archangels, in their silent vigil, exchanged troubled glances; they, too, were puzzled by why a single mortal body could hold such desperate significance for our King.
In that charged moment, the collective murmur of questions—silent yet piercing—filled the space: Why does that fragile mortal form matter so much? Who is he to her that she would defy the very fabric of existence? What makes him worth this audacious rebellion against fate?
Amid the storm of uncertainty, Mendarel knelt, his voice trembling like a final hymn:
Mendarel (softly):
"My King... his soul is beyond our reach. The mortal remains, but his essence has slipped away. Without it, my art is rendered powerless."
Seralyn's eyes, dark and implacable, burned into his with an intensity that silenced even the whispered doubts of the gathered Archangels. Gone was the gentle aura of mercy—now replaced by a cold, unyielding fury that radiated from her like a tempest. Her presence, monumental and stark, shattered the fragile stillness of the room.
Her voice, when it came, was low and venomous—a blade forged from the raw material of despair and defiance:
Seralyn (with steely resolve):
"If your hands cannot restore him, then they shall be mine to command. You are the Guardian of Healing, and failure is a burden you must not bear."
For a heartbeat, the silence deepened, punctuated only by the faint, wavering pulse of the dying light around Akito. The other Archangels looked on, their celestial forms tense, as the weight of her words carved an immutable decree into the air.
Then, as if compelled by an ancient, inexorable force, Seralyn advanced. Each step resonated with the gravity of a fate rewritten—a destiny too profound to be left unchallenged. The oppressive light that had once bathed the room now seemed to tremble at her command, its brilliance mingling with shadows born of sorrow and a defiant will to change what had been.
Her gaze was unyielding, her tone no longer merely questioning but exalting the cost of failure:
Seralyn (in a low, powerful murmur):
"If your hands are not enough to mend what is lost, then they will answer for their failure. I command you—let no weakness stand in the way of our purpose."
Mendarel, his head bowed in quiet submission, raised his eyes to meet hers—eyes that spoke not of defiance but of an ancient, resigned sorrow. His voice, barely a whisper against the roar of her determination, carried the weight of countless ages:
Mendarel (with deep humility):
"My King... if it pleases you, then let my arms be the price for my failing. I offer them in service, and in hope that, even in my weakness, I might atone for what is irretrievably lost."
In that moment, the chamber became a crucible of raw, unyielding emotion—a place where time itself seemed to slow, allowing each heartbeat, each whispered syllable, to etch itself into the annals of fate. The questions that had haunted the gathered Archangels echoed like an eternal refrain, while Seralyn's unwavering command illuminated the darkness: a promise that no matter the cost, she would defy the inevitable and reshape destiny in the face of unbearable loss.
And as the air trembled with the unspoken might of a King who would not relent, the silence bore witness to her unyielding resolve—a resolve that would not be broken, even by the inexorable passage of time.
And then, without hesitation, Mandarel acted.
With deliberate grace, he extended his left arm before him, steady as though presenting an offering to the heavens themselves. The chamber fell into absolute silence—an absence of sound so profound it felt as though even the fabric of existence held its breath. The other Archangels remained rigid, their radiant eyes wide with shock and awe at what they were about to witness.
Then, in a single, fluid motion, Mandarel brought his right wing forward—not in violence, but with absolute precision. The sharpened edge of his celestial feathers, honed like the blades of divine will, cleaved through his flesh without hesitation. A crystalline sound, like the shattering of glass spun from the dawn itself, echoed through the chamber. His left arm fell away.
Mandarel (a whisper, laced with quiet devotion):
Mandarel"May this serve as proof of my unwavering loyalty, my King. My failure will not go unanswered."
From the wound, liquid gold erupted in radiant torrents, cascading down in molten streams, pooling upon the floor in luminous rivulets. The ichor of an angel—life itself transfigured into light—spilled forth, each drop humming with ineffable power. It painted the cold ground with the essence of sacrifice, and yet, no cry of pain escaped Mandarel's lips. There was only silence. Only resolve.
Seralyn watched, her expression carved from stone, yet within the depths of her gaze, something flickered—a shadow of conflict, of recognition. But she did not move to stop him. This was his choice. His penance. And she would not deny him his offering.
Mandarel's golden blood still dripped from the wound where his left arm had once been, yet he barely seemed to notice. His breath was ragged, his shoulders trembling, but his eyes burned with purpose. He would not stop here. He could not.
Raising his remaining arm before him, he positioned it with the same grim resolve, fingers splayed in silent offering. His left wing, now streaked with his own divine essence, lifted once more. It hovered for just a moment—poised, unwavering—before it began its descent, intent on severing his right arm just as he had done the first.
But then—a blur of movement.
Pacithiel stepped forward.
Before the fatal strike could land, his hand shot out, fingers closing around the base of Mandarel's wing in an iron grip. The force of it halted the motion entirely, bringing the feathered blade to a trembling standstill.
