It all happened when he was seven, in a dream so vivid it felt like reality. And there he was, on a battlefield that felt older than time itself.
And in the center of it, Him.
The angel.
He stood taller than mountains, yet precise as a blade. Six wings arched behind him. Each feather flamed with a raging fire. His armor wasn't worn, it existed like a second skin, molten gold fused into his body with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly, as if alive. It was as if he was the embodiment of death itself.
Then his eyes, they weren't kind. They weren't cruel. They were absolute. Blue-white, like pure lightning… the kind that doesn't strike… but decides.
In his hand was a sword that looked less like metal and more like compiled judgment. Its edge brought about annihilation. Not chaos. Not rage. Just purpose.
Then suddenly, the boy woke up screaming.
He tried to explain it to his mother the next morning how the angel's presence felt heavier than gravity. How just looking at him got him lost in his cold eyes. How it felt like standing before something that could erase a city with a blink.
"It was just a dream," she'd said gently.
But he knew, dreams don't leave scorch marks on your memory.
Years passed,he stopped talking about it. Until it happened… again.
Now sixteen, walking home after school, earbuds in, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, just another tired teenager blending into the afternoon crowd.
Then he saw him again…
Not fully, not the battlefield. Just a flash. A reflection in a shop's window, for a split second, the sky behind him flickered with light. Wings unfolded in the glass. And the same eyes met his…
The world snapped back. Cars beeped. People walked past. But he felt dense again. The air felt… aware.
That's when he noticed them. Three ahead. Two behind.
A man in a grey hoodie. A woman with blood red nails and too still eyes. Another guy pretending to check his phone but never blinking.
Their movements were slightly off. Too synchronized. Too… perfect. They weren't following casually. They were herding him. His pulse quickened.
He turned left.
They turned left.
He crossed the street suddenly.
So did they.
The woman smiled.
Her teeth were too sharp.
So he was left with no choice other than to run. Footsteps echoed behind him, too many now. He took a quick glance back, and more had appeared.
Male. Female. Different ages. Different faces.
But their eyes… black. Not dark brown.Not shadowed. Black like an emptiness in their soul. They were gaining on him.
He dashed into an alley between two abandoned buildings. Trash cans crashed as he shoved past them. His breath burned. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
Then…
Dead end.
A wall towering in front of him. He turned slowly to see them stepping into the alley entrance, silhouettes blocking the light. The woman with crimson nails tilted her head.
"You should have stayed unaware," she said softly.
Their skin rippled. Not dramatically, like something was underneath it.
His back hit the wall. Fear covered him at the moment. And then, a sound. A boot scraping concrete. The air shifted… his presence felt heavy. Intentional…
The demons paused.
A man stepped into the alley from the shadows behind them. Tall and muscular. Looking like a retired war god or probably a soldier.
Broad-shouldered. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Hair cut short, and a little bit of grey. A long scar ran across his neck, not sloppy, not accidental. Clean. Surgical. Like someone tried to remove his head and failed.
He wore a simple dark coat. Nothing flashy. But by the way he stood…
It felt like the ground answered to him. His aura didn't explode like the angel's.
It was compressed, dense, controlled and dangerous.
One of the demons snarled. "Raphael's dog."
The man sighed almost lazily.
"I was hoping you'd try diplomacy."
He moved. And it wasn't fast.
It was like the edge of speed as a whole. One moment he was standing still. The next, the first demon's body hit the wall so hard bricks cracked. The woman lunged at him, he caught her wrist, twisted once, and something unseen flared gold for a split second. She disintegrated into ash mid-scream.
The rest attacked at once.
Three seconds later, everywhere in the alley was filled with a huge silence. Ashes drifted in the alley like dark snow. The man adjusted his coat.
Then the boy broke the silence.
"You…" his voice trembled, couldn't process all that just happened, "what are they?"
The man turned to him fully now. His eyes weren't normal either but he could tell the man was on his side. They glowed faint green, like light passing through a cracked glass.
"They're demons," he said plainly. "Lower rank scavengers."
The boy swallowed. "Why were they chasing me?"
The man studied him for a moment. Then nodded slightly.
"I've been watching you since the first one marked your scent outside the school."
"Watching me?"
"Yes."
He stepped closer, and up close, the scar on his neck seemed almost luminous under the fading light.
"You're a Renegade," the man said.
"A what?"
"A human chosen by an archangel. You carry their mark. Their potential. And you kiddo, you wield their power."
The boy's heart pounded harder than when he was running.
"I didn't choose anything."
The man's expression softened slightly.
"None of us did."
He touched the scar on his neck.
"Raphael chose me when I was nineteen. I thought I was going nuts. Turns out… I was being recruited."
"What happened?" the boy asked. "How did you get that scar?"
The man's jaw tightened.
"That," he said quietly, "is a story for another night."
"What made you stop being one?" he asked again
A pause.
Something unreadable passed through his eyes.
"Its classified."
Before the boy could process that…
"Who chose me?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper.
The man looked at him differently now. Not like a soldier. Not like a guardian. Like someone looking at a loaded weapon.
"Michael." The name landed heavy.
"The greatest battle angel there is. And ever was."
The alley seemed colder.
"The demons wanted you dead before your abilities awakened," the man continued. "Before you understand what you are, that's when you can call on him."
The boy's mind reeled. The dream. The battlefield. The sword. The cold lifeless eyes.
"That angel I saw when I was seven…"
"Yes."
"That was…"
"Michael."
The name felt like thunder in his chest. The man stepped back slightly.
"They will come again. Stronger next time."
"What do I do?" the boy asked quickly.
The man's expression turned almost amused.
"Survive."
"That's it?!"
"For now."
He turned toward the alley entrance.
"We'll meet again."
"Wait, how do I…"
But the words died. The alley was empty. No footsteps. No sound. No fading silhouette. Just gone.
The boy stood alone, ashes still settling around him. His reflection showed faintly in a broken window nearby.
And for just a second, behind him, wings unfolded in the glass. Massive, burning gold. And a voice, deep as distant thunder, whispered inside his mind:
"Awaken."