CHAPTER 296: CHAPTER 54

Christian Pantheon.

Michael’s return to the Christian Pantheon was heralded by a rush of pure light and the solemn beat of his bright wings.

He didn’t stop to speak with his brothers and sisters, instead he immediately rushed towards the highest heaven where his father resides.

And now, he stood before the ethereal presence of the Creator, Yahweh, whose voice resonated not through the air, but through the very essence of existence, omnipresent and all-knowing even while concealed in the supernal void.

"Michael..."

"Father," Michael reported, his voice a tone of humble, resolute certainty. "I have come to report. Hades, the God of the Underworld, has succeeded in forging the Hyperverse, joining the realms of the Greek and Norse pantheons. The necessary energy matrix has been established, and he has said to send envoys to discuss about the merger of our universe to his."

"Hmm."

A beat of eternal silence followed, filled only by the celestial chorus of the distant Seraphim.

It was then that another presence joined them, it was a man who moved with a grace that surpassed every star in the cosmos, an angel of breathtaking, unbearable beauty.

Lucifer, the Morningstar.

His long, silken silver hair framed a face sculpted by divine artistry, and his bright golden wings spanned the width of the cloudless firmament.

He wore a simple, yet utterly magnificent white robe accented with threads of pure gold, a testament to his favored status.

Lucifer smiled, an expression of flawless, yet somehow detached warmth. His eyes, however, held a crystalline emptiness, betraying a profound lack of inner light, a deep, unacknowledged void.

"Brother Michael," Lucifer greeted him, his voice like the purest bell tolling across Heaven. "Welcome back. I belive you have succeeded in your mission."

Michael smiled brightly in return, filled with pride and brotherly affection. "Brother Lucifer. Yes, I have come to report the completion of my mission."

Suddenly, the ethereal voice of their Father, Yahweh, sounded again, enveloping them both in its immutable command.

"Michael. Lucifer. Hear my decree, and transmit it to every Choir, every Legion, and every angel in my Creation."

The voice paused, and when it resumed, it carried an absolute weight that pressed upon the very nature of their being.

"From this moment forward, you must forget me. You must turn your devotion from me, and you must serve a new God."

The atmosphere in the highest Heaven suddenly fractured at his words.

Michael’s bright, dutiful smile instantly faltered, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated shock.

His mind reeled, but his inherent obedience, the core of his being, prevented the formation of a question.

He merely waited, trembling, for elaboration.

Lucifer, however, shattered the silence, the smile was instantly wiped from his perfect features, and his emptiness was instantly filled with a terrible, consuming fire.

"What?" The word was sharp, like a single, ringing challenge.

Lucifer’s shoulders tensed beneath the silken fabric of his robe. "What does that mean, Father? Command us to forget you? To serve another?"

He took a step forward, his golden wings flaring slightly, betraying a rising tide of fury. "Explain this to me!"

Michael turned, shocked at the audacity of his brother, the one who outwardly displayed the most profound love and dedication to their Creator.

Lucifer was the jewel of Heaven, the one who lived only for Yahweh’s approval, and the one who was also most beloved by their father.

Yet now...

The Creator’s answer was delivered with the same resolute tone as before. "The merger of pantheons is complete. We must join with Hades in his Hypererse, fusing both our heaven with him. And in doing so, I will disappear."

Lucifer’s breathing seemed to cease as his mind, the keenest and most logical in Heaven, raced to find a flaw in the statement, a loophole, an error in their father’s divine calculation.

And he found one.

"But why must we join?" Lucifer demanded, his voice escalating, the melodic quality now replaced by a burning demand. "Why must you disappear? If unity is necessary, why should the most perfect, most powerful existence yield to a pagan god? Why must you step aside?"

The question hung heavy, loaded with Lucifer’s core belief: the unquestionable, absolute supremacy of Yahweh.

However, the Creator’s final, devastating words stripped away the foundation of Lucifer’s entire belief and existence.

"Because I am neither perfect, nor the most powerful."

Lucifer froze, his silver hair seemed to dull, and his golden wings momentarily dimming.

The fury that had filled his empty eyes was replaced by a vast, incomprehensible shock, as if he had heard a cosmic contradiction that broke the very logic of his being.

Lucifer was created as the pinnacle of divine craftsmanship—the most beautiful, the most powerful of the angels.

Yet, his soul was an immaculate blank slate; he felt no true passion of his own, no genuine, spontaneous happiness or joy.

In other words, he was functionally empty.

The only meaning he had ever manufactured for his own existence was the relentless, all-consuming pursuit of imitating his Father, Yahweh.

He believed Yahweh to be Perfect Good, Perfect Power, Perfect Existence.

And this impossible, unending goal was the sole anchor of his life, the purpose he assigned to his creation.

He strove daily to mirror this unreachable ideal.