Mandarel's entire body went rigid. His eyes snapped to Pacithiel, shock flickering across his face before rage overtook it.
Mandarel (his voice raw, breaking):
"Why do you stop me?! Do you think I can live with this failure? Do you believe I can bear the weight of my disgrace—of what I failed to do?!"
His voice cracked as he struggled against Pacithiel's grip, wings trembling with exertion. The golden ichor continued to spill from his severed limb, staining the floor in radiant pools, but he fought as if he could bleed forever and still not atone.
The six other Archangels remained motionless, watching the struggle unfold with expressions of quiet dread. None had dared to move before. None had challenged the weight of Seralyn's fury or the madness in Mandarel's eyes. But Pacithiel had.
He stood firm, his grasp unwavering, his voice steady despite the storm raging before him.
Pacithiel (low, resolute):
"Enough, Mandarel. This will not change what has already been lost. You think pain will wash away failure, but all it does is leave you broken. Do not seek redemption in ruin."
Mandarel let out a sharp, gasping breath—half a sob, half a growl of frustration. He pushed harder against Pacithiel's hold, but the Guardian of Reconciliation did not yield.
From the shadows, Seralyn's voice sliced through the thick silence.
Seralyn (cold, unwavering):
"And you, Pacithiel? Are you prepared to pay the price in his stead? Will you stand there, ever serene, while everything crumbles around you?"
Her words carried a weight that pressed down on them all, suffocating and absolute. The fire in her eyes demanded an answer, demanded justification for this defiance.
Yet Pacithiel did not flinch.
He stood.
After a long, measured pause, Pacithiel's voice, steady and resolute, finally emerged:
Pacithiel:
"My King, my arms—and indeed my very life—are yours to command. And even amidst this despair, a fragile hope endures. Perhaps there remains a path to salvation, though the way is shrouded in uncertainty."
The words ripple through the chamber like a faint breeze stirring stagnant air, carrying with them the fragile promise of salvation. For a moment, time seems to pause—the tension in the room crystallizing into something sharper, heavier. Seralyn's breath catches, her fury faltering as the faintest glimmer of possibility takes root in her chest. Her blazing eyes soften slightly, though suspicion lingers in their depths, mingling with the desperate longing that threatens to consume her.
Seralyn (her voice sharp, tinged with both skepticism and desperate longing):
"A path? Reveal it, Pacithiel. Let there be no riddles, no veiled truths— not now."
Prologue:
Pacithiel had always been the wisest among the Seven Archangels, the analytical mind who saw patterns where others saw chaos. He observed each moment with precision, dissecting every word, every movement, as though peeling back the layers of fate itself. While the others grappled with shock or despair, Pacithiel's gaze remained sharp, his thoughts racing ahead like a river carving through stone.
One phrase Seralyn had spoken echoed in his mind, reverberating like a bell tolling across eternity:
"He has to finish the ritual… he has to say the words."
The weight of those words settled over him, their meaning unfolding like the petals of a celestial flower. They became the axis upon which his understanding turned, guiding him toward truths that eluded even the most perceptive of their kind. And then, as if drawn by an unseen force, his eyes lifted, taking in the scene before him with crystalline clarity.
He saw it all—the grief etched into Seralyn's form as she cradled the mortal's lifeless body, the emptiness of Akito's shell, and the faint glow of symbols still lingering on his skin. Each detail resonated within him, piecing together a tapestry of realization that no other angel could have woven.
1-Pacithiel's mind raced, connecting fragments into a cohesive truth
2-The ritual was incomplete
3-It required Akito's voice—his final utterance—to seal its purpose
But Akito's soul was gone, already adrift in the liminal space between death and life, caught in the throes of judgment and reclamation.
His analytical nature drove him further. Why this mortal? Why hinge so much on a fragile human vessel? What greater design did the ritual serve beyond binding them to an endless cycle? Questions swirled, but time did not allow for answers. This was not the hour for contemplation—it was the hour for action.
With quiet resolve, Pacithiel stepped forward, his voice cutting through the suffocating silence like a blade of clarity.
Pacithiel (calm yet resolute):
Pacithiel ("My King, our hope does not lie in reclaiming him—not fully. His soul has crossed into the place between death and life, where it is being judged, argued over, and claimed by forces beyond us. We cannot simply bring him back. But what I can promise is this: we will complete the ritual. Together, we will help him speak the words he could not finish. That is what you need from him, is it not? To fulfill his part?"
Seralyn (her voice breaking, a scream clawing its way from the depths of her soul):
Seralyn"Pacithiel… please! Save him! Bring him back—heal him! If only for a moment, mend his body just enough for him to speak the words. Just enough to complete the ritual—to break this cursed cycle!"
Pacithiel :My King... it comes with a cost."
