CHAPTER 355: CHAPTER 344: YES, I’M PREGNANT

Something flew straight to the sky, like a beam of light and The sky opened once more.

A sound like the memory of creation itself tore through the air — a note of unbearable purity that made the world tremble.

From the shattered clouds, a figure descended — wreathed in gold and white flame, six wings unfurled like blades of dawn.

Michael, the Archangel of Radiance, the first spear of the Almighty.

His presence broke the storm apart. As he floated down.

Where his feet touched ground, frost melted, shadows fled, and the air sang.

The battlefield — that endless expanse of ruin — bent beneath the weight of his arrival.

The Fallens, bloodied and broken, froze mid-breath.

Every memory of exile, every moment of despair, cracked and flared with hope.

"So this is....Michael..." Lara whispered, her voice in awe.

He looked upon them — not as the commander of Heaven, nor as their judge, but as one who had lost and found them again.

And for a heartbeat, his eyes softened.

Then they hardened once more.

Across the field, the dragon-faced demigod raised his trident, lightning running down its haft, shaking the world with every pulse.

"So," he growled, voice reverberating through the bones of the dead, "the Fallen King’s lapdog still breathes."

He took a step forward, snow vaporizing underfoot. "Tell me, Archangel — do you come to leash your pets or bury them?"

Michael’s wings arced upward, the light behind him flaring until the sky turned white. His voice was calm, thunder restrained by mercy.

"I come," he said, "to remind the children of gods why even celestials must kneel."

The trident moved first.

It streaked through the air — three fangs of living sunlight, cleaving heaven from earth. The strike split the plain in two, hurling debris like shards of glass.

But Michael was already gone.

He reappeared mid-strike, wings folded inward, body wrapped in radiance. His sword — ’Aeshmael’, the Blade of the Morning Star — caught the trident’s middle prong and halted it mid-swing. The shockwave rippled through space, bending clouds into rings of light.

For the first time, the dragon demigod staggered backward. His molten eyes widened.

"You wield your... name, how...the gods took it?" he hissed.

Michael’s reply was a whisper that carried across the world.

"Cause the name was given. Not stolen."

Then he struck.

His wings unfurled with such force that the sky ignited. Every feather bled fire and sang with the chorus of the old heavens.

His blade met the trident again — once, twice, thrice — each clash ringing like a hymn of war.

The Fallens screamed in triumph.

"Michael! Michael! Glory be to the first Light!"

The demigod roared, his body expanding, scales rippling as molten veins burst open across his chest. His face stretched, the dragon within him awakening fully.

He slammed the trident into the ground, calling storms from the firmament. Thunder raged. The plains split into rivers of magma.

Michael raised his hand.

His voice rolled through the tempest: {Peace.}

And the storm obeyed.

The lightning froze mid-flash, held captive by his will. Time itself shivered as he turned it aside.

The dragon demigod bellowed in disbelief. "You—command—the storm—?"

"I command nothing," Michael said, stepping forward. "I serve."

The blade glowed white-hot. He slashed once — a line so pure it unmade sound.

The trident cracked.

The dragon demigod’s chest burst open, light pouring from the wound. He fell to one knee, roaring in agony as the divine mark seared through him — the sign of absolution.

Michael pressed his palm to the creature’s brow.

"Return to the light you betrayed."

And with that, the dragon-faced god was gone — disintegrating into embers that drifted upward, fading into song.

The battlefield fell silent.

Even the demigods stopped, frozen between awe and fear.

For the first time since the meteors fell, the Fallens cheered.

It was not the roar of soldiers — it was the cry of the condemned who had seen Heaven once more.

Then the next wave came.

The crystalline woman raised her arms, summoning a storm of mirrored shards. They spun through the air like galaxies of knives, refracting Michael’s light into fractured halos.

He moved through them without pause.

Each fragment that touched him melted to gold dust.

His blade carved a path of silence through her storm, and when he reached her, he did not strike.

He placed two fingers upon her heart.

Her eyes widened. "What—what are you—?"

Michael’s voice was a whisper of grief.

"You were made to heal, not to harm."

The crystal within her chest cracked. A thousand reflections of herself screamed as one, and then she shattered, her light joining the wind.

One by one, the others came.