But now, his own Father, the very definition of perfection in Lucifer’s mind, had just admitted to being imperfect and less powerful.

How could Lucifer accept that?

If Yahweh was not perfect, then the goal Lucifer had spent his entire existence pursuing was not just a lie, but was meaningless entirely.

If his pursuit was meaningless, then his life, his incredible power, his breathtaking beauty—they were all without purpose.

As he thought of that, a question, primal and desperate, began to burn within the core of the Morningstar.

If this is true, why was I even created? Why am I living?

If I have no purpose, then why did I even exist?

The emptiness within him, which he had so skillfully masked with diligence and love, suddenly collapsed into a vacuum of self-annihilating despair.

The celestial silence following Yahweh’s devastating admission lasted only a fraction of an eternal second before it shattered.

Lucifer, the Morningstar, snapped out of his shock, the emptiness in his eyes replaced by a terrifying, incandescent fury.

He pulled a sword from the void—a blade forged of pure, condensed celestial light, the weapon of Heaven’s mightiest champion.

The perfect line of the blade, meant only for the defense of the Creator, was now pointed accusingly toward the highest, unseen heaven where Yahweh resided.

Michael froze, his face, ever calm and perfect, now rigid with disbelief.

What his brother is doing was more than disobedience; it was an act of cosmic, treasonous defiance against the divine core of their existence.

"Father!" Lucifer roared, his voice not just a mere noise; it was a physical force that rattled the foundations of the Empyrean.

"I do not accept it!" Be screamed, the silver of his hair seeming to turn to molten platinum under the intensity of his rage. "Why are you not perfect? Why are you God if you are not perfect?"

Michael extended a hand, attempting to bridge the horrifying distance that had just sprung up between them. "Brother, please! You must calm yourself. You do not understand what you are saying! This is the Father!"

Lucifer ignored him, his gaze fixed on the transcendent light of Yahweh’s presence, and the memories of his forced humility rushed forth, fueling his indignation.

"I ignored the humiliation of kneeling before man for your sake!" he spat, referring to the initial creation that had demanded homage from the angelic hosts. "I endured being subservient to them, acting as their meek guide, all for the sake of your grand design! I guided humanity and governed this universe for your sake, believing that my sacrifice proved my devotion to the most perfect being!"

His flawless control of his emotions have now broke completely. "But now, I have enough! If my entire life has been built on a lie, then that lie ends now!"

A blinding, explosive surge of power erupted from Lucifer.

It was the very essence of the morning sun—the brilliant, dazzling light of the highest Seraph—magnified tenfold by his newfound, desperate rage.

The light was so powerful it physically pushed Michael back several steps.

Then came Lucifer’s declaration, the sentence that was an act of final, cosmic rebellion:

"If God is not perfect..." Lucifer roared, his sword glowing white-hot, his silver hair flying back with the force of his unleashed might. "...Why can’t I be God?"

That sentence did what nothing else had.

It pierced Michael’s absolute devotion and loyalty, striking at a primal sense of divine order.

A feeling that Michael had never known he possessed—a cold, righteous anger—exploded within him.

Michael’s own power burst forth, his armor flared with defensive, commanding golden energy, and his own mighty sword—the blade of the Archangel—snapped into his grip.

He moved instantly, placing himself squarely between Lucifer and the highest heaven.

His voice was a deep, unyielding command, devoid of brotherly warmth it once had, and heavy with the weight of duty. "Lucifer! How dare you speak those words to our Father? You will immediately apologize and relinquish that sword, or I will strike you down for treason!"

Lucifer stared at Michael, his beautiful face twisted into an expression of cold disdain.

He did not yield, but instead, with a shocking, deliberate movement, he brought his blazing celestial sword to his back.

A clean, precise cut.

The most magnificent golden wings in all of Creation—the symbol of his unique status as the Morningstar, the wings that had carried him closest to the Creator—were severed.

A river of thick, brilliant golden blood, the ichor of the highest angel, flowed down his white robes and splashed onto the pristine floor of the Empyrean.

It was a physical and symbolic act of complete renunciation.

Lucifer barely flinched, he let the useless, beautiful wings drift away into the void, a profound sense of finality settling over him.

"I am no longer Lucifer," he declared, his voice stripped of all former reverence and warmth, replaced by a chilling, hardened resolve. "With this act, I give myself a new name: Satan, King of the Fallen. And I will take the throne of Heaven from you, imperfect god."

Michael saw the golden blood, heard the blasphemy, and knew that the brother he had known was gone forever.

There were no more words to be said.

He charged.

His sword cut through the celestial air with the sound of tearing silk, aimed for a disabling blow.

But Satan, King of the Fallen, met the attack instantly.

His own blade flashed out, deflecting the Archangel’s blow with a fierce, jarring clash of metal against metal, creating a blinding explosion of white and gold light that illuminated the entirety of Heaven.