Seralyn (her voice trembling with desperation, tears streaming down her face):
Seralyn"Any cost! I am willing to pay it—with my life, if that is what it takes. He paid and pledged his life to save mine, and now I cannot even give him ten seconds in return? I will bear this burden, I will endure whatever pain it demands. Please, Pacithiel… hurry. Please."
Prologue:
Pacithiel had already known how to proceed, his analytical mind mapping the path forward with precision. Yet, he hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of the weight of what he was about to say. He was not one to speak of costs lightly, nor was he accustomed to discussing sacrifices if he himself were not the one to bear them. But this time, he understood with crystalline clarity: the price would fall upon him, not his King.
How could it be otherwise? She was the pillar of existence itself, the architect of balance, the creator of purpose. Without her, the universe would unravel into chaos, the scales tipping irreparably toward destruction. Who was he to suggest she sacrifice herself? Her role was far greater than any single being—greater even than Akito, whose mortal body lay lifeless before them. Perhaps, Pacithiel mused, that was why she had forged him, created his purpose—to serve her in moments like this. To step forward when no other could.
And then there was Akito. This fragile, mortal shell carried within it the potential to restore everything. Perhaps Pacithiel's purpose extended beyond serving Seralyn; perhaps it was also tied to saving Akito—and through Akito, saving her and, by extension, the balance of their world. The threads of fate intertwined in ways even he could scarcely comprehend, but one truth stood firm: the cost would not fall on her. It would fall on him.
With careful deliberation, Pacithiel chose his words, each syllable weighed and measured for the gravity they carried.
Pacithiel (his voice calm yet resolute, laced with quiet conviction):
Pacithiel "My King,You are meant to guide him—as you said yourself. I believe you must remain tethered to this mortal, Akito. He is the key to restoring balance. As for the price… it will be mine to pay, my King. I will merge with him—through Elion."
Then I will use his vocal cords to finalize the ritual. The words in a mortal body like this won't come easily—as muscle twitching can still function for up to ten minutes after death. We need to act fast."
As Pacithiel spoke, his intentions became clear: "I will merge with him—
The words struck like lightning, illuminating the hidden meaning behind his earlier cryptic warning about "cost." Realization dawned across the faces of the six Archangels, their radiant forms flickering faintly as shock coursed through them. Whispers of understanding passed between them, soft yet laden with awe.
Amnestis (softly, almost reverently):
"He is willing to give up everything. His divinity, his purpose, his very being—all for the chance to save Akito. For the chance to restore balance."
The gravity of the moment pressing down upon them all. Never before had any Archangel taken such a step. To reduce oneself to Elion was not just sacrifice—it was erasure. Yet here stood Pacithiel, unflinching, prepared to bear that unimaginable burden without hesitation.
Solareth (his voice steady but tinged with disbelief):
Solareth "So this… this was the cost he spoke of. He means to turn himself into
Prologue:
This was no time for weakness, not when the scales of fate hung perilously close to tipping.
Slowly, as though pushing against an unseen force, she raised her head. Her gaze, faltering at first, sharpened as clarity cut through the haze of grief like a shard of moonlight piercing darkness. Tears pooled in her eyes, shimmering like trapped stars, mirroring the storm within. When she spoke, her voice trembled with raw emotion but carried the unyielding strength of centuries—a blade slicing through the heavy silence.
Seralyn (resolute, commanding):
Seralyn"Will it still work, Pacithiel? If you speak the words through his body, will they hold? Will they save him?"
Her words rang out, sharp and deliberate, shaping the moment—and the fates of all who stood witness.
Pacithiel (his voice steady, yet laced with the weight of solemn understanding):
Pacithiel"My King, I do not know the full depth of what this ritual demands beyond the words that must be spoken. But one truth is clear: he cannot speak them himself. His spirit has departed, yet his body still clings to the faintest remnants of life. It is enough. I will use his vocal cords, his mouth, to utter the words needed to complete the spell."
Pacithiel (softly, but resolute, carrying the gravity of the moment):
Pacithiel "Do I have...…, my King? May I proceed?"
Prologue:
Pacithiel, as always, was wiser and kinder than most could ever hope to be. He understood the burden of words and promises, knowing full well how they could shape destinies or shatter them outright. Watching Seralyn's torment, he saw the loss in her eyes—the way indecision gnawed at her heart, allowing frustration and doubt to grow unchecked. From the very beginning, he had known what needed to be done, though the weight of asking such a thing from her felt heavier than any other task he'd undertaken.
This will be only the second time he will act without permission—Pacithiel moved forward now not out of impulsiveness, but out of a calm certainty that this was the right thing to do. He remembered the first time he had broken protocol—when he stopped Mandarel from cutting his own hand—an act that forever transformed his role. Now, with unwavering loyalty and a heart steeled by duty, he resolved to sacrifice himself for her sake.
