April 22, 2012, Fifth Heaven, Evening.
The Fifth Heaven was a testament to a grander, more unified age. Its vast expanse was a landscape of gleaming spires and sprawling, luminous laboratories, structures of crystal and light.
These were the relics of a glorious past, a time before schism, before rebellion, before the Great War had fractured the celestial host and left these halls echoing with a silence that was anything but peaceful.
It was a monument to knowledge lost and collaboration severed, a beautiful, aching reminder of what once was.
Walking through these quiet, hallowed halls was Michael, the current substitute for the absent Yahweh and leader of the heavenly host.
He was a figure of profound serenity, a tall, stately being with hair like spun gold and eyes that held the deep, untroubled blue of a predawn sky. His very presence radiated an aura of absolute security for the faithful and a quiet, formidable dread for his enemies—a effect magnified by the softly glowing golden halo that hovered above his head, the divine symbol of his office.
This was the 'Halo of Bliss,' the signature power gifted to him directly by the God of the Bible. It was this power that had allowed the angelic forces to endure the cataclysm of the Great War, strengthening his brethren, granting boons to worthy humans, and banishing evil with the sheer, concentrated force of divine grace.
It was a fragment of the Father's own might, and its weight upon Michael's soul was immeasurable, especially now, in the Father's enduring silence.
His purpose here, in this place of abandoned wonders, was a meeting that was itself a small miracle, a fragile thread of hope spun from unbelievable news.
The Messiah existed.
The words, whispered from the lips of his most fallen brother, had struck him with the force of a divine revelation. And so he had come to the former central house of the Grigori, the very research division once led by the being he was to meet.
A soft light, incongruous with the ambient glow of Heaven, shimmered into existence before him. From it stepped Azazel, the Governor General of the Fallen Angels. He stood there, a bittersweet smile playing on his lips, a living contradiction in this sanctified space.
"Michael," Azazel said, his voice a familiar, rough-hewn sound that nonetheless carried a strange, unaccustomed warmth. "It's good to see you."
Michael regarded him in silence for a long moment. The centuries fell away, and for a heart-stopping second, he didn't see the leader of the Grigori, the fallen outcast.
He saw the brilliant, curious angel, his brother, Azazel, whose passion for creation and knowledge had once burned as brightly as any seraph's light. The sight sent a jolt of painful, hopeful confusion through him.
'If I look at him... I see the old Azazel,' Michael thought, his internal composure wavering. 'The Messiah must be real. Oh, Lord, oh Father almighty, please guide me through your challenges.' A strange, un-angelic anxiety coiled in his chest.
'Why am I feeling like this?' The answer was a dread and a hope so immense it could not be contained.
The old tale, the prophecy Yahweh had shared only with him and Lucifer in the earliest days, was unfolding. God was dead. The world was teetering on the brink of a war that would make the last one seem like a skirmish. And their only hope was a savior who transcended all lines—a universal Messiah.
"Azazel," Michael began, his voice the epitome of calm, a stark contrast to the turmoil within. "How are things?"
"Well, I have to show you something!" Azazel replied, and the excitement in his voice was so genuine, so utterly devoid of his usual cynical edge, that it was disarming.
He produced a shield, the Twinkle Aegis, its surface now gleaming with a perfected, internal luminescence that it had never possessed before.
"One of your experiments?" Michael asked, confused by the seemingly mundane offering.
"Better. Take it. Tell me your first thought," Azazel insisted, pressing the shield into Michael's hands.
The moment Michael's fingers closed around the grip, the shield brightened, its light harmonizing with the very air of Heaven. A soft, resonant hum filled the space between them. Michael's eyes widened.
"It... it seems real. How is this possible? It is resonating with the Heaven System!?" His voice, though still measured, rose with incredulous awe. "Azazel, you've managed to recreate a perfect Sacred Gear!"
The Fallen Angel shook his head, a wry, humble smile replacing his excitement. "I did nothing. I merely brought it into balance; the Messiah made all the enhancements alone."
"Incredible," Michael murmured, turning the shield over in his hands, feeling the pure, unadulterated potential thrumming within it. "Simply incredible."
"You took the words right out of my mouth," Azazel joked, a small, real laugh escaping him. It was a sound Michael hadn't heard in millennia.
Then, silence descended. It was not the comfortable silence of old companions, but an awkward, heavy quiet, filled with the ghosts of a
shared past and the chasm of their long separation. They simply looked at each other, two brothers who had fought on opposite sides of a cosmic war, now standing together in the ruins of their former unity, bound by a hope that felt as terrifying as it was divine.
"Do you think..." Michael started, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant, "Do you think we can finally meet him? The Messiah?"
Normally, he would have mobilized the entire Host, descending upon the location with all the majesty of Heaven. But Azazel's reports had cautioned him. This was not a king or a warrior to be summoned. This was a boy, living in a devil-ruled town, under the watchful eyes of the Shinto pantheon.
The political and personal ramifications were a minefield. The thought of dragging a child into their ancient conflicts felt like a profound betrayal of the very grace he was meant to uphold.
"I spoke with his attendant yesterday," Azazel explained, his tone shifting to one of practical caution. "The Messiah is out of town for now."
"You mean the woman magician who assists him? Elizabeth, correct?"
"Yes, her," Azazel confirmed.
"Then what about inviting her to Heaven?" Michael proposed, grasping for a middle ground. "From what you've said, she is like his right hand. We could speak with her, understand his nature, his needs."
Azazel nodded slowly, the strategist in him aligning with the brother seeking reconciliation. "That's a good idea. A diplomatic overture. I'll see what can be arranged."
As Azazel moved to leave, activating a personal teleportation circle with a ease that still unnerved Michael's security protocols, the Great Seraph spoke again.
"Azazel... what about Kokabiel? Do you truly fear he might go rogue?"
A shadow passed over Azazel's face. "I hope he doesn't. But hope isn't a strategy. Just to be sure, I have sent spies to watch him, every hour of every day." He stepped into the circle, the light beginning to swirl around him.
"Be careful... brother." The word left Michael's lips barely above a whisper, a fragile, long-unspoken acknowledgment that hung in the air between them.
The effect on Azazel was immediate and visceral. His shoulders tightened, and for a fleeting moment, the hard, cynical mask of the Governor General slipped, revealing the raw, wounded angel beneath.
"You're making me cry, Michael," he said, his voice thick with an emotion he could no longer suppress. He paused at the threshold of light. "Ah! I wonder what the Old Man would say if He saw us right now."
Michael's gaze was steady, filled with a sorrowful, unwavering certainty. "Hope lives on. That is what He would say. I am certain of it."
A single, traitorous tear escaped Azazel's eye, tracing a path down his cheek before evaporating in the holy air.
"Yeah," he breathed, the word laden with the weight of eons of despair and this newfound, terrifying fragility. "I lost all hope after I was banished from Heaven... after Lucifer's fall. But now... now I can see it again. Stay well, Michael."
And with that, he was gone, the light of the teleportation circle fading, leaving Michael alone in the silent, gleaming laboratory of the Fifth Heaven.
The leader of the angels stood motionless, the perfected Sacred Gear still in his hands, the echo of that single word—"brother"—and the glimpse of a tear on a fallen face, lingering in the air like a prayer.
It was a painful, beautiful and profoundly bittersweet moment, a tiny flame of hope kindled in the vast, echoing darkness of their fractured world.