Era of the Demon And Angels

Celestial City – High Seraphim's Chamber

At the heart of the Celestial City, where divine winds whispered through towering spires, lay a secluded chamber bathed in ethereal golden light. Within, amidst stacks of ancient scrolls and celestial decrees, Seriel, the High Seraphim, sat in unwavering concentration.

His silver eyes glided over intricate celestial script, his quill moving effortlessly across parchment. Every stroke carried the weight of divine law, every document an unshakable pillar of order and balance.

Then—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The measured rapping echoed through the chamber, shattering the serene stillness.

Seriel exhaled slowly, his golden wings shifting with an almost imperceptible rustle. He placed his quill aside with careful precision, his fingers lingering over the parchment for the briefest moment before pulling away.

"Enter," he commanded, his voice smooth yet edged with an undeniable authority.

Creak—

The massive doors parted, allowing a celestial soldier to step forward. His golden armor gleamed under the soft glow of the chamber, the intricate engravings upon his chestplate pulsing faintly with divine energy. A sword of pure radiance rested at his side, humming with power, its very presence a reminder of the celestial host's unwavering strength.

The soldier strode forward with rigid discipline, his wings folded neatly behind him. With a practiced motion, he dropped into a respectful bow.

"Sir, reporting in."

Seriel's gaze lifted, sharp and unreadable. The air around him seemed to still.

"How goes the investigation?" His tone was level, yet beneath it lay the quiet hum of restrained power.

The soldier did not waver. "Lady Nimfa was last seen near the Celestial Library, High Seraphim. There has been no trace of her since."

A tense silence followed.

The flickering celestial glow around Seriel pulsed—faint, but undeniable. Then, the soldier continued, his voice slightly heavier.

"Additionally…" he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "One of the angels—Morgana—was also seen near the Celestial Library. Reports say she was searching for an unregistered book—one that does not exist within the Celestial Hall's official records."

A shift.

For a brief moment, the golden light in the chamber dimmed unnaturally, the eternal radiance faltering as though disturbed by an unseen force.

Seriel's silver eyes darkened at the name.

His fingers tightened ever so slightly at his sides.

Morgana.

A name that carried weight. A name that carried defiance.

Slowly, he turned away from the soldier, stepping toward the arched window.

His breath was slow, measured, but heavy. His wings, usually poised in celestial perfection, gave a slight, almost imperceptible shudder.

"Morgana… huh," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

His fingers brushed against the cool glass, his golden hair cascading over his shoulders as his reflection stared back at him. The city beyond was unchanging—pristine, eternal—but for the first time in centuries, Seriel felt something stir.

A crack in the harmony.

A tremor in the design.

His next words carried something unspoken beneath them—an uncertainty he dared not name aloud.

"Do you truly intend to oppose our mother, Morgana?"

The celestial breeze filtering through the chamber stilled, as if awaiting his next words.

Then—

With a controlled breath, Seriel buried the thought. His expression returned to its usual unreadable calm as he turned back to the soldier.

"Assemble a search party immediately," he commanded, his voice regaining its sharpness. "Scour every corner of the Celestial City—if necessary, extend the search to the mortal realm. No stone is to be left unturned."

The soldier straightened, his chest rising as if drawing strength from the very presence of the High Seraphim. He bowed deeply.

"Yes, High Seraphim Seriel."

Without hesitation, he turned on his heel, his armor clanking softly as he marched swiftly from the chamber. The heavy doors closed behind him with a quiet thud, sealing the space once more in silence.

Seriel remained standing, unmoving.

His gaze once more drifted over the endless Celestial City, its towering spires gleaming under the eternal radiance. The winds carried whispers of distant prayers, hymns sung in reverence, and the ever-present pulse of divine power that wove through the heavens like an unbreakable thread.

Yet, despite the city's brilliance, something lingered.

Something off.

A flicker of doubt. A tremor of change.

His wings rustled slightly, the divine energy around him rippling like a silent storm.

"The wheels are already in motion," he murmured. His voice, though quiet, carried a weight that could command legions.

A heavy breath escaped his lips.

"I wonder how fate will unfold… and how our mother will respond to this chaos."

His grip against the glass tightened slightly.

For the first time in a long while, he felt the tremor of uncertainty.

The golden light in the chamber brightened once more, as if reasserting its divine order.

But Seriel knew.

Something had changed.

And no decree, no celestial law, could stop it.

"This will be… interesting."

The dirt road stretched endlessly before them, illuminated by the soft glow of the moon. The caravan ahead rumbled over uneven terrain, its wooden wheels creaking under the weight of supplies and passengers.

