Before he falls to earth, before he becomes flesh again, Atniel makes a mistake.
A divine one.
***
Golden light pierces the thunder-torn clouds above the Doldrio Plane, casting dramatic radiance over a wasteland absolutely riddled with corpses of Nephilites.
They once stood beside angels, revered for their piety and unwavering devotion. But now, betrayed by their own rebellion, they're meat in the dust. All felled by a single figure.
Livne Atniel.
Title: Skywrath Comforter.
Standing in the center of the massacre, robes unstained, his white and smooth wings fold neatly behind his back like a man with manners.
Small in size compared to the fallen giants, yet his fury has turned the entire plane into a monument of judgement.
"This is your final chance for God's mercy," Atniel says, raising a fist. "Repent, dissident!"
The blow lands like a comet with something to prove. Yet the Nephilim, after one bloody hack, spits and sneers.
"How long have you even worn that title, 'heavenly knight'? A decade? Two? You think that makes you God's voice? You're no more than a well-polished bootlicker."
Atniel's face tightens, blood spatters across his robe as the Nephilim spits again.
As rage boiling within him, his divine power compresses into a glowing knuckle, potent enough to rupture the heavens.
"No, Atniel! Not here!"
The voice comes from Midbar Elisha, a radiant angel, composed yet fierce. Atniel glances, but simply ignores her warning.
He proceeds…
Booom!!!
His Sky-Cracking Punch lands like an angry god had enough with a fruitless barren land, crushing the Nephilim's skull. A shockwave bursts from the impact, rippling outward across the Doldrio Plane.
"You fool!" Elisha snaps. "This is the base layer of the second heaven. That punch probably tore into the realm below!"
Atniel nonchalantly wipes blood from his face. "That was the last of them. Let the mortals enjoy a few centuries of peace."
But as the rift pulses, his eyes narrow. Among the corpses, one Nephilim stirs.
With urgent haste, Atniel rushes forward and flips the Nephilim's massive body over. But it's hollow, like a vessel cracked open from within.
"His essence must have descended," Elisha murmurs. "Through the crack you made."
Atniel's eyes sweep across the battlefield. He has slain them all. Yet despite the victory, an uneasy hollowness coils in his chest.
He replays the battle in his mind, their taunts, their mocking smiles and brazen defiance. They hadn't fought like cornered beasts. They'd stood their ground with the poise of a trap already sprung.
"They used me," he grumbles. "They'd wanted to descend. But there's no way angel like you would've opened the path for rebels like them. So they baited me, made me do it for them."
A chill laces Elisha's spine. "But… why? Why sacrifice everything… just to descend to the lowest realm?"
Atniel takes a step back from the hollowed corpse. "You should report this, to the higher dominions."
Without a word, Elisha raises a hand to the earring on her left ear. Her eyes glaze, distant, already reaching beyond the veil.
Moments pass, tension settles.
And then…
Srrnk!
A radiant parchment tears into existence, unfolding midair like a divine scroll.
Elisha holds it before her. "A direct order. That last Nephilim escaped to Ardh #73. Your home planet. You're being sent after him."
Atniel groans. "Seriously? I worked decades for my heavenly pension and now I'm getting punted back to dirtball duty?"
Elisha softens slightly. "That world may have fallen into ignorance by now. This is a chance to elevate your rank even higher."
He sighs. "How much time do I get?"
Elisha lifts her hand. Dust stirs at her feet, rising and spiraling until it shapes into an hourglass.
"One hour here, seven years there. Quick! Prepare yourself for incarnation."
"You're not just dropping me in?"
"I can't send you as a baby. We don't have time to wait eighteen years for you to grow. I'll put you into someone's freshly deceased body."
Atniel grimaces. "Dropping me into a corpse? That's… charming."
***
Planet Ardh #73.
That's what they call it in the higher realms. But here on the ground, the people call it Bastardia. It's like a curse, a middle finger pointed straight toward the divine.
The bastard son of God.
A planet abandoned, a world where faith died generations ago. But despite the filth and ruin, the people have their rules. It's a brutal one, simple but absolute.
"The weak have no right to speak about justice."
If you can't back up your complaints with blood or fire, you'd better keep your mouth shut, or someone will shut it for you.