A demigod of flame — whose breath turned air to glass — lunged.

Michael caught the blow with a single hand, his palm unburned, and spoke: "Fire bows before creation."

The inferno collapsed into ash.

A twin-headed beast of shadow and ice roared from below.

Michael descended, wings folding like blades, and with one downward stroke, he cleaved both heads — whispering, "And shadow remembers its source."

The Fallens watched, their despair turning to worship.

Every time he moved, a hymn rose from the survivors.

Every strike became scripture.

Everyone felt tears cut through the soot on their face.

They had seen Michael once before — in visions of the old war, when Heaven still wept for the lost. But this was different. He was not the cold general they remembered from the scriptures.

This Michael fought not for glory, but for remorse.

One of the preist knelt beside her, wings twitching, voice trembling.

"Is this... redemption?"

"No," another fallen said softly. "It’s mourning."

Far above, Merlin floated upon a disc of sigils, watching the celestial carnage unfold.

He could feel the fabric of magic strain under Michael’s radiance.

"This is no battle," he muttered. "It is the unmaking of equilibrium."

Eli stood near him, her hands pressed to her stomach, the unborn light within her pulsing faster, in rhythm with the Archangel’s strikes.

She looked up, eyes wide. "He’s waking them. One by one."

Merlin’s brows furrowed. "Waking?"

"Yes," Eli whispered. "They are dying — but their essence is rising. He’s sending them back."

Merlin’s heart sank. "Then he’s not saving us. He’s cleansing the board."

Below, only five demigods remained. They formed a ring, their auras intertwining — celestial fire, abyssal frost, divine thunder, and voidlight merging into one sphere of annihilation.

Michael hovered above, his wings dimmed from battle but steady. His armor cracked, streaks of blood — not red but luminous gold — leaking from the seams.

"Together!" the demigods roared, their power converging into a single beam that tore upward, screaming through the air like a god’s heartbeat.

Michael met it head-on.

The beam struck him dead center — and for a moment, the light consumed everything.

Even the Fallens shielded their eyes. The air screamed.

Heaven and Hell alike held their breath.

Then the light bent backward.

Michael’s wings unfolded fully — all six at once, each one radiating its own spectrum: dawn, dusk, fire, frost, storm, and silence.

The beam shattered, scattering into rain that fell as tiny shards of starlight.

He descended through the rain, his sword dragging a wake of fire along the ground.

The demigods braced — but their fear was visible now.

He struck the first — the one of thunder — cleaving his weapon in half.

The next, of frost, tried to conjure ice spears, but Michael turned them into water with a glance.

The third, of voidlight, attempted to swallow him whole — and for a moment, Michael vanished.

Silence.

Then the void exploded outward, torn apart by a blinding pulse. Michael emerged from within it, holding the void-god’s severed crown in one hand.

"Your power," he said softly, "was borrowed. Return it."

The demigod’s form broke apart, dissolving into pure ether.

One remained — the last demigod, smaller than the rest, trembling. His wings were torn, his armor cracked. He fell to his knees as Michael approached.

"I... I did not ask to be born," he said, voice breaking.

Michael paused. His light dimmed. He knelt before the young demigod.

"I know," he said.

He reached out, placing a hand on the demigod’s cheek. "Forgive us."

The young one’s eyes closed. His form melted into silver mist, carried away on the wind.

Silence fell once more.

All around, the Fallens stared at the empty plain where their divine executioners had stood. The snow was gone; only glass and ash remained.

Michael stood at the center, his wings folding inward, his light fading from brilliance to exhaustion. He looked toward Lara, Claire, Eli, and the countless battered Fallens who had survived.

"You should not have called me," he said, voice low but resonant.

"This world was never meant to bear Heaven’s wrath again."

Merlin took a step forward, blood on her lips. "They didn’t call you," she said. "They remembered you."

Michael looked at them — a long, weary gaze that carried the weight of millennia. Then he turned to Eli, sensing the warmth of another presence within her.

His eyes softened. "You carry more than life," he whispered. "You carry continuation."

Eli hesitated. "yes...yes, I’m pregnant"

As now, everyone believed, Eli believed, Lara believed. Merlin only stayed silent, looking the other way. As only one individual had contacted Eli within this month.

Atlas.