With quiet grace and deliberate intention, he chose to act—not recklessly, but with the measured wisdom that defined him. As he stepped forward, his heart was at peace, knowing that his decision stemmed from a place of deep care and reverence for Seralyn and the bond they shared.Pacithiel gripped his first wing, his breath steady but strained. A soft tearing sound filled the air, like the fabric of the universe itself being torn apart. Seralyn closed her eyes, a tear slipping down her cheek as she watched the first wing fall to the ground. It landed with a soft thud, golden light spilling out from it, staining the floor beneath them.
But Pacithiel did not falter.
He reached for his second wing, and without hesitation, began the painful process of severing it. The second wing fell with an even quieter sound, leaving him exposed, his back now marked with the golden blood of an angel. The light in the room dimmed, as if even the heavens themselves were mourning the loss. His once radiant form grew dimmer, his essence fading with each passing moment, yet his resolve never wavered.
Seralyn opened her eyes, locking onto Pacithiel's now wingless figure. She felt the weight of his sacrifice press down on her chest, a crushing reminder of the price he willingly paid. Tears streamed down her face, but they carried no sound—only the silent echo of her grief. In this moment, she understood the depth of his devotion, the lengths to which he would go to protect those he loved. And though her heart ached, she also felt a spark of gratitude, a bittersweet acknowledgment of the bond they shared.
Time slowed, stretching thin like threads on the verge of snapping. Every breath felt weighted, every heartbeat a drumroll leading to a decision that would echo through eternity. Though silence reigned, it roared louder than any voice, demanding an answer she wasn't sure she could give. In this moment, caught between honor and heartbreak, Seralyn found herself adrift in a sea of impossible choices, where every path led to ruin. Yet even as the storm raged within her, she knew that whatever choice she made, it would define her—and those she loved—forever.
Solareth
(Solareth's golden eyes flicker with a mix of awe and sorrow as he raises his head, his voice barely audible but resonating like the hum of celestial strings in the minds of those present.)
"Can it be? Would she dare to take such a burden upon herself—for one who walks the fragile path of mortality? To strip an Archangel of their divinity… their very essence…" (His thoughts trail off, heavy with disbelief.) "What does this mean for us? For all that we hold sacred?"
Eirenar
(Eirenar shifts slightly, his silver gaze steady and unflinching, though there's a flicker of emotion behind his usually stoic exterior. His voice is calm, almost reverent, yet tinged with admiration.)
"Perhaps this is not folly, but faith—a faith so profound it defies even our understanding. If she can see worth in a mortal soul worthy enough to sacrifice one of ours, then perhaps we have underestimated both her vision and humanity itself." (He pauses, glancing at Pacithiel's fallen wings on the ground.) "And if she can love so deeply—for them—imagine what she might achieve for us. Could this act of loss birth something greater than any of us could imagine?"
Solareth
(Solareth turns his head slowly toward Eirenar, his brow furrowing as if grappling with conflicting emotions. There's anger, yes—but also respect, buried beneath layers of confusion.)
"Greater? You speak of greatness while I see only ruin! Do you truly believe this will lead to glory, or are you blinded by the same devotion that clouds her judgment? We were created to serve as guardians—not pawns in some cosmic game of redemption!"
Eirenar
(Eirenar straightens imperceptibly, his tone firm now, carrying the weight of conviction.)
"Guardians, yes—but ...… What of hearts? What of souls yearning for meaning beyond their fleeting lives? She sees potential where we see frailty. And if her actions challenge the boundaries of our existence, then perhaps they force us to grow—to become something better than mere sentinels."
(He falls silent for a moment, letting his words settle before adding softly:)
"Besides… look at her face. Look at Seralyn. Even she, who sought this, cannot bear witness without pain. This choice was never made lightly. It carries truth—and perhaps, redemption."
Pacithiel moved closer to Akito's body, his expression unreadable yet filled with unwavering resolve. His hands hovered over the lifeless form, golden remnants of his severed wings still dripping onto the cold ground. There was no hesitation left—only duty, only purpose.
Prologue: The Forbidden Divine Art – "
In the boundless expanse of all existence, across every universe and dimension, there exists a technique so profound, so perilous, that it has been wielded only six times throughout eternity. Known as Tenkū e no Matsuri (The Art of Descending from the Heavens), this forbidden divine art allows an angel to cast aside their celestial form and embrace the guise of a mortal—a human. But such a transformation comes at a terrible cost, for in rejecting their divine nature, the user severs ties with the heavens, dooming themselves to a fate shrouded in mystery.
This ritual is not merely a transformation—it is a sacrifice. It demands the complete surrender of one's divine essence, leaving behind scars where once there were wings, and a heart burdened by the weight of mortality. Yet, for those who dare to walk this path, it offers the chance to transcend boundaries, to bridge the gap between the divine and the earthly, to save what they hold most dear.
