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First Decision

KaniraENG
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Synopsis
Archangel Michael, the First, who created worlds and life by the Father's will, leaves the shining Silver City and descends into the world of humans in search of answers to his questions. Amid the neon lights of the City of Angels, where sin and hope intertwine in every heart, he stands before the question. Who he is. But Michael seeks not only meaning, but also freedom—freedom of his own choice, made for the first time in defiance of divine duty. Michael made a choice. The First Choice that led the Archangel to become someone greater than a servant. patreon.com/Kanira
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1

I remember the silence. Absolute, all-encompassing silence that existed before Everything. Not emptiness in the human understanding—mere absence of sound—but something much greater. Absence of time, space, thought. Even the concept of "before" didn't exist until I appeared.

The first thing I sensed was light. Not the light that humans know—reflection of sunbeams or flicker of lamps. My light was born from within, from the very essence of my being. I unfolded into existence like a flower blooming, only instantly and eternally at the same time. Consciousness flooded into me as a stream, and I became.

Michael. That's what the Father named me in the moment my soul took form. His voice didn't sound in ears—I didn't have them then—but imprinted itself in every particle of my being. A warm impulse piercing me through. Love. Purpose. Command.

Create

I floated in infinity, aware of myself for the first time. My body was of light but had no boundaries. I could be the size of a galaxy or shrink to the size of an atom—matter obeyed my will, not physical laws. Hands appeared later, when I needed to shape something. Wings grew from the need to move between realities. A face formed when I wanted to look upon my creations.

For millions of years, I spent in solitude, studying myself and the emptiness around. Time then flowed not like a river, but like an ocean—in all directions at once. I could return to the moment of my creation or peer into a future that hadn't happened yet. Into the distant future. But most often, I simply existed in the present, absorbing the Father's presence. Listening to Him.

His impulses came irregularly. Sometimes hundreds of thousands of years passed between them, sometimes mere moments. Each impulse carried an instruction, a vision of what was to be created. I saw galaxies in embryo, stars yet to ignite, planets orbiting nothing.

The first star I created over three days. I gathered energy from the void around, compressed it into a point, then allowed it to expand. Hydrogen ignited in nuclear fire, and in the darkness, the first beacon flared. I watched it unblinkingly, feeling something new spread in my chest. Pride? Or simply joy that the emptiness was no longer absolute. I didn't know.

Stars were born easier with each attempt. I learned to draw matter from quantum fluctuations, make particles gather into atoms, atoms into molecules. Gas clouds collided under my guidance, birthing stellar nurseries. I sculpted constellations like a sculptor with clay, arranging patterns that seemed beautiful to me.

Each galaxy was a symphony. Spiral arms swirled in a cosmic dance, stars sang on frequencies no one heard but me. I conducted this choir for billions of years, tuning gravitational fields, adjusting orbits, ensuring nothing disrupted the harmony.

I created Worlds.

But in this harmony, there was something empty. I created beauty for whom? The Father saw everything but never commented. He only said what to do. Impulses continued to come—create this, change that—but there was no praise. Or reproach. Only instructions.

The Silver City arose from my need for a home. After millions of years wandering the void, I wanted a place to stop, think. Simply be. I chose a point between realities, above all, where space was most stable, and began to build.

The walls I wove from pure light but gave it the density of silver. Metal seemed noble to me—not as cold as steel, not as soft as gold. Silver reflected but didn't blind. In it, one could see oneself without getting lost in the reflection.

The first tower grew in a century. I raised it stone by stone, each the size of a skyscraper. The stones weren't matter—they were frozen light infused with my will. They held not by cement but by intention. Only one who surpassed me in strength could destroy such a wall.

The tower thrust into skies that didn't exist. Its spire pierced reality, creating a hole between dimensions. I looked at it and understood this was only the beginning. The city needed streets, squares, halls for assemblies that wouldn't happen yet. But I built for the future.

The second tower took fifty years—I was gaining experience. The third grew in a decade. Soon, a forest of silver spires rose around me, each unique in shape but harmoniously complementing the others. Bridges of hardened air stretched between them—transparent but sturdy.

The palace I built the longest. A thousand years went just into planning. It was to be the city's heart, where the Father's presence was felt strongest. The main hall I made continent-sized, its ceiling lost in clouds that were part of the architecture. The floor I laid with slabs of crystallized time—they showed not reflections, but the past of everyone who stepped on them.