Somewhere in the slums beyond the city's central district, a skinny young man lies pinned to the ground beneath another man's boot. His head is crushed into the mud and gravel. His gray hair, matted with dirt and dried blood, clings to his bruised face.
The name's Irvine Donovan, and right now, life is pressing down on him as hard as the heel grinding into his skull.
The foot on his head belongs to Mathias Burke, a smirking young noble with the face of a prince and the soul of a pig.
"Your life's worth less than street piss," Mathias grins. "Even the dogs eat better than you. So do us all a favor, kill yourself. Clean up the world a little."
As is Bastardian custom, no one intervenes. The commoners avert their eyes. The nobles watch with amusement, as if observing a theater performance.
Mathias leans in. "Want to know what really broke you? Your little sweetheart. Your precious Maya. This morning… right in front of you. She let us all take her. Every second of it."
"You lie," Irvine croaks.
"No," Mathias says, calm as a priest. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Suddenly, a liquor bottle smashes on the ground near Irvine's face, followed by a voice cutting in, a deep brutish tone full of ugly satisfaction.
"He should've thanked us. Bet he enjoyed watching."
The speaker is Oogorim, an orc with two thick horns jutting from his earlobes. By orcish standards, he's considered handsome.
Next to him, Myriil Gremenor, a tall mountain elf with sharp features and smug grace, folds his arms and smirks.
"It's what she wanted," he says. "You just couldn't satisfy her."
And there's the ogre, or rather, ogres. Kurok and Glokork, conjoined twins sharing one massive body, two heads wobbling as they laugh in unison.
"She was screaming with joy."
"Can't fake that, can she?"
Irvine doesn't reply. His body trembles under the weight of what he thinks he saw, what they claim is truth.
Mathias, ever the showman, steps back and unzips his pants without a shred of shame. Then he begins to relieve himself directly on Irvine's head.
Crrrsss!
"Be grateful," Mathias says, laughing. "Now you can resign from this world with a resume being a toilet bowl."
The crowd laughs with him, some even clap. This is Bastardia, in a world where moral compasses don't exist, Mathias' act of public peeing isn't shameful. It's apparently a flex.
When he finishes, Mathias spins theatrically, posing for a group of giggling girls who cheer like he's a rockstar.
"Make sure you die somewhere quiet," he calls back to Irvine. "So you don't leave a mess behind."
Left alone in the dirt, Irvine's thoughts drifting to the only truth left in his mind: Maya betrayed him. Illusion or not, the pain is real, and it's too great. Whatever light he once believed in, it's gone.
Now thoroughly humiliated, and emotionally wrecked, suicide is starting to sound like the only logical option.
So he stands. Numb, bloodied, and soaked in urine, he limps toward the edge of the city. His goal is simple, to find a quiet place to die.
***
By dusk, he reaches Morbid District, a suitable place for peaceful exit. Once, this region thrived, a center of commerce, a convergence of cultures across Drudal Kingdom. But the war reduced it to rubble, and the world simply moved on.
Irvine stands on the skybridge, a narrow wind-worn catwalk between two towers, suspended high above the street. He steps onto the ledge without ceremony, facing outward, eyes distant.
Just one deep breath, then he lets go. Gravity takes him without resistance. His body plummets, arms limp, hair flaring upward in the rush of air.
Above, the clouds briefly part, and a lone beam of sunlight breaks through, striking him like the heavens chose to witness his fall.
"Such a beautiful sky…" he mutters. "….but a terrible world to live in."
Then everything goes black.
Blugh!
The impact is sickening, blood-spattering thud against broken pavement. For a moment, there's only the sound of breeze.
But then…
Tic!
A finger twitches.
A strained breath wheezes from his bloodied lips. Then, against all logic…
"AAARRRGHH!"
He jolts upright with a choked scream. Agony floods him, every nerve burns. But his reaction isn't panic. It's frustration.
"Damn… that hurt more than I expected."
Through clenched teeth, he inspects his shattered right arm. His voice is sharper now, no trace of earlier weakness.
He scans the height he fell from and scoffs.
"That height? Seriously?"
He sets his dislocated shoulder with a snap, grimaces, and then mutters again, this time with mild irritation.
"Damn it, Elisha… couldn't you find me a better vessel?"