In a city of towering spires, their silver peaks glistening against the heavens, a lone figure with midnight-black wings streaked through the sky, pursued by a legion of winged warriors. His silver armor gleamed under the ethereal light, and at his waist hung a sheathed sword, its hilt glimmering with divine inscriptions. In his arms, he clutched a massive, leather-bound tome, its cover thick and ancient, as though it held secrets that should never be unveiled.
From behind, his pursuers forged spears of pure Etherea, crackling with celestial energy, and hurled them toward him.
"Samael! This chase is a waste of time—we can end it now!"
The voice came from a figure with ashen-gray wings, his presence commanding yet restrained. He, too, was clad in radiant silver armor, his sharp gaze locked onto the fleeing angel. But Samael did not acknowledge him.
"Samael, stop!"
This time, the voice was softer yet far more powerful, a call that carried both authority and sorrow.
Samael did not need to turn to know who had spoken.
The one calling his name was a woman of celestial beauty, her luminous white wings glowing with an almost divine radiance. She was clad in the same silver armor, though on her, it looked as if it were forged from light itself. Her presence outshone even the stars above, yet her piercing gaze carried desperation, longing… and something unspoken.
But Samael did not stop.
He soared toward the very edge of the city, where the sky itself seemed to shatter into endless unknown. And without hesitation, he plunged downward, vanishing into the stormy clouds below.
Yet, the onslaught did not relent.
By now, hundreds of winged figures had joined the hunt, their brilliant forms painting the sky with streaks of gold and silver, each one determined to bring down the fallen angel before he escaped with the forbidden truth.
"Metatron, I can stop him. Just give me time—let me talk to him alone," Uriel implored, her voice steady yet urgent.
Metatron's silver gaze remained cold, unwavering.
"I'm sorry, Uriel. But the crime he has committed cannot be forgiven."
His words struck like iron, final and absolute.
Uriel clenched her jaw, but she did not argue. Instead, Etherea flared around her, a radiant aura of pure light wrapping around her form. She surged forward, accelerating like a falling star, her luminous wings leaving a trail of brilliance in her wake.
Metatron narrowed his eyes. He would not allow hesitation to jeopardize their mission.
"All units, assist Uriel in capturing Samael!" he commanded.
The legion of celestial warriors obeyed, diving downward like a storm of silver and gold, following Uriel's lead. Meanwhile, Metatron remained above, observing. Below him, the sky rippled with light and shadow, as Uriel, a beacon of divinity, closed in on Samael, the lone figure shrouded in darkness.
Samael exhaled sharply, his grip tightening around the forbidden tome.
He had no time.
With a flick of his wrist, he opened his left palm—and the air around him trembled.
A dense, swirling mass of Dark Matter ignited at his fingertips, its presence devouring the surrounding light like an abyss consuming the stars. In a single motion, he unleashed the power outward, and a thick black mist exploded from his body, expanding in all directions.
The sky darkened.
One by one, the pursuing angels vanished into the abyss, their golden armor swallowed by the creeping void.
Uriel did not hesitate.
Her radiance intensified, her entire being blazing with celestial brilliance. Then, she opened her eyes—and golden fire burned within them.
"Follow my light!" she commanded, her voice cutting through the darkness like a divine decree.
The warriors close to her pushed forward, guided by her unwavering glow. But those who had fallen too far behind—those outside her light—were now adrift in the black void.
And then, the mist moved.
Tendrils of Dark Matter coiled around the isolated soldiers, constricting like living shadows.
Before they could react, spikes of pure void energy erupted from the darkness, piercing through their armor.
Not to kill. But to incapacitate.
Their cries of pain echoed through the sky. Samael had struck with precision—brutal, but merciful.
Uriel halted for a brief moment, her body still alight with divine radiance as pained cries echoed behind her. Instinctively, she turned her head back, her golden eyes searching the mist for the wounded warriors.
"Uriel, we cannot stop now," a voice called out.
A figure with deep blue wings had caught up to her—Raijel, his expression firm yet urgent.
"But Raijel… they—"
"Samael wouldn't kill them."
His voice was unwavering, filled with certainty.
Uriel clenched her jaw, exhaling sharply before turning her gaze forward. She had to keep going.
With a powerful beat of her wings, she burst through the thick veil of black mist, her radiance illuminating the darkness as she led hundreds of winged warriors in pursuit.
And then—they saw it.
The chase had led them beyond the borders of Heaven itself, to the very threshold of the Material Plane. Below them stretched an endless layer of water, glistening like a liquid mirror, floating beneath the clouds as if separating two realms.
And there—Samael was descending rapidly, racing toward the barrier, his intent clear.
"Aquarel!" Uriel called out, snapping her gaze toward a figure with light blue wings flying behind her.
Aquarel raised both hands, palms facing downward.
In an instant, a colossal vortex of water roared to life just ahead of Samael. The torrent surged upward, swallowing him whole, its powerful current entangling him in its grasp.
"Glaciel!" Uriel's voice rang again.