Nimfa walked alongside Noir, her golden hair shimmering under the starlit sky. She glanced sideways at him, curiosity flickering in her golden eyes.

"So, where are we going now?" she asked, matching his strides.

Noir's gaze remained fixed on the path ahead as he removed his mask, letting the night air touch his face. His crimson eyes gleamed under the moonlight, untamed and piercing.

"We're heading to Jingjin," he replied. "A naval city—where ships from all across the world gather."

Nimfa nodded. "I see… but why did you wear a mask when you saved the villagers?"

Noir exhaled, irritation flashing across his face. "I wear the mask so I can move freely when I'm not using it." His voice was flat, practical. His gaze stayed locked on the road, avoiding hers.

Nimfa's POV

She frowned, her eyes drifting toward the mask in his hands.

"It feels like he's suppressing something."

Her fingers itched to reach out, to take the mask and truly understand what it concealed.

"What is he hiding?"

Before she could dwell on the thought, Noir's voice cut through her mind like a blade.

"Strange angel."

She blinked, snapping back to reality. "H-huh?"

Noir was already staring at her, his crimson gaze steady, unreadable.

"Did you hear what I said?" he asked, his voice direct.

Nimfa hesitated. "Umm… no," she admitted. She fiddled with the hem of her dress before asking, "And why did you call me strange?"

Noir's expression darkened slightly. He opened his mouth, then stopped.

"Strange because…"

His words died in his throat.

Noir's POV

His shoulders tensed. He could feel her name on his lips—but something deep inside refused to let him say it.

His fingers curled into a fist.

Then, suddenly—a flicker of memories.

A battlefield.

A thousand angelic corpses. Demons torn apart.

And at the center of it all—him.

Blood soaked his hands. His face, once unrecognizable under the weight of war, orders, obedience. His father's voice echoed in his mind, the command absolute.

"Eliminate them all."

Noir snapped back to reality, his breath sharp. His jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together.

His voice was colder when he spoke again.

"I don't have the leisure to call your name."

The words were ice.

Noir's Internal Conflict

"After everything I've done to her kind… should I really call her name so casually?"

He released a slow, measured breath, his crimson eyes narrowing at the moonlight that poured over the landscape.

Nimfa's POV

She stopped walking.

The moment Noir realized she was no longer beside him, he turned around. Nimfa stood still in the middle of the dirt path, staring at him.

Her face was calm, unreadable—but her eyes burned.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her voice quiet, yet carrying an undercurrent of something raw.

Noir met her gaze, his own turning darker.

"I've killed many of your kind," he admitted. "I was forged into a weapon—a tool for war. Controlled by my father's will. Every order he gave me was absolute, and I—"

"I DON'T CARE!"

Nimfa's sudden outburst struck him like lightning.

His crimson eyes widened slightly.

She was crying.

Tears slipped down her cheeks, illuminated by the silver light of the moon. But her posture remained strong, her wings unfurled behind her, glowing like celestial fire.

Noir didn't move. He simply stood there, silent, as her voice trembled with emotion.

"I don't care about your past!" she repeated, her voice breaking. "This endless war between our kin is wrong! Why do you have to suffer? Why do you have to carry this weight alone? Why do you refuse to let yourself feel anything?"

Her radiance intensified, the glow from her wings becoming almost blinding against the night sky.

Noir felt his breath catch in his throat.

He tried to speak.

"I-it's not—"

"Enough!"

She took a step forward. Then another.

Her voice was both gentle and unyielding.

"I will carry your sins. I will carry your burden. I will heal your soul. And I will stand beside you."

Before Noir could react—she wrapped her arms around him.

The warmth staggered him.

Her fragrance—soft, like moonlight flowers blooming in the wind—wrapped around him, soothing yet overwhelming. Her wings, pure and luminous, reflected the night sky like a celestial veil.

For the first time in two hundred years, something inside Noir broke.

His hands hovered over her back, as if unsure whether to embrace or push away.

But then—his body betrayed him.

His arms trembled. His shoulders tensed.

And then—

Tears fell.

A single drop at first. Then another. Until finally, **Noir—**the cold, merciless warrior, the living weapon of war—was crying.

The sound did not escape his lips. But the tears fell, streaking down his face, reflecting the moonlight.

He buried his face against her shoulder, his hands gripping her cloak as if she was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.

Nimfa felt the silent sobs racking his body. She said nothing. Instead, she gently ran her fingers through his hair, whispering:

"You can call my name."

Her voice was a promise.

"I will protect you. Like you protected me."

Above them, the night wind flickered. The breeze whispered between them, swirling gently as if the world itself had paused to witness this moment.

For the first time since the war, Noir let himself grieve.

For the first time, he wasn't alone.