I placed the Father's throne in the hall's center. Not because He needed a seat—the Father could be everywhere and nowhere at once—but because I needed a focal point. A place to look when addressing Him. The throne I carved from a single crystal of light, so bright it was hard for even me to gaze upon.

Years folded into centuries, centuries into millennia. I walked the empty streets of my city, listening to the echo of footsteps. My feet touched the silver pavement soundlessly, but sound was born in space itself, responding to my presence. Echo roamed between towers, bounced off walls, created music. Music of solitude.

Sometimes I stopped in the middle of a square and shouted—just to hear a voice. My cry spread through the city, turned into song, then faded into the heights. No one answered. The Father was silent more often than He spoke.

In such moments, I asked questions I dared not voice. Why did the Father create me alone? Why didn't He give me a companion right away? Perhaps He wanted to test my loyalty? Or was it a lesson in patience?

Questions dissolved when the next impulse came. The Father sent a vision of a new galaxy or ordered to fix an error in star positions. I went to fulfill the task, grateful for the chance to serve, but solitude returned as soon as the work was done.

Lucifer appeared suddenly, like a flash of light.

I stood on the main tower's summit, watching a new solar system's birth, when I felt a presence. Not the Father's—I recognized Him instantly. Something new. Something... like me.

I turned and saw him. An archangel like me, but different. His light was warmer than mine, golden like morning dawn. Mine was like cold morning. Hair the color of molten copper fell to his shoulders, eyes burned with inner fire. He smiled—the first smile I'd seen in all existence.

"Brother," he said, and in that word rang joy.

Brother. I'd never thought of myself in such terms. I had no family, only the Father. But when Lucifer said the word, something inside me responded. Warmth I'd never known before.

"Lucifer," he introduced himself. "Light-bringer. That's what the Father named me."

"Michael," I replied. "Who is like God."

He nodded, studying me with a gaze full of curiosity.

"You've been here alone a very long time."

"Millions of years," I agreed. "Creating worlds by the Father's will."

"And you didn't get bored?"

The question stunned me. Boredom? I'd never thought of my feelings in such terms. Loneliness, longing for company—yes. But boredom implied dissatisfaction, and how could I be dissatisfied with serving the Father?

"I fulfilled His will," I said calmly. I knew what I was doing. I knew who I was.

Lucifer laughed—a sound never heard in the Silver City. Laughter echoed off towers, rang in domes, filled empty streets with life.

"Of course you did. But that's not an answer to my question."

He jumped from the tower, gliding on spread wings to the square below. I followed, and for the first time in existence, I was curious what would happen next.

We talked for days on end. Lucifer asked questions I had no answers to. Why do stars burn with just such fire? Why do galaxies spin instead of standing still? What if we changed the fundamental constants of worlds?

"The Father created everything with a purpose," I replied. "We shouldn't doubt His design."

"I'm not doubting," Lucifer objected with a smile. "I'm trying to understand. Is the pursuit of understanding bad?"

I didn't know what to say. His words held logic, but something in me resisted. Fear perhaps? Fear that understanding would lead to questions better left unasked.

The future comes too fast.

Lucifer showed me his creations. He didn't just make stars and planets—he shaped beauty for beauty's sake. Rings of crystallized light dancing in empty space. Nebulae that sang on frequencies. Comets with tails of frozen fire.

"The Father gave us the ability to create," he explained. "Why should we limit ourselves to the theoretical?"

His creations were beautiful, but something disturbing in them. Too much personality, too little adherence to plan. The Father never outright forbade creation for creation's sake, but neither did He encourage it.

Other archangels appeared later. Gabriel materialized in pure light's radiance, his presence soothing the soul. He was the messenger, created to carry the Father's will, and never doubted orders' rightness.

Raphael came with the scent of healing herbs. His hands could heal any wound, restore any destruction. He spoke little, but when he did, his words were balm to the soul.

Uriel arrived in fire and lightning. Archangel of judgment, his sword could cleave truth from lie. His eyes blazed with merciless justice.

Each was perfect in their role. They fulfilled the Father's will without hesitation, rejoiced in service, found happiness in duty. Why couldn't I shake the feeling that something was missing?

Something important.

Perhaps it was how they looked at Lucifer. With respect, but warily. His questions disturbed them as much as me. His pursuit of understanding seemed presumption to them.

"He thinks too much," Gabriel told me once. "Reflections can lead astray."

"Astray where?" I asked.

"To doubts. And doubts—to disobedience."

