The Sixth Domain — a land resting on the border between the Celestial Realm and the Abyss of the Void.
It belongs neither to light nor to shadow.
Here, the sky is silver-gray — faint as the last breath of a dying star.
Remiel led Elior along the moss-covered stone steps. Beneath their feet, the crystalline fields shimmered like water — beautiful, yet cold.
"You must learn to listen to the wind," Remiel said, his voice low and cautious, as if fearing to awaken something sleeping beneath the earth.
"In this place, the wind carries memories — of fallen angels, of souls that never found peace. If you learn to listen, you'll understand why the sky no longer sings."
Elior said nothing. He walked beside Remiel, eyes wandering curiously over everything.
His dark hair stirred gently in the wind, and his crystal-clear eyes reflected the far-off glimmer of the heavens.
But in those eyes, Remiel saw something — a strange flicker, fleeting and silent, like a shadow gliding across a lake.
That night, Remiel stood alone on the highest balcony of the Crystal Tower.
Below him, the Sixth Domain slept beneath a dim silver light; above, the sky was split in two — half white, half black.
He placed a hand upon the cold railing, his heart weighed by unease.
From his sleeve, he drew a shard of crystal — a remnant of the Pandora Vessel. The light within it still pulsed faintly, like the heartbeat of a soul in chains.
"Have I done the right thing…?" he whispered.
"Did I save a being… or open another gate for Chaos to return?"
The wind answered with a soft hiss, carrying the scent of silver ash.
Behind him, a voice — clear, yet strangely deep — broke the silence.
"Are you afraid, Remiel?"
Remiel turned.
Elior stood there, his dark hair glinting under the moonlight, eyes bright as if holding the Milky Way within.
But deep in those eyes — a thin red thread flashed, then vanished.
"I'm not afraid," Remiel replied, steadying his tone.
"There are simply truths… I'm not sure you're ready to know."
Elior stepped closer, his gaze falling on the crystal shard in Remiel's hand.
"What's inside it?"
Remiel hesitated.
"Memory," he said softly. "Fragments of remembrance, torn from the soul of an older world."
"The old world?" Elior tilted his head.
"You speak as if this one wasn't the first."
Remiel smiled faintly, though his eyes remained sorrowful.
"There is no 'first,' Elior. Only… beginnings, again and again."
A sudden gust swept through, scattering silver dust around them. In that brief shimmer, Remiel saw something behind the boy — a tall, spectral silhouette with torn black wings.
His eyes widened.
That form…
It was the image of Malphas Viritas — or by his other name… Satan.
Before he could utter a word of banishment, the figure dissolved into mist.
Only Elior remained — staring at him with an innocent expression… or one pretending to be innocent.
"Master…" the boy murmured,
"tonight, I dreamt of someone. He called my name. His voice came from beneath the ground."
Remiel froze.
"Do you remember what he said?"
Elior nodded slowly.
"He said: 'When the light learns to fear itself, darkness will be born.'
Do you know what it means?"
Remiel's breath caught. His gaze drifted toward the horizon — where the Sun of Heaven had never risen.
Softly, as if fearing even the wind might hear, he whispered:
"No, Elior… You should not be dreaming of such things."
Elior looked at him — half fearful, half curious.
Remiel gripped the boy's shoulders, his voice trembling between command and pleading:
"You must promise me — if that dream ever returns, do not answer.
Never answer that voice."
Elior nodded.
But within him, another voice — deeper, colder — whispered:
"I need not call again… for you have already heard me."
That night, after Remiel left the tower, Elior stood gazing up at the silver sky.
In his eyes, the light fractured — and a faint crimson streak formed within.
A gentle smile appeared on his lips — a smile that was not his own.
THE BEARER OF THE MIND'S EYERemiel studied Elior for a long time.
The light in the boy's eyes shimmered like water, reflecting the thousand souls once sealed within the Pandora Vessel.
There was something in that gaze — not of a child, nor of an angel.
He raised his hand, silver sigils swirling through the air like serpents of light.
Remiel murmured:
"Psyche Dominus."
The light flowed toward Elior's forehead like mist.
He closed his eyes — entering the boy's mind.
And then — he stopped.
There was nothing.
No voice. No image. No thought.
The mind was a mirror — reflecting only his own light back at him.
"This is impossible…" he whispered, his breath unsteady.
"He… doesn't think."
Elior blinked, his lips moving gently:
"You called me Elior… didn't you?"
The voice — pure and childlike — did not come from thought.
It came from deep within the soul.
Remiel stepped back, horror tightening in his chest.
"No cognition… no conscious structure… Then who is speaking through you?"
A soul.
It could only be a soul.
And the question struck him like a blade:
Whose soul is it?
Memories flashed — the night he stole the Vessel from Lucifer's grasp, the chase through the Abyss, the whispers of demons trailing him.
Lucifer had ordered his lesser fiends to watch the Vessel — a soul hunted by both Heaven and Hell.
At that time, Remiel did not understand. Now he did.
Azrakar Noctis had a hand in this.
"Dracula…" he breathed, the name heavy as stone falling into a pit.
"The one who sowed darkness into mortal souls… What have you done — and why did you make me the one to awaken it?"
He understood: the soul within Elior was now whole.
No longer two beings — no longer man and demon.
It had become a single, perfected entity, beyond the triad of Angel, Demon, and Mortal.
Remiel fell silent. The wind moaned like the cries of countless lost spirits.
"The gravity of souls…" he murmured.
"When two essences reach perfection, they merge into a constant.
They cannot be divided. They cannot be destroyed.
Their very existence is balance itself."
He had once considered sealing it away.
He had raised his hand, ready to imprison the soul forever within the Frozen Vault.
But then he saw the boy's face — calm, innocent, untouched by sin yet chained by destiny.
Remiel lowered his hand.
He could not.
"If there truly is light within this soul," he thought,
"then I will nurture it — let that light destroy the darkness within,
not by force, but by compassion."
That choice — would become the greatest sin of the Celestial Mind.
Remiel lifted his staff; silver light from its core spiraled around Elior.
Ancient sigils unfolded — forming the Mind's Circuit, linking directly to the boy's soul.
"Psyche Fabricata — the Forged Memory."
He began to weave.
Images, sounds, scents — threads of memory spun into a gentle dream:
a silver garden, a small home where a child played, the laughter of a mother with golden wings, the warm voice of a father reciting prayers each night.
The father — was Remiel himself.
The mother — a Seraph who had fallen in the Third War against the Abyss.
A hero. A symbol of light.
"You are the child of hope," said the mother in the memory.
"Even if I am gone, your light will never fade."
Remiel opened his eyes.
Elior smiled — a real, innocent smile.
"I remember now," the boy said softly.
"You're my father… and my mother was the angel of the white skies."
Remiel's lips tightened. For a brief moment, he caught his reflection in a nearby shard —
long silver hair, weary eyes, a cloak of dusted silver.
A sage — wise, kind, yet unbearably lonely.
He placed his hand upon Elior's head.
"Yes, my son. Hold onto that memory — as if it were truly yours."
Outside, the wind rose.
Shards of crystal floated through the air like silver butterflies.
Remiel gazed at them, eyes distant, and whispered to himself:
"If one day the darkness within you awakens —
I will be the first to stand against it…
even if it costs me my life."
Light burst from the tower, illuminating the entire Sixth Domain.
And within Remiel's heart — for the first time in millennia —
he felt something that most angels feared to name:
Faith.