Amidst the heavy stillness of the chamber, Pacithiel stood resolute, his figure stark against the dimming light. His gaze was fixed on Akito's lifeless body, a quiet determination burning within him. As he stepped forward, each movement deliberate, the weight of his decision pressed down upon him—but not once did he falter.
Reaching out, Pacithiel dipped his hand into the golden blood that pooled beneath him, its radiance shimmering faintly even as it began to fade. With reverent precision, he traced the symbol of ψ —the raw soul—onto his left palm. This act connected him to his truest self, grounding him in preparation for the transformation ahead. The glowing psi symbol appeared, pulsing faintly with the essence of his untransformed soul. Under his breath, he whispered the sacred words:
"Tenkū e no Matsuri—The Art of Descending from the Heavens."
"Michi o kaeriseyo..."(Change the path...)
Next, with unwavering focus, Pacithiel inscribed the intricate matrix of T[ψ] onto his chest. This gridlike structure, spinning and reshaping around the psi symbol, served as the framework through which his soul would be transformed into a more complex shape. The matrix glowed brightly, enveloping the psi in its radiant light. Continuing the incantation, he murmured:
"Rōshoku o kakushite..."(Conceal my light...)
Then, extending his right hand, Pacithiel drew the symbol of Φ —spiritual force—onto his palm. This act summoned divine/cosmic energy, amplifying the transformation already underway. Radiant light burst forth from his hand, merging with the matrix on his chest. The room filled with a blinding glow, signaling the height of the ritual. His voice steadied as he recited the next line:
"Shin'ei o takasinaosu..."(Reforge the divine essence...)
Finally, bringing both hands together, Pacithiel channeled all his remaining energy into the fusion of symbols. A brilliant explosion of light erupted, engulfing him entirely. In that moment, the transformed soul emerged as a new, empowered being. The final symbol, f(ψ) , etched itself onto his forehead—a mark of his rejection of divinity and acceptance of mortality. Completing the phrase, he intoned:
"Chi no katachi o tsukuru!"(And create the shape of earth!)
With trembling fingers, he extended his left hand toward Akito's lifeless body. Placing it gently on Akito's forehead, he transferred the newly forged essence, sealing the ritual.
With his left hand, Pacithiel gently pressed his fingers to Akito's forehead, a golden light spilling from his palm as he transferred the essence of his sacrifice. Life did not return to Akito—not fully—but something profound shifted in that moment. Pacithiel's soul merged with Akito's lifeless form, intertwining their fates. He had become Akito's Elion, his guardian spirit now bound to the mortal shell.
Though the world around him seemed darker, his heart burned brighter than ever, now tethered to the earth below. With a steady breath, Pacithiel rose to his feet, his newly mortal form bearing the weight of his choice. Though the heavens may mourn his loss, his spirit burned with renewed purpose.
He glanced at Seralyn, his expression calm yet resolute, and whispered one last promise:
"Forever yours, my king."
The Breaking of the Mortal Vessel
The moment Pacithiel's spirit fused with Akito, the air itself recoiled as if rejecting what had just taken place. Pacithiel's consciousness now resided within Akito, leaving behind only the hollow remnants of his former self. His white-gold armor, once a sacred divine shell of celestial power, knelt empty—an abandoned form with no presence, no will. The Archangel no longer existed as he once was. He was now within Akito, bound as his Elion, his very essence fused with the mortal's fragile form.
The divine energy twisted through the air, crackling like raw lightning, spiraling toward the lifeless body of Akito. A pulse of power erupted outward, forcing the Archangels back. Solareth, the eldest, instinctively stepped forward as if to intervene, but even he hesitated, uncertain if touching the boy would be salvation or destruction.
And then the screaming began.
It wasn't from Akito, nor from Pacithiel—it was the sound of the mortal body being forced to contain something far beyond its nature. The sound of a soul being reshaped by something infinite. The very foundations of the space around them seemed to bend and fracture under the force of it.
Seralyn felt her breath catch as she saw the horrifying truth unfold before her eyes. Akito's body was burning—not from flame, but from something deeper, something elemental. His veins ignited with golden fire, light searing through his skin as if the very fabric of his existence was unraveling.
The temperature in the chamber spiked, a suffocating heat that pressed against Seralyn's chest like an unseen hand crushing her lungs. Every gasp she took felt heavier, the air around her thick and oppressive. The sheer force of Pacithiel's presence within Akito had turned his body into something unstable—something breaking apart under the weight of divinity.
Seralyn (screaming, panicked):
"No... no, no, no! It's too much! His body can't handle it!"
Her voice barely carried over the howling storm of energy radiating from Akito. The golden light surged violently, his limbs convulsing under the strain. Seralyn reached for him, but the heat was unbearable. The glow from his skin burned like the surface of a star.
Akito's body shook violently, his mouth opening in a silent scream, but no words came forth—no sound, no recognition of the pain he was enduring. The energy was consuming him, and Seralyn saw it happening in real time. His flesh cracked like porcelain, veins of golden fire spreading across his skin.
