Chapter 29
"Heaven's Watchers"
The Seventh Firmament glowed like a boundless ocean of light. Rivers of radiance flowed through crystalline arches, and choirs of unseen voices resonated in the vast expanse. Where Hell seethed in fire and chains, Heaven shimmered in perfect, suffocating order.
Yet tonight, the light was uneasy.
At the Hall of Trumpets, angels gathered around a prism of fractured brilliance. Each shard reflected the same vision: a ripple that had passed through creation, subtle yet undeniable. A tremor in the threads of fate itself.
The Seraph of Judgement stood foremost, her wings spread like blades of sunlight. Her eyes burned with cold fire as she gazed at the prism.
"Ouroboros." The word left her lips like a curse. "The serpent coils once more."
A hush fell across the assembly. For centuries, the name had been forbidden in Heaven. The Primordial Serpent, the one who had bent fate to his will, who had mocked the scales of judgment—erased, or so they had believed.
Now the ripple proved otherwise.
The Seraph's second, a stern figure clad in robes of starlight, stepped forward. "But where is he? The ripple was vast, but no source revealed itself. Not in Hell. Not in Heaven."
"Concealed," the Seraph said flatly. "Shrouded by the very law he embodies. Fate itself veils him."
The words echoed through the hall like a tolling bell.
In the upper courts, among towers woven of hymn and light, lower angels whispered uneasily.
"If he has returned, then all prophecy is meaningless."
"Impossible. The Thrones themselves decreed his end!"
"And yet the ripple was real. If Ouroboros hides, then it is in the mortal realm."
Mortal realm—the words passed like wildfire. Angels shuddered at the thought. For all their might, Earth was a fragile plane, a thin veil stretched between Heaven and Hell. To send their full radiance there would tear it apart. And yet… if Ouroboros was walking among mortals, every moment was a risk.
Far away, in the Chamber of Records, where time itself was inscribed upon endless scrolls, the Arch-Recorder pressed her quill to parchment. Her hand trembled as she traced the broken lines.
"Threads unraveled… rivers disturbed… deaths rewritten…" Her voice grew faint. "The skein of Earth is changing. The flow bends where it should not bend."
From the shadows of the chamber, a presence stirred. Golden flames lit the floor as the Seraph of Judgement entered.
"You feel it too," she said. It was not a question.
The Recorder bowed her head. "I feel him. Or rather, I feel the void he leaves behind. Like a hand sweeping ink from a page. The name erased, yet the story continues."
"Where?" the Seraph pressed.
The Recorder shook her head. "The veil of fate blinds me. Every time I search, the thread loops back to nothingness. Ouroboros hides… but not alone. He has anchors."
"Anchors?"
The Recorder's voice fell to a whisper. "Corpses."
The chamber chilled despite Heaven's eternal warmth.
High above the Firmament, at the edge of the Silver Gates, a watchtower overlooked creation. From here, the mortal world shimmered below, a fragile sphere drifting in darkness. A lone guardian stood watch, clad in pale silver armor, spear in hand. His eyes narrowed as he felt the faintest pull in the threads.
"The river," he murmured. "The river runs red."
A second guardian approached, her face severe. "You sense it too?"
"Yes. Something rises there. Something not meant to." He tightened his grip on the spear. "But we cannot descend without shattering the veil."
"Then we wait?"
The first guardian's jaw clenched. "We watch. If the serpent stirs too loudly, then Heaven will sound its trumpets, veil or no veil."
Back in the Hall of Trumpets, the Seraph addressed her gathered host once more.
"The serpent walks again," she declared. "Though hidden, his return is undeniable. Hell schemes already—we cannot let them claim him. Should Ouroboros fall to their leash, Heaven itself would bleed."
"What do you command?" her second asked.
She lifted her sword, its edge blazing with divine flame.
"Spread the watch. Every angel in the mortal realm must sharpen their gaze. Watch the rivers, the graves, the schools, the markets. The serpent hides in flesh, and flesh leaves trace."
"And if we find him?"
Her eyes flared brighter than the sun. "Erase him. Body, soul, and fate. This time, Ouroboros must not rise."
Yet even as her command echoed, the prism of brilliance flickered. A shard darkened, showing not Heaven, not Hell, but the faint silhouette of a boy sitting at a school desk, rain streaking the glass behind him. His lips curled in a faint smile as though mocking their vigilance.
The angels leaned closer. The shard dimmed instantly, returning to blank light.
The Seraph's grip tightened on her sword.
"He taunts us," she said coldly. "But even fate cannot mock Heaven forever."
Far below, in the mortal world, the rain kept falling. Maverick—no, Ouroboros—tapped his pen against the desk. He could feel them searching, clawing at the veil, desperate to find him.
They would not.
Not yet.
Not until he allowed it.