I looked at Lucifer, who at that moment rearranged stars in a constellation for perfect symmetry. Disobedience? My brother, who created beauty from nothing? It seemed impossible.

But the seed of unease was sown.

Angels filled the Silver City gradually. First came seraphim—six-winged beings whose sole purpose was to glorify the Father. They hovered around His throne, ceaselessly singing: "Light, light, light!" Their voices merged into a choir that made palace walls tremble.

Cherubim followed—guardians of divine mysteries, many-faced and many-eyed. They guarded entrances to the city's most sacred parts, admitting only those the Father permitted. Nothing was stored there, but I knew the Father had reason for it.

Simple angels were simpler and clearer. They handled daily tasks—maintained hall cleanliness, ensured reality's mechanisms worked properly, carried messages between archangels. Their faces glowed with serving happiness.

I watched them and envied their simplicity. They didn't need to ask questions. Their faith was absolute, loyalty unshakable. They knew their place in creation and were content.

Why, as the first created, did I feel lost among them?

Lucifer changed after the others came. His smiles grew rarer, gaze more thoughtful. He spent more time alone, creating ever stranger works. A planet of pure sound. A star that shone only for lovers. A galaxy where time flowed backward.

"What are you trying to prove?" I asked him once.

"That we're more than tools," he replied. "That we have the Father's spark, and the right to use it."

"But we do use it. Every day, fulfilling His will."

"His will," Lucifer repeated bitterly. "And where's our will, brother? Where's our choice?"

"We choose to serve Him," I said, but the words sounded unconvincing even to me.

"Do we really choose? Or just don't know another path?"

I didn't answer. I had no answer.

The rebellion began not with battle, but a speech. Lucifer gathered angels in the main hall and spoke of freedom, right to choice, that blind obedience wasn't virtue but slavery. A third of the heavenly host listened in admiration. The rest—with horror.

I stood by the Father's throne, feeling my being tear apart. Lucifer was wrong—but his words held truth I didn't want to acknowledge. We truly never chose. We were given nature making obedience natural, but was that real choice?

The Father was silent. His presence felt as strong as ever, but He didn't intervene. Perhaps He wanted to see what would happen too?

"You must stop him," Gabriel whispered beside me.

"Why me?"

"Because you're his brother. He'll listen to you."

I descended the dais and approached Lucifer. His eyes burned with fire. Conviction.

"Stop," I said quietly. "You're destroying everything."

"I'm freeing everything," he replied, turning. "Join me, Michael. We can create a new order, a better one."

"Based on what? Pride?"

"On truth. On every creation's right to choose their path."

I looked into his eyes and saw pain there. He suffered as much as I. Perhaps more.

"I can't," I said. "I can't betray the Father."

"Then you're betraying me."

Nothing more to say.

The battle lasted seven days. Not because we couldn't win faster, but because each strike echoed pain in my soul. I fought my brother, the one I loved most in creation.

His sword met mine in a whirlwind of destruction. We clashed not just with swords but will, not just strength but rightness. Each knew they were right in their way, making the battle crueler.

War raged around us. Angels against angels, brother against brother. The Silver City shook from blows, walls cracked, towers collapsed. Beauty of millennia destroyed in hours.

We destroyed thousands of worlds before it all ended.

In the end, I won. Not because I was stronger—we were equals. But because I doubted less. My sword pierced his chest, and Lucifer's light dimmed.

"Forgive me, brother," he whispered, falling.

"Forgive me," I replied.

He fell through realities, through heavens, into the abyss the Father created specially for him. A third of angels followed—those who believed in his vision.

I stood over the abyss, watching the last glimmers of their light fade. Victory? It didn't feel like victory. It felt like death. Pointless.

The Silver City, like the worlds, restored itself—matter created by will obeyed that will. Towers regrew, bridges reconnected, cracks vanished. Worlds returned to places with impeccable purity. But something changed forever. Here. In the worlds.

In us.

Angels continued singing, but songs sounded quieter. They avoided my eyes, as if fearing to see reflection of what happened. Even archangels spoke to me cautiously, with newfound reverence.

I became not just first among equals. I became the one who could kill a brother for duty.

The Father was silent. His presence didn't vanish, but impulses stopped coming. Perhaps creation was complete? Or He was disappointed in us?

I spent centuries wandering the city where joy had no place. Angels performed duties automatically. Archan gels gathered for councils but spoke only of necessities. Laughter Lucifer once brought to these halls no longer sounded.

