Chapter Eighty-Seven: Seraph Michael

Enough. I’m done playing with you.

Cold Flame clapped his hands and, unwilling to keep amusing the pope any longer, was just about to stop when Medefi flew back from afar.

No one knew how far she had been knocked away. Cold Flame knew exactly how much force he had used, but he had no idea how strong her flight capability was. Since she had returned so quickly, she could not be considered weak.

Unfortunately, whether she was weak or strong no longer mattered much to what was about to happen. Cold Flame’s power was far beyond anything she could contend with, and he had already decided to stop toying around and end it at once.

Poor Medefi. She had no idea that after traveling all the way to the mortal world and flying all the way back, she was merely being delivered into Cold Flame’s hands to be ravaged. He would not show her the slightest mercy. The saying that a gentleman uses his words, not his fists, meant nothing to him. He would strike when he should strike, and as for when he should not... well, that was another matter.

With a sweep of his arm, Cold Flame blurred forward at astonishing speed to Medefi’s side, and under the force of his momentum, combined with the power already behind his arm, his fist landed squarely on her. A cry of pain was inevitable. Medefi only felt that her luck was far too miserable. What kind of monster was this Eastern man before her? He looked only fifteen or sixteen, so how could he possess such absurd strength? And he had not the slightest trace of gentlemanly grace. Compared with the people she had encountered before, this angel truly felt unbearably humiliated.

The chance for an angel to descend into the mortal world was exceedingly rare, perhaps once in several centuries. Only when the churches in the mortal realm encountered especially troublesome matters would an angel descend, and once the angel arrived, those problems were usually resolved with ease. To put it plainly, the difficulties faced by the church were nothing at all to an angel, just a matter of a few quick moves.

Such was the difference in strength. The power of angels far exceeded that of the church’s so-called combatants. So when angels descended, it was less to solve the church’s troubles than to make a splendid appearance, a glorious spectacle of tens of thousands kneeling in worship.

In Heaven, whenever there was an opportunity to descend into the mortal world, the angels would fight tooth and nail for it. This time, Philorus had come, but his power proved insufficient. So naturally, Medefi, his superior, had come instead. As a four-winged radiant angel, she possessed more than enough capital to stand among the upper ranks of the middle-tier angels in Heaven. Her strength was undeniable.

But no one had expected that upon reaching the mortal world she would encounter such a perverse being as Cold Flame. What could be said? Perhaps she should have checked an almanac before coming down.

Thud, crack...

The sounds of brutal impact rang incessantly in the ears of those below. These were the sounds of two bodies colliding directly in the air. Hearing them, everyone who knew Medefi’s identity felt a chill of fear and could not stop thinking: Almighty God, this world has gone mad.

Cold Flame had not used the spiritual energy within him nor the purple aura of feathered radiance. He was relying solely on his tempered body, yet even so, the power behind each strike remained terrifying. The overwhelming pressure that filled the sky was proof enough.

One side was relentlessly beating, the other could only endure helplessly. How was this supposed to be a fight? Fortunately, angels had bodies of unusual constitution. Despite being struck so many times, Medefi still had not been disfigured. She remained as radiant as ever, breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m done. This is too exhausting.”

Cold Flame shook his hand and complained. Then a faint sphere of light appeared in his palm. This sphere was far more formidable than Medefi’s blazing holy orb; there was simply no comparison whatsoever.

“Go on, little ball.”

The sphere, made of the world’s spiritual energy, was compressed in Cold Flame’s hand down to the size of a ping-pong ball, its power multiplying several times over in the process. It shot toward Medefi at a speed beyond the eye’s ability to follow. If this blow landed, Medefi, the four-winged radiant angel, would be crippled even if she did not die. Of course, angels did not truly die. Once their bodies perished, their souls would return to the Pool of Birth in Eden for rebirth.

However, if their wings were torn away, even after rebirth their rank would fall by one level. Worse still, if their angelic soul were captured, their rebirth would be prevented altogether.

Just as the sphere of spiritual energy rushed closer and closer to Medefi, she was still dazed by Cold Flame’s sudden cessation, apparently stunned out of her wits.

At the critical moment, a crack was violently torn open in the air, and a gleaming transparent sword of light swept through, cleaving the sphere cleanly in two.

Cold Flame frowned in displeasure. He had not used his full strength, only the lowest level of energy he possessed, the spiritual energy of heaven and earth, but even so it should not have been taken lightly. Yet it had been severed so casually by a sword of light. This could not simply be let go. A tree lives for its bark; a person lives for face. This was a matter of dignity.

“Who is it? Show yourself now!”

His tone finally carried a trace of anger as Cold Flame spoke coldly.

The rift in midair widened further, and then a tall, handsome man stepped out. He had long fiery red hair and a striking face that could charm countless young women. Cold Flame could not help frowning, then a wicked smile curved his lips, as though some scheme were just now taking shape.

The reason was simple: he saw the wings behind the red-haired man. They were pure white, and not because he was also an angel, but because of how many there were. One, two, three... six!

It was the highest-ranking angel beneath God, the six-winged seraph, famed as a supreme holy being second only to the Lord.

And with that head of long red hair, Cold Flame quickly thought of a name among all the seraphim: the six-winged seraph Philorus had spoken of earlier—Michael.

Michael was known as the Fire Angel and also as the Angel of Battle. He possessed the strongest combat power among all angels, and together with Gabriel the Angel of Doom, Raphael the Angel of Beauty, Haniel the Seraph of Charm, Kamuel the Seraph of Defense, Uriel the Seraph of Law, and Zadkiel the Seraph of Energy, he was counted among the seven great seraphim beneath God’s throne.

Legend also spoke of those once even mightier than they: Lucifer, the Seraph of Light who bore the glorious title of the Morning Star, and Mettatron, the Seraph of Darkness. Lucifer fell into hell and became the foremost of the six great demons, while Mettatron was sealed within the World Stone.

Thus, Michael was now said to be the most formidable figure in all of Heaven aside from God Himself.

Of course, these were only rumors, and Cold Flame would not believe them completely. After all, however powerful Michael might be, he was still only a six-winged seraph. Above the six-winged rank, there were said to be eight-winged supreme angels, ten-winged holy angels, and twelve-winged... cough... creator angels, beings at the level of major deities. Could all those ranks truly be unoccupied? Cold Flame found that hard to believe.

Setting aside Cold Flame’s thoughts, when Michael descended, the dim light in Medefi’s eyes brightened for a moment. If Cold Flame had not known that angels had no notion of love, he might have really thought that Medefi and Michael had some sort of affair. The reaction from those below was even more intense. To call the church’s people fanatical would not be an exaggeration. An angel, and moreover the highest-ranking six-winged seraph—their psychological endurance was being tested again and again. Only Rue remained calm, still placing boundless faith in Cold Flame, his “goddess.”

Michael first nodded toward Medefi, then waved his hand and summoned the unconscious Philorus before him, sending him onward to the Pool of Birth in Heaven. Throughout the entire process, he behaved as though Cold Flame did not even exist.

Cold Flame was displeased. The consequences of that were serious indeed. Anyone would be unhappy at being ignored, especially by something no more than an ant.

Without a word, he flung out another sphere of light.