The valley of the Forgotten Harvest lay behind Delta like a memory already fading. Rain continued to fall in steady sheets—indifferent, mechanical—reviving fields that had no right to bloom. Mortals sang their halting hymn in the distance, voices rising then falling with the wind. He did not look back.
The horizon shifted again. Land gave way to mist, then to light. The ground beneath his boots turned from cracked earth to translucent marble that glowed faintly from within, veined with gold. Each step rang softly—not echo, but resonance, as though the material recognized an intruder and protested in whispers.
The Celestial Stair appeared without warning.
It rose from the mist in a perfect spiral—endless steps of white stone flecked with starlight, wide enough for armies yet narrow in purpose. No railings. No beginning visible below; no end above. Clouds parted around it like curtains drawn by unseen hands. Light poured downward in slow rivers—warm, golden, suffused with the scent of ozone and incense.
Delta began to climb.
The ascent was not effortful. Gravity loosened its grip. Each step felt lighter, yet the blade at his side grew heavier, as though the realm itself tried to anchor it. The air thickened with song—distant, harmonious, the endless choir of the lower choirs. Voices without words. Perfection without flaw.
But flaws were coming.
At the third turn of the spiral, the first guardians appeared.
They materialized from the light itself—seraphim of the lowest rank, six-winged, clad in armor of living radiance. Their faces were masks of serene marble, eyes burning with white fire. In their hands they held spears of condensed dawn—tips sharp enough to pierce thought.
They did not speak at first. They simply barred the way, wings spread in a wall of light.
Delta stopped three steps below them.
One seraph stepped forward—Archon Eriel, commander of the fringe watch. Taller than the others, helm crowned with a halo of spinning blades. His voice rang like struck crystal.
"Anomaly. You tread where no mistake may go. Turn back. The Upper Spheres are not for you."
Delta lifted his head. Hood shadowed his features, but the light around him dimmed slightly, as though embarrassed.
"I do not seek the spheres," he said. "I seek what was denied below."
Eriel's wings flared. "Denial is the law. You are denial itself. Leave, or be unmade."
Delta regarded him. Silence stretched—longer than the choir's song.
Then he spoke, low and without heat. "Law is irrelevant when it refuses to answer."
The words landed. The marble beneath their feet cracked—hairline fractures racing outward like lightning in stone. The choir faltered for a single note.
Eriel raised his spear. "Then you will be broken."
The phalanx moved.
The fight erupted across the stair.
First came the spears—dozens, hurled in perfect unison. Light trails streaked downward, faster than mortal sight, aimed to pierce heart, mind, and essence in one thrust.
Delta did not dodge. He raised the blade in a slow arc. Steel met light. No explosion. No clash. The spears shattered mid-air, fragments dissolving into harmless motes that drifted upward like dying fireflies.
Eriel advanced. His spear thrust forward in a blinding line—dawn-forged point trailing afterimages of sunrise.
Delta met it halfway. Blade against spear. The impact sent a shockwave rolling down the stair—marble cracking, mist boiling away. Eriel staggered. A hairline fracture appeared along his spear's shaft.
The archon snarled. "You cannot stand against the light!"
Delta answered, voice unchanged. "Light casts shadows. Shadows are older."
He pressed forward.
The phalanx closed ranks. Wings beat in unison, creating gusts of holy wind that howled like judgment. Spears thrust in coordinated waves—high, low, diagonal—forming a cage of radiance.
Delta walked into it.
The blade moved—measured, inevitable.
Each parry severed spear-tips cleanly. Shards of dawn rained down, burning out before they touched the stair. One seraph lunged; Delta sidestepped, blade sweeping upward through armored shoulder. Light bled from the wound—not blood, but pure essence—fading to gray before dissipating.
The seraph fell to one knee, wing crumpling.
Another attacked from behind—wings folding to strike like blades. Delta pivoted without looking. The chipped edge met wing-joint. A clean cut. The wing detached, falling in slow spirals, dissolving into light-motes as it descended.
Eriel roared. "Form the wall!"
The remaining guardians linked arms, wings interlocking into a barrier of solid radiance. Spears extended forward like a hedge of light.
Delta advanced anyway.
He thrust once—blade piercing the center of the wall. The barrier shattered outward in a silent explosion. Shards flew, but none touched him. They curved away, as though repelled by his presence.
Eriel charged alone now.
Spear spun in brutal arcs—overhead, side, thrust. Each strike faster, brighter, fueled by divine fury. The stair trembled. Steps cracked. Light flared in blinding pulses.
Delta parried each one. Steel met light again and again. Cracks spread across Eriel's armor—fine lines at first, then widening. His halo spun erratically. The blades within it dulled.
"You are nothing!" Eriel shouted. "A glitch! A void!"
Delta looked up. "Then why do you fear the glitch?"
He stepped inside the archon's guard.
The blade rose in a single upward stroke—clean, unhurried. It entered beneath Eriel's breastplate, where divine core pulsed.
The strike landed.
A low groan escaped the archon—not pain, but the sound of certainty fracturing. Light poured from the wound—white, then gray, then nothing. Cracks raced across his form. Wings folded. Armor flaked away like ash.
Eriel dropped to both knees. Spear clattered down the stair, dissolving.
The remaining seraphim froze. Wings drooped. Spears lowered.
Delta withdrew the blade. A new chip glowed faintly on the edge, then faded. The weight in his arm deepened—another burden added without fanfare.
He looked down at the kneeling archon.
"End it," Eriel whispered, voice broken.
Delta considered. "No."
He turned.
The stair behind him cracked wider. Steps crumbled. Light dimmed along the lower turns.
Delta continued upward a few paces—then stopped.
He did not seek the Upper Spheres. He had come to answer, not to claim.
He turned back downward.
The guardians watched in silence as he descended past them—winged forms kneeling now, heads bowed. No pursuit. No hymn. Only the sound of cracking marble and fading light.
Far below, in mortal lands, seers felt the tremor. A single feather—white edged in gray—fell from the sky into a village square. Children gathered around it, whispering.
In Hell's deeper circles, demons felt the shift—a chill spreading further.
Above, in the higher choirs, silence replaced song for the first time in eons.
Delta reached the base of the stair.
The mist closed around it. The spiral faded, as though it had never been.
He walked into the haze, blade heavier still.
The ascent had been denied—not by force, but by refusal.