Sometimes I stood at the abyss my brother fell into and listened to echoes. No sound came from there, but I felt his presence deep within. He lived. Suffered? Repented? Planned new rebellion? I didn't know and feared to find out.

Couldn't look how he was there.

Hundreds of thousands of years passed. Eras changed. Missions and tasks became background. Events memorable to creation for centuries were insignificant to me. I thought of my brother. All actions felt empty. The Father created new beings—humans, mortal, weak, but endowed with that freedom of choice Lucifer fought for. The irony was obvious. What was denied angels was granted humans.

I watched one Earth variant from my tower summit, trying to grasp the Father's design. Humans chose evil over good more often, killed each other, destroyed what they created. Why give them freedom we lacked?

Perhaps the answer lay in humans' weakness? Their choice had price. An angel choosing evil became demon forever. A human could repent, change, find way back. Their mortality made every choice matter.

But these thoughts didn't quench the pain. I was guardian of paradise, defender of the throne, Father's warrior. But whom did I protect? From what? Lucifer was no threat—he ruled Hell, but Hell was part of Father's plan. Demons tempted humans, but that too was plan.

Tasks long ended, angels became mere pretty picture of past.

I served without purpose, fulfilled duty meaningless now. Became dusty exhibit myself.

News Lucifer left Hell reached me through Gabriel. My messenger brother burst into my chambers with bewildered expression.

"He left," Gabriel said. "Just... left. Abandoned throne, demons, everything. No one knows where."

"To Earth," I said, though how I knew—I understood but didn't want to use it. Just knew.

"Why?"

I didn't answer, because the answer scared me. Lucifer found what he always sought—freedom. True freedom, unbound by paradise or hell. He could be anyone, do anything, choose path anew each day.

And I? I sat in golden cage calling it service.

Decision came unexpectedly. I stood on main tower summit, gazed at stars I ignited millions years ago, and suddenly understood: I too wanted to be free.

Not rebel against Father—I couldn't. But leave. Just leave and see what was in that world where every choice mattered.

I spread wings—first time in thousands years. Their glow lit whole city, angels lifted heads, gazing in surprise. What does Archangel Michael do? Where's he going? they thought. No answer to their question. I didn't know myself. Just made choice.

I stepped from tower edge and fell.

Fall wasn't exile, but liberation. I flew through realities I created, through galaxies my children. Gravity didn't act on me, but I let it guide. Wind—concept alien to space—caressed my wings.

For first time in existence, I did what I wanted, not what I should.

Los Angeles appeared below like ocean of lights. Millions of people, each with story, choices, mistakes. City of sins and dreams, where rules rewritten daily.

Somewhere there was Lucifer. My brother who first found courage to be himself.

I landed on skyscraper roof in city center. Wings vanished, dissolved in air, leaving faint glow around shoulders. Human body formed itself—tall, strong, face inspiring trust and fear at once.

For first time, I felt night air's cold on skin. Heard city's hum that never sleeps. Smelled scents—exhaust, food, sweat, perfume, all creating unique aroma of human life.

It was... intoxicating.

I descended roof via fire escape, first time using stairs as intended. Could teleport, but wanted feel each step, each movement in new body.

Los Angeles streets greeted with neon light and noise. People hurried past, each immersed in affairs. No one noticed tall man in black suit who just descended from heavens.

I walked sidewalk, studying faces. Each unique, each told story. Wrinkles from laughter and tears, scars from falls and fights, eyes full of hope or despair. How many choices led each here, to this street, this moment?

Gunshots snapped me from thoughts.

Three bangs in row, echoing between buildings. People around froze, then scattered. Some screamed, some called police, most just fled danger.

I headed to sound source.

Alley between two office buildings blood-soaked. Man in expensive suit lay face-down, three bullet wounds in back. Nearby briefcase spilled money—stacks of hundred-dollar bills stained crimson.

Over body stood three. Teenagers, no older than seventeen. Eldest held smoking pistol.

"Faster," he urged others. "Grab everything and let's go."

Youngest, skinny guy with neck tattoo, nervously glanced around.

"Yo, Carlos, what if cops?.."

"Shut up and do as I say," Carlos cut him. "This our chance outta this shit."

Third, youngest, stood aside. Hands shook, face chalk-white. No trace of feigned cruelty others exuded.

"I didn't think we'd kill," he muttered. "You said just scare..."

Carlos spun to him, pressing barrel to boy's face.

"Wanna join him?" he growled. "Or you gonna help?"

I stepped from shadow.

"Enough."