She had seen him die before, but never like this. Never like this.
Seralyn (voice breaking, pleading):
"Pacithiel! Stop! His body—it's breaking apart!"
If Akito's body dissolved completely, there would be no return, no rebirth, no cycle. He would no longer be.
The light within Akito continued to spread, its brilliance no longer a divine glow, but an agonizing inferno tearing through his mortal frame. His skin cracked like fragile porcelain, golden fissures searing through his body, pulsing with the force of a power never meant to reside within him. His veins burned like molten gold, his muscles convulsing under the impossible strain. His body was failing.
The speed at which Akito was deteriorating sent a surge of panic through her, a terror unlike any she had ever known. She had seen him die before—but never like this. Never so violently, never with his very essence unraveling before her eyes.
Her breath hitched, her pulse a frantic rhythm against her ribs as she realized—he was disappearing too fast. If Pacithiel didn't stop, if he didn't restrain his presence, then Akito's body would dissolve entirely before the words were spoken. There would be nothing left.
Her scream tore through the chamber.
Seralyn (desperate, frantic):
"Please, Pacithiel! Don't take full control of his body! Don't let it consume him!"
The heat from Akito's burning flesh scorched her hands, but she didn't let go. She wouldn't. Tears blurred her vision, her entire being shaking with the force of her own fear. She could feel him slipping, could see the last remnants of his mortal self fading away.
"No, no, no—Akito, hold on! Hold on!"
Her heart pounded violently, her grip tightening as if her sheer willpower could force his body to remain intact.
Seralyn:
"Please, Pacithiel! Only control his mouth! Don't let the full power take over—he can't survive it!"
The room trembled beneath the weight of the divine struggle. The very fabric of space seemed to bend under the overwhelming energy—angelic essence fighting against the limits of mortality. Akito's form was crumbling.
And still—he did not speak.
A sob ripped from Seralyn's throat as she clutched his face, her hands shaking uncontrollably. His lips did not move. His eyes did not flicker. His body gave no sign that he was even there.
"Why isn't he responding? Why isn't he saying the words?"
She pressed her forehead against his, tears streaming down her face, her voice breaking under the weight of desperation.
Seralyn (pleading, broken):
"Please, Pacithiel, only speak the words! Just repeat after me!"
Seralyn's hands trembled as she cupped Akito's face, feeling the heat of his disintegrating body searing into her palms. The left side of him was gone—not just fading, not just breaking apart—it was erased. His essence was unraveling into nothingness, and for the first time in all the cycles, this was no ordinary death.
This was complete erasure.
Her screams tore through the room, raw, broken, filled with a terror even she had never known.
Seralyn (desperate, wild-eyed):
"Pacithiel, focus! Focus only on his vocal cords! Make him speak!"
She pressed her fingers against Akito's lips, feeling for any movement, any tremble, any sign that the words would come—but there was nothing. No response. No life.
Her own heartbeat roared in her ears, drowning out the sounds of the crumbling vessel in her arms.
"Please, Akito… please Pacithiel, please, please..."
Her hands were shaking so violently that she could barely hold onto him, her fingers slipping as she pressed harder against his mouth, forcing his jaw to move, trying to feel even a whisper of breath.
Nothing.
"No, no, no, no..."
She gently parted his lips, pressing her finger beneath his tongue, desperate to make him swallow, to give his body even the slightest reflex to move—anything that would let her know that he was still here.
But there was no swallow.
No sign that he could hear her.
No sign that he was even there.
Her voice broke apart, her screams dissolving into sobs as she kept repeating the words, over and over, her fingers still at his lips, still pressing, still searching for something—anything.
"Why isn't he speaking? Why isn't he responding?! Why—WHY?!"
Her mind raced—this wasn't like before.
She had seen Akito die countless times, had held his body, had watched the light fade from his eyes—but never like this.
Never so utterly final.
Never in a way that left nothing behind.
This wasn't death.
This was erasure.
Her eyes widened in horror as realization struck her like a dagger through the heart.
"No… this isn't how it's supposed to be… This isn't the cycle. This isn't the cycle—!"
Her body shook with the weight of what was happening.
For the first time in every life, every death, this was a different outcome.
Seralyn refused to let go. Even at the edge of losing everything—even as Akito's body was slipping into nothingness—she did not surrender.
"Focus on his vocal cords! Pacithiel, don't stop! Don't let go!"
Her hands trembled, pressing against Akito's cold, dissolving form, desperate for something—anything—that told her he was still here. That there was still something left to fight for.
Then—
A flicker.
It was faint, but she felt it.
With her fingers pressed against his mouth, guiding his lips, she felt the smallest movement—a twitch beneath her touch, like a breath just beyond reach.
And then, she felt it.
A pulse.
