The white flames of Heaven still clung to Metatron's form as he descended back toward the mortal world. His new wings shimmered like galaxies, his sword and shield pulsing with divine resonance. Yet, before he could even breathe, a voice thundered from the heavens.
"Metatron."
Michael, the Archangel of War, stepped forth. His presence bent reality itself, the ground beneath him turning to crystal, the sky trembling in awe. His armor blazed like a sun, and his gaze pierced through Metatron's pride.
"You carry the crown, but you are still untempered," Michael said. "Do not think yourself beyond discipline. Even the chosen must be trained."
Metatron clenched his fists, his voice rising. "I don't need training. The power burns within me. I can feel it. I can fight without—"
Michael laughed, and the sound rippled through the air like thunder. It was not cruel, but filled with a certainty that silenced argument.
"You believe you have tasted power?" he said. "You have seen only a drop of eternity. Angels are not one kind of being. They are layers of fire, layers of glory. Seraphim, Thrones, Dominions, Powers—each infinitely beyond what man can comprehend. And at the summit are the Cherubim, bearers of the Presence of God."
Michael's tone became sharper.
"Do not underestimate Asmodeus. He was a Cherubim before he fell. Even bound, he rivals kingdoms. Unshackled, he will rival legions."
Before Metatron could speak again, Michael lifted his hand. Reality shattered. In the blink of an eye, they stood in an endless white space, infinite in every direction. No sky. No ground. Only light.
"This is the Chamber of Trial," Michael said. "Here, nothing you destroy can touch the world. No judgment will fall. Now fight me, Metatron. Show me what you think you are."
Metatron's wings spread wide, divine fire pouring from him. He roared and lunged at Michael, blade flashing. The Sword of Silence cut across the air in blinding arcs.
Michael parried with a single strike, his own sword blazing like a pillar of living flame. One blow shattered Metatron's guard. Another sent him flying backward across infinite distance.
"You are powerful," Michael declared. "But power without discipline is chaos. And chaos belongs to Hell."
Metatron shouted, summoning light to his shield as he blocked Michael's next assault. Their blades collided again and again, the force of each strike echoing through eternity. Each blow could have destroyed worlds, yet the chamber absorbed them all.
Michael fought with calm precision. Metatron fought with desperation and pride. Sparks filled the void. The air itself seemed to scream.
Then Michael struck one final time. Metatron's sword flew from his hand, and he crashed to the floor of light. Michael placed his blade against his throat.
"You are chosen," Michael said. "But you are not yet ready."
For five timeless hours, Michael pushed Metatron beyond exhaustion. He struck him down again and again. And every time, Metatron rose, stronger, steadier, his resolve sharpening like tempered steel.
When it ended, Metatron could barely stand.
He returned to the mortal realm, the weight of fatigue heavy on him. But there was no rest waiting.
Red and blue lights flashed. Police cars surrounded him. Officers shouted, their weapons raised.
"Ernest Acura," one said sharply. "You've been missing for hours. And your family—what happened at that house? Do you have any idea what people saw?"
Ernest froze. His throat went dry. He couldn't answer. He couldn't tell them about angels and battles beyond sight.
His eyes welled up. He whispered a word of power under his breath. The air rippled. Cameras glitched. Files turned to dust. Memories blurred. Within moments, every trace of evidence vanished.
The world still mourned. Neighbors wept. His parents were gone. But there was no proof, no suspect, no answer. It became one of the greatest unsolved mysteries in human history.
And Ernest Acura—Metatron—carried that guilt in silence.
He stood under the night sky, fists trembling. Rage and grief mixed inside him until his body shook.
Then the air behind him split open.
Twelve demons burst forth from the shadows, their bodies towering and monstrous. At their center stood Asmodeus, his eyes glowing with hunger and hatred, his wings of corrupted flame spreading wide.
Metatron raised his sword instantly. "Twelve against one?" His voice trembled with fury. "Fine. Let's see how long you last."
He snapped his fingers, and the world folded around them. They were dragged into a void of white light—a mirror of Michael's chamber.
The battle began.
Demonic claws slashed. Metatron's shield blazed as he met every blow. His sword tore through flesh and darkness alike, cutting down one demon after another. The void filled with screams and light.
But Asmodeus was no mere soldier. His strikes shattered the air. His voice alone shook Metatron's mind.
"You think light alone will save you?" Asmodeus hissed. "You don't even understand what you are."
Metatron blocked another attack, his arms trembling. "I understand enough to know I have to stop you!"
He lunged forward, slashing through Asmodeus's chest. For a moment, it seemed the fight would end there—until pain exploded through his back.
He gasped and turned.
Lucifer stood behind him, hand buried in his side, eyes burning with triumph. The Morning Star smiled, cold and perfect.
"Did you really think we'd wait forever?" Lucifer said quietly. His wings opened, and the void darkened.
Metatron tore himself free, divine energy spilling from his wound. He raised his sword, striking back. Sparks filled the space as their blades met again and again.
But Asmodeus joined the assault, forcing him back, blocking his path.
Lucifer raised his hand. The Key of Seals glowed in his grasp.
And with a single motion, the Gate opened.
The sky split apart. Fire and darkness poured into the world.
Beelzebub rose, his hunger swallowing cities.
Leviathan broke from the deep, the oceans twisting in envy.
Azazel spread his black wings and whispered forbidden knowledge into mortal minds.
Lilith's beauty enslaved kings and conquerors.
Mammon's greed consumed nations in golden fire.
One by one, the Princes of Hell returned, and half the world fell into ruin.
Mountains cracked. Seas boiled. Governments collapsed.
Metatron, desperate and bleeding, unleashed everything he had left. His sword flared brighter than the sun, slicing Asmodeus in two. He tore the Key from Lucifer's hand and hurled both of them back into the abyss.
The void swallowed them.
Metatron fell to his knees, gasping. His wings flickered, dimming. The earth burned around him.
He looked at the key in his hand, glowing faintly in the dark.
If he could not seal them again, the world would end.
And he knew it had only just begun.