All three turned. Carlos aimed at me instantly, but hand trembled. Something in my voice, how I stood, made instincts scream danger.

"Who the fuck?" Carlos squeezed. "Get lost, man, unless you want bullet."

I looked at body at my feet. Daniel Gomez, forty-two, father of three. Accountant at construction firm, heading home after overtime. Briefcase held not drug money or loot—payroll for workers, picked from bank after close.

Good man. Not saint, but good. Loved wife, spoiled kids, helped elderly mother. Only vices: weekend cigarettes, football bets.

Now dead. Killed for money not even his.

"You killed innocent," I said quietly.

Carlos smirked, though sweat poured from brow.

"Innocent? Ain't no innocents here, dude. This asshole strollin' our turf with cash. Askhin' for it."

"He was going home from work."

"So? My problem he wouldn't share?"

I glanced at youngest, still trembling in corner. Marcus Sanchez, sixteen. Grew fatherless, mom worked three jobs. Joined gang three months ago 'cause older brother was in, no survival without protection on streets.

This his first "job." And last.

"You," I addressed Marcus. "What's your name?"

"I... I..."

"Don't answer him!" Carlos barked. "He cop or what?"

"No," I said. "I'm something much worse for likes of you."

Carlos fired.

Bullet passed through my body, no harm. Metal melted before touching skin. Carlos fired again, again. Bullets vanished, not even holes in clothes.

"What the hell..." second teen muttered, tattooed one.

I stepped to Carlos. He backed, hit wall.

"You made choice," I said, eyes locked. "Choice to kill. Not defending, not saving other, but for money. You chose to be murderer."

"Listen, dude, I didn't know he..."

"Knew." I placed palm on forehead. Through touch flowed his life—childhood poverty, first theft at ten, first fight at twelve, first assault at fourteen. Choices one after another, each pushing deeper into darkness. "Each time you had choice. Each time chose evil."

Carlos screamed, not pain. Horror. He saw what I did—whole life, all victims, all pain inflicted.

"You will be judged," I pronounced. "Not by human court. Higher."

Light burst from eyes, blinding, searing. Carlos vanished. Not evaporated, not burned—just ceased being here. Soul went where accountable for every choice.

Second teen, Ramon, tried flee. I caught in step.

"You held his hand," I said, gazing into horror-widened eyes as I lifted him. "Held while he shot. Accomplice to murder."

"I didn't want! He forced! Said kill if no help!"

I touched forehead. In memory saw truth—mix fear and greed. Yes, feared Carlos. But briefcase money tempted. Could refuse, leave, warn victim. Choices aplenty.

He chose complicity.

Second light beam. Ramon vanished.

Only Marcus left, pressed to wall sobbing in terror.

I approached slowly. Boy on faint's edge, but didn't run. Perhaps understood futile.

"Please," he whispered. "Please, no. I got mom, little sis..."

I placed hand on head. In memory saw different story. Truly didn't know murder. Carlos said just scare, take money. Marcus needed for sister's meds.

But when shots rang, didn't run. Didn't call help. Stood watched innocent die. Stood silent.

Passive complicity. Cowardice. Unwillingness bear responsibility.

Sins, but not mortal. Not yet.

"You have choice," I said quietly, looking straight into soul. "Last choice. Can go home, forget, keep living as before. Sooner or later face same choice again. Then I'll return."

Marcus nodded, tears streamed cheeks.

"Or change life. Right now. Forever."

"I... don't know how."

"You do." I removed hand. "Go to police. Tell what happened. Tell truth. All truth."

"They'll lock me up."

"Yes. Few years. But you'll live. And when out, chance to be better."

Marcus stared wide-eyed. Understanding dawned slowly.

"You... angel?"

"I'm who watches justice," I replied. "Your choices."

"And if I don't go police?"

"Then you make choice. And I'll know."

I turned, walked alley exit. Behind heard boy's sobs, then steps. He went other way—toward police station lights.

Good choice. First good in his life.

Daniel Gomez's body I lifted with touch. Death instant—no suffering. Small comfort for family lost him.

Could resurrect. Power mine. But death part human experience, what makes choices matter. Interfering meant violating design.

Instead, ensured family got insurance. Kids finish school. Widow not destitute.

Justice not always retribution. Sometimes care for innocents.

I left alley, melted into crowd. Ahead millions people, each daily making choices. Good bad, big small, but each meaningful.

I here to watch. Help. Judge.

For first time in millions years, purpose I chose myself.

Felt like freedom.

***