Chapter 85: The Descent of the Angel

“There’s no other way—I’ll have to use this.” Joseph Peter XVI seemed to make a painfully difficult decision, but once resolved, a certain ease returned to him. He raised the scepter high, and as if it possessed a will of its own, it flew from his grasp, hovering in midair. Brilliant golden light radiated from it, growing ever more intense. An astonishing transformation followed: the scepter melted and reformed, the glow slowly dimming until, at last, a crimson shield appeared in the air, emblazoned with two crossed keys. At that moment, a slender beam shot from the shield, pointing straight toward Joseph Peter XVI. Instantly, a crown materialized atop the Pope’s head—the legendary Papal Tiara.

Witnessing these miracles, the cardinals, locked in battle with the vampires, could not suppress the fervor that blazed in their eyes.

With the shield in hand, Joseph Peter XVI radiated an aura of divine compassion. “Mere trickery!” scoffed the frigid Bingyan from above, having watched all this unfold. Compared to his own Token of the Death God, this shield was nothing.

Vatican City was hailed as the place closest to Eden; so too was the Pope considered the person closest to God.

“Most revered Lord, in accordance with the ancient covenant, your faithful servant calls upon you to send forth a messenger of the divine—by the Summons of God, let the angel descend!”

As Joseph Peter XVI recited the incantation, the shield floated once more into the air. With a crystalline chime, it transformed into a massive, closed door, as if gathering power for a surge that could turn the tide.

All eyes focused on the door suspended above. Bingyan watched as well, though while others gazed up in awe, he looked down in cool appraisal. The door resembled, and in truth was, a Gate of Space. Would the Pope truly summon an angel? And if so, of what rank?

After a tense pause, the Gate of Space creaked open, releasing a flood of radiance. In the midst of a celestial chorus, a breathtakingly beautiful birdlike being—no, an angel—appeared before the assembly. Pristine white wings unfurled in a display of purity.

They say angels are the most beautiful beings in existence, and perhaps there is truth in that, Bingyan mused with a soft chuckle. He wondered, though, if real angels had genders, since they were said to be androgynous. He resolved to find out.

The angel beat his snowy wings—just one pair. Angels were classified by the number of wings they bore, with wings denoting both rank and power. One pair alone—was this a lesser angel, an archangel, a dominion, or a cherub?

Silence fell as the angel surveyed the crowd below. Even the fighting ceased at the angel’s advent. In a cool, ethereal voice, he spoke: “I am Philores, archangel under the command of Michael the Archangel. Was it you who summoned me?” His gaze shifted to the Pope, who now bowed low in reverence.

So, this was an archangel!

“Honored messenger of God, I am the one who called you forth,” Joseph Peter XVI replied with utmost respect, pausing before continuing, “The Holy See begs your aid to eradicate these dark creatures who defy our Lord’s existence.”

“Oh?” Philores responded indifferently. “You base, dark beings, how dare you ignore the most exalted God?” He drew the sword at his waist. “In my Lord’s name, I pronounce upon you the sentence of death!”

“To hell with your damned God!” a hot-tempered half-beast roared.

Philores arched a perfect brow, displeasure marring his flawless countenance. With a flicker of lightning from his blade, the half-beast fell dead without a sound.

“One troublesome fly, gone.”

“You—” Ruth had barely begun to speak when his body flashed toward Philores with impossible speed. “Impudent!” Joseph Peter XVI had been keeping a close eye on Ruth, the chairman of the Dark Council, and moved the instant Ruth vanished from sight.

A thunderous crash shook the heavens as the two collided. Ruth’s power needed no introduction—he commanded the strength of a Golden Emperor. Yet the Pope was not inferior; as leader of the Holy See, he was also its mightiest champion. Ruth’s strike failed to gain the upper hand, and a faint numbness tingled in his hand as he glanced at the elderly Pope, shaken: No wonder he is the Pope—his strength is terrifying.

The assembled clergy and council members were equally stunned. Never before had they witnessed a duel between the Pope and the chairman of the Dark Council. Nerves and anticipation ran high, for to them, this was a clash of titans.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A series of deafening shocks echoed, but the combatants moved too swiftly for the crowd to follow. Even the vampire lords could only glimpse afterimages, and by the time they registered one, Ruth and the Pope had already exchanged countless blows.

