[The Castle of Westminster – The Throne Room]
[The same day]
The interior of the castle was as grand as a ruler's sanctuary should be.
The Throne Room was a cavernous hall, the walls lined with priceless antiques and tapestries depicting the history of the Golden Shield. At the far end, bathed in the light of mana-lamps, sat the King.
King Charles the Fourth sat upon a throne made of jewels harvested from every corner of the world. He was a young man, possessing a slick, handsome face framed by white hair and piercing blue eyes. Despite his youth, he carried the weight of the Kingdom on his shoulders.
Standing before him was the Head of the Armed Forces.
He was the main strategist behind Westminster's military might, an old man with graying black hair and a jagged scar running down his left eye. He was a veteran of a hundred battles, yet today, he looked terrified.
He bowed his head low in respect, his voice uneven, stuttering as if the words themselves were painful to speak.
"Your Majesty... the fleet we sent... we..." His voice cracked. "We haven't received any report from them."
The room went silent.
"All the fleets and the air warships... they seem to be out of contact. They have simply vanished."
King Charles's hand slipped from the armrest as he tried to process the information. His composure fractured for a second.
"Wha... what? How is that even possible?" The King stood up, his voice rising. "Where is the Guild of Preservation's main force? Where is 'His' Honor, Michael? Contact 'Him' immediately!"
"We need to counterattack! Tell 'Him' to be here as soon as possible!"
Suddenly, the air in the Throne Room changed.
It wasn't a sound, but a feeling. The cold, sterile air of the castle lit up with vibrant life. Vines began to sprout from the stone pillars. Flowers bloomed instantly along the carpet, filling the room with the scent of spring and preservation.
A figure materialized in front of His Majesty.
He was wearing flowing white robes that seemed to shimmer with light. He had striking red hair that spilled over his shoulders, a stark contrast to the purity of his clothing. But it wasn't his hair or his robes that drew the eye—it was his face.
His eyes were covered by a strip of pure white cloth. He was blind.
"You don't have to worry, Your Majesty."
The figure bowed to the King, placing his right hand over his chest. He spoke calmly, his voice soothing, as if he had all the time in the world.
The King, who had been shouting moments ago, immediately straightened his posture. He stepped down from the dais and bowed back to the newcomer.
The Head of the Armed Forces watched in shock. A King bowing to a subject?
Then, realization hit him.
This was Michael. The Angel of Preservation. The Tier 8 entity who served the God of Preservation directly.
The General fell to his knees, trembling. He knew that seeing an Angel walking on mortal ground was a myth come to life. The mere presence of "Him" made the General's body feel comforted, healing his old aches instantly.
"You don't have to worry, Your Honor," Michael said, turning his blindfolded face toward the trembling General. "I am taking this matter into my own hands."
"He" paused, tilting "His" head slightly.
"I do not know where the Angel of Death is, but I surely will be on the battlefield for our land and our God."
King Charles IV, now sitting back on his throne, sighed.
"Hmm. The Death Angel... 'He' must be on the Dead Sea," the King muttered, rubbing his temples. "I am not sure what a Tier 8 Angel is doing there at the time of war, but it is fine. Because 'You' are now here."
The King looked at the blind man with absolute trust.
"I will leave it in 'Your' hands now, Sir Michael."
The Angel of Preservation smiled faintly. In a blink, the flowers withered away, and the presence vanished. Michael was gone.
The Throne Room returned to normal.
The Head of the Armed Forces stood up slowly, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Was... was 'He' really an Angel, Your Majesty?" the General asked, his voice hushed. "Did I just see an Angel in the flesh? I feel... blessed."
The King closed his eyes, leaning back into his jeweled seat.
"'He' doesn't show 'Himself' often," Charles said softly. "But when it comes to the Kingdom and 'His' God, 'He' does not leave anyone alone."
The King opened his eyes, staring at the empty spot where Michael had stood.
"Also, General... do not be fooled by 'His' calm demeanor. 'He' is as crafty as possible."
The Throne Room fell into silence as the King dismissed the Head of Forces, closing his eyes to think about the war, the missing fleet, and the monsters approaching his walls.