A faint, weak surge of life beneath his tongue—a single vein stirring as if awakening, as if Pacithiel was still fighting to gain control.
Her breath hitched.
"He's still in there—he's still fighting!"
A sob shook through her chest, but she held it in, her focus unwavering.
Seralyn leaned closer, pressing her forehead against his, her lips barely inches from his as she whispered with fierce determination:
"Repeat after me, Akito… Pacithiel…please, just repeat after me…"
Her voice quivered but remained steady, each syllable measured, deliberate, giving Pacithiel time to force the words through Akito's body.
Seralyn (slowly, carefully, listening for the faintest response):
Bind past and future
She held her breath.
She pressed her fingers gently but firmly against his throat, his lips, listening for the faintest vibration, feeling for the smallest movement—anything.
Nothing.
Not yet.
But she refused to stop.
She swallowed down the panic, pushing forward with even more conviction.
"Bind….. past... and ...…future"
She paused again.
Listening.
Feeling.
Hoping.
And then—
A whisper.
So faint that it was almost lost in the chaos of the unraveling world around them.
A breath that barely existed.
But it was there.
Akito/Pacithiel (weak, almost imperceptible):
"Bind….. past..."
Seralyn gasped, her eyes widening as her hope ignited like a wildfire.
"Yes! Yes, that's it! Keep going!"
Tears streamed down her face, but she didn't falter.
"Again, Akito—Pacithiel—whoever is still in there… please… just say it again!"
She clutched him tighter, her forehead still pressed against his, as she whispered the words once more, this time with every ounce of love, every ounce of willpower she had left.
"Bind….. past... and ...…future"."
And this time, as she waited, as she listened—
She felt it.
Seralyn: "Carry the soul's tether"
Her voice, once trembling with grief, now steadied with a fragile thread of hope. She watched Akito's dissolving form, clinging to the last remnants of his presence. Every syllable she spoke carried the weight of lifetimes, a desperate plea woven into the spell itself.
A pause. A silence so deep it threatened to swallow her whole.
Then—like the faintest whisper in the abyss—Pacithiel's voice emerged. Weak, strained, yet unwavering.
Akito/Pacithiel: "Carry the.. soul's ...…..tether"
Seralyn's breath hitched, her pulse hammering against her ribs. He was still there. Pacithiel was still holding on. Fighting.
She took in a shaking breath, pressing her forehead against Akito's as if the closeness could keep him tethered to her just a little longer.
Seralyn: "Switch...… the anchors."
The words left her lips like a prayer carved from raw desperation. The room pulsed in response, waves of divine energy spiraling around them, a current of raw power teetering on the edge of collapse. Akito's body was disintegrating, the golden strands of his very being unraveling in slow, flickering threads. It was slipping too fast—too soon.
Akito/Pacithiel: "Switch… the... anc..hors"
Seralyn clutched him tighter, her hands shaking against his fading frame. She refused to let go. She could not let go.
Seralyn: "return to the source!....."
Her voice cracked at the last word, the final plea breaking through her as a sob. She felt her body shaking, her hands pressing against his cold skin, her lips trembling as she willed—prayed—for him to respond.
The pause felt eternal.
Then, with what little strength was left, his voice came—soft, hollow, yet absolute.
Akito/Pacithiel: "return to the source!."
The instant the last syllable was spoken, the air fractured. A blinding light erupted from Akito's dissolving body, enveloping them in a consuming radiance. Time itself bent inward, twisting, shifting—like a great cosmic wheel forced into motion.
Seralyn gasped, watching as Akito's fragile body flickered, caught in the pull of the spell. The ritual had worked. It was taking him back—back to where it all began.
Seralyn, her voice barely a whisper, her hands still clutching at what little remained of him: "Please... hold on, Akito. Please, this time, let it be different."
She had no way of knowing if he had heard her. No way of knowing if this cycle would finally break.
The last thing she saw before the world was swallowed by light was Akito's face—peaceful, weightless, as if, for the first time, he was unburdened.
And then, he was gone.
Seralyn collapsed forward, her tears hitting the cold ground as the echoes of the spell faded into silence.
A luminescent circle spiraled outward, rippling across the vast temporal fabric. The unseen gears of existence shifted, aligning with something far beyond mortal comprehension. Everything—every thread, every possibility—was being rewritten once again.
The final words echoed through the air as the Temporal Recall activated. The immense, unyielding power consumed Akito's body. The light that had once burned him now grew brighter, but it shifted from destruction to guidance—it was no longer a force of pain but of return.
Seralyn, her heart clenched, held onto the hope that this time would be different, that the endless cycle of death and rebirth would finally end. As Akito's body began to fade, the ritual concluded. Seralyn whispered one final, desperate prayer, her tears falling as the Archangels' light took control. Akito, at the age of 18, quietly passed from this world.
Seralyn: "I hope... this time will be different, my friend."
The cycle had reset.