A muffled thud cut through the tension. After minutes of fierce stalemate, one combatant had finally been struck—a single blow often decided such closely matched battles. Yet for beings above the divine, nothing was settled until one’s soul was utterly annihilated.

Ruth hovered calmly in midair, while the Pope looked considerably worse for wear, propped on the ground, pallid and drained.

Without pause, Ruth threw back his head and let out a long, fierce roar. Golden, leathery wings burst from his back, inscribed with mysterious sigils—a stark contrast to Philores and his immaculate feathers.

“Oh?” Philores’s expression shifted. “So, you are of the Golden Emperor class. Remarkable that a lowly vampire should attain such power. I cannot let you remain.”

“Spare me your prattle. I’ve noticed the Holy See has a penchant for empty words, and their masters are no different.” With that, Ruth streaked forward as a bolt of lightning, talons outstretched to rend Philores asunder.

But something astonishing happened. Philores sheathed his sword and, instead, extended a free hand, seizing Ruth’s powerful right hand in an iron grip. Ruth could not break free; panic flashed through him. With a snap, he was hurled far across the valley, crashing into a distant cliff with a sound that shook the sky.

Both sides—Dark Council and Holy See—were stunned. The same question flashed through every mind, though with vastly different feelings: Is this the power of God? No, he is but a messenger!

Philores flicked his fingers disdainfully. “So this is a Golden Emperor? Not so impressive.”

“Is that so? I’ll make you regret those words!” Ruth roared, tearing himself from the shattered rock and launching again at Philores.

“Foolish creature! You seek death!” Philores was truly enraged. He caught Ruth by the throat mid-assault. “If it is death you desire, I shall grant it.” Each word rang with the force of judgment, quelling any thought of resistance—except in Ruth, and perhaps one other...

A colossal boom reverberated through the gorge, but the shocked stares revealed that this time, a different figure had been struck down.

Bingyan coolly blew on his right hand. “Why are there so many self-important fools in this world?” he said, his tone icy.

“And who are you?” Philores demanded, instantly returning to his place, eyes blazing with fury.

“Forgive me, I am but an observer—” Bingyan paused, then continued, “and also the ally Ruth invited.”

Philores’s pupils contracted. If this man was Ruth’s ally, things had just become complicated—far beyond an archangel’s ability to control.

“Great one, prepare yourself. I serve under Michael the Archangel. Should you interfere, Michael himself will seek retribution,” Philores declared, hoping to intimidate Bingyan with the threat of his superior, while also sending an urgent signal to Heaven.

“Calling for reinforcements?” Bingyan remarked, amused. He made no move to block the signal; after all, the more the merrier.

“Michael the Archangel?” Bingyan echoed, feigning thoughtfulness, then slapped his forehead in mock realization. “Ah, that Michael!” As Philores allowed a hint of pride to show, Bingyan asked abruptly, “Who is he, anyway? Male or female? Or do angels not have gender?”

The question nearly choked Philores with his own outrage, leaving him speechless and bewildered.

Of course, Bingyan knew full well who Michael was. Angels were ranked in three tiers by their number of wings: those with one pair—ordinary angels, archangels, dominions, and cherubim; those with two pairs—thrones, virtues, powers, and seraphim; and the exalted six-winged seraphim, known as the supreme order. There were also lesser angels without wings, and ranks beyond the seraphim, though such beings were virtually unheard of.

Among the millions of angels in Heaven, only seven had attained the level of six-winged seraphim, holding the title of Archangel: Michael the Warrior Seraph (Angel of Fire), Gabriel the Messenger of Death (Angel of Miracles), Raphael the Luminous (Angel of Wisdom), Hania the Angel of Charm, Kamal the Defender, Uriel the Lawgiver, and Chadsephon the Angel of Energy.

Legend told of two others: Lucifer, once the radiant Morning Star, and Medaniel, the Seraph of Darkness. Yet Lucifer had fallen to Hell as the foremost of the Six Great Demons, and Medaniel was sealed within the Worldstone.

Were it not for their special fates, had Lucifer and Medaniel remained in Heaven, they might have surpassed even the seraphim, becoming eight-winged supreme archangels.