A figure with frost-touched, pale blue wings responded immediately. With practiced precision, he hurled a spear of ice directly into the whirling torrent.
The moment the frozen weapon made contact, the entire water vortex turned to solid ice, trapping Samael mid-motion, his form encased in a prison of frozen crystal.
The once-boundless waters beneath them had transformed into an endless field of ice, sealing Samael within its grasp.
Uriel descended carefully, landing before the frozen tomb, her golden light reflecting against the ice's surface. Through the crystalline barrier, she could see him—Samael, frozen in place, still clutching the tome in his arms.
The moment felt heavy. Final.
The surrounding warriors moved into formation, their wings spreading outward as they encircled the frozen mass, sealing off any possible escape.
Uriel stepped closer. Slowly, she reached out, pressing a delicate yet resolute hand against the frigid surface.
"Samael…" she whispered. "I know you can hear me. Stop this. Return the tome. Return to Heaven. Return to me."
For a moment, the world held its breath.
And then—a violent presence tore through the air.
A shadow loomed from above.
Metatron.
He had finally arrived.
His gaze burned with fury, his hands already charged with Etherea, crackling like restrained lightning. He plummeted downward, his fist colliding against the frozen vortex with tremendous force.
The ice shattered.
Samael's body was thrown backward, flung across the frozen battlefield as shards of ice scattered like celestial glass.
"Metatron, we can talk about this!" Uriel pleaded, her voice sharp with desperation.
But Metatron did not acknowledge her.
He descended swiftly, his silver wings cutting through the sky like blades. The moment Samael crashed onto the icy ground, the legion of warriors moved, encircling him in a massive formation, their bodies forming an impenetrable dome of wings and steel.
There would be no escape.
Metatron landed heavily, his presence demanding absolute authority. His glowing silver eyes locked onto the wounded angel before him.
"Return it. Now."
Samael shifted, slowly pushing himself up, the ancient tome still clutched tightly in his arms.
From this distance, Uriel could see it clearly—his once-pristine armor was now battered and torn, his body covered in golden wounds that still shimmered faintly with divine light.
Yet, despite the pain, he smirked.
"What do you plan to do with the Tome of The Presence?" Samael's voice was hoarse, but steady.
"I am merely returning it to its rightful place—"
"You mean into your hands?"
"To the Throne of Light."
"Your throne?"
Metatron's brow twitched, but he remained composed.
"You sound like a cornered beast, Samael," he sneered. "Snarling in a desperate attempt to escape."
A cold silence stretched between them.
"Almost all of your followers have been captured. Once I find the last of them, I will cast you all into Hell myself."
Samael exhaled slowly, his golden eyes scanning the warriors around him.
And then, his gaze found hers.
Uriel.
The moment their eyes met, his expression softened, his smirk fading into something quieter, something mournful.
Metatron saw it.
And it enraged him.
Without hesitation, he raised his right hand, and in an instant, countless spears of Etherea formed around Samael, hovering like swords of judgment.
Uriel's breath caught.
"Metatron, stop—!"
But Metatron's fist clenched.
The spears struck all at once.
Samael's body jerked violently as the Ethereal spikes pierced through him, one after another.
Golden blood seeped from his wounds, dripping onto the frozen ground like liquid sunlight.
But the tome—the tome remained untouched.
Every spear aimed toward it shattered upon impact, unable to defile its sacred power.
Metatron lowered his hand, exhaling sharply.
"If you refuse to return it—then I will take it from you myself."
Samael staggered to his feet, his body trembling from the Ethereal spears lodged in his flesh. Golden blood dripped onto the frozen ground, staining the ice beneath him like molten sunlight.
But even now—even at the edge of defeat—he smiled.
Slowly, painfully, he lifted the tome. His fingers, slick with divine blood, traced the ancient markings on its cover.
"Samael," Uriel's voice wavered. "Don't do this."
But he did not look at her.
Instead, he unlocked the binding and opened the sacred tome.
At that moment, a sudden gust of wind tore through the battlefield, as if the very fabric of the world shuddered in protest.
Metatron's eyes widened in fury.
"STOP HIM!"
The warriors lunged, but it was too late.
Samael's voice rang clear and unshaken as he began to read.
The words—ancient, forbidden, primal—flowed from his lips like an incantation never meant to be spoken again.
The sky darkened.
The earth cracked.
And beneath Samael's feet, a sigil ignited—a swirling emblem of black fire and silver runes, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Uriel gasped. She recognized that sigil.
"Samael… what have you done?"
The very air rippled, warping around him as tendrils of dark Etherea coiled around his body, binding him in unseen chains.
Metatron's rage boiled over.
"SEIZE HIM! NOW!"
But the moment they moved—a sudden shockwave exploded outward.
Light and shadow collided, the force so great that even the strongest warriors were thrown back, their formation shattered like glass.
And at the center of it all—Samael stood, his golden eyes burning with something… irreversible.
And then—black fire engulfed him.
The Curse had begun.