Akito had returned to the Anchor.
The cycle had reset.
Time reassembled itself in fragmented whispers, unraveling and weaving anew. But not without cost.
Event Log: Nocturnis Drift—Activation Confirmed
Akito Tatsugami
Age at Death: 19 years old
Date of Death: March 2nd, [Year Unknown]
Total Deaths Recorded: 50
The
The cycle had looped once more, and with it, time fractured and realigned—the echoes of past and future converging upon a singular moment.
Location: Shapley Supercluster - Ignis
Timeframe:🕒 6 Years Before the Crisis🕒 13 Years After the Hope Emerged🕒 12 Years Before the Last Dawn
A gentle warmth wrapped around him, cocooned in the comfort of soft sheets. The air smelled of fresh linen, the kind that carried the faintest hint of sunlight. Everything felt still—peaceful—as if time itself had decided to rest alongside him.
Then—voices.
"I'm playing first!"
A sharp, familiar outburst shattered the quiet.
"No, I am!" another voice shot back, just as fierce.
The boy stirred, his body shifting beneath the covers as awareness settled in. His head felt light, his mind still caught in the haze of dreams. He blinked against the morning light filtering through the curtains, golden beams stretching across the wooden floor, dust particles dancing in their glow.
At the foot of the bed, two figures. Twins.
Two little boys, both practically bouncing in place, their faces twisted in exaggerated frustration as they stood over a gaming console.
Twin 1: "I called it first!"
Twin 2: "So what?! You played first yesterday!"
Twin 1: "That doesn't count! I wasn't even awake properly!"
Twin 2: "That makes no sense! You just don't wanna admit I won!"
The argument escalated, their high-pitched voices ricocheting off the walls. Then, without another word, as if driven by an unspoken agreement, both of them dropped to the floor in unison.
Twin 1: "Rock, paper, scissors!"
Twin 2: "Fine! But I'm going to win!"
The twins sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes locked in battle, fingers twitching in anticipation.
"Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!"
Twin 1's hand formed a scissors.
Twin 2's hand—paper.
Twin 1 shot up instantly, fist pumping in victory.
"HA! I won! I told you I was going first!" he declared, smugness dripping from every syllable.
Twin 2's expression crumpled, but he wasn't defeated just yet.
"That was only one round!" he snapped. "It has to be best out of three! Otherwise, it's not fair!"
Twin 1 groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. "Ugh, fine! But when I win again, you can't complain!"
Their hands lifted, the tension between them thickening.
"Rock, paper, scissors—shoot!"
Twin 2 threw rock.
Twin 1, this time—scissors.
"YES!" Twin 2 jumped up, gloating now, mirroring his brother's earlier celebration.
"Lucky shot!" Twin 1 grumbled, crossing his arms.
"No, it was skill! One more and I'm gonna win!" Twin 2 said, grinning wide.
The decisive third round was moments away. Everything rested on this.
They raised their hands, ready to settle the battle once and for all—
"Boys! Breakfast is ready!"
Their mother's voice rang through the house, breaking their focus like a spell shattering.
For a split second, neither of them moved, both still in position, hovering in the sacred moment before the final match. But then, something shifted.
"First one to sit next to Mom wins!"
Chaos.
The game of rock-paper-scissors was forgotten.
Both twins sprinted out of the room, shoving, pushing, laughing, feet pounding against the wooden floor.
The prize? The seat closest to their mother at the breakfast table.
"I'm gonna win!"
"No way, I'm faster!"
A blur of limbs and mischief, the two boys raced, dodging obstacles, skidding around corners, each refusing to lose.
As their voices faded into the hallway, the energy they left behind still pulsed in the air—a reckless, joyful chaos that only siblings could create.
Then, from the kitchen, their mother's voice rang out again—gentle, yet firm.
"Kaito! We're waiting for you!"
The warmth of her call drifted through the house, breaking through the haze of morning.
In the quiet of his room, kaito blinked, his breath still unsteady. His body felt warm and comfortable, yet a strange unease lingered beneath his skin, like a shadow he couldn't quite place.
Something felt… off.
A cold sweat clung to his skin despite the sun filtering through his window, bathing his bed in golden hues. He swallowed, sitting up slowly, his fingers gripping the blanket as his mind tried to catch up to the moment.
The voices of his brothers had already faded down the hall. The smell of freshly made breakfast drifted toward him. Everything was normal.
Yet, as he exhaled, a faint, unfamiliar sensation curled in his chest.
Something was missing.
Something forgotten.
kaito shook his head, forcing the strange feeling aside. It was just a morning like any other. Just another race to the breakfast table.
With a final inhale, he pushed the covers away and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
His mother's voice called again, this time softer.
"Kaito?"
"I'm coming," he murmured, almost to himself.
And then, as if nothing had happened, he stepped forward, leaving the remnants of unease behind.
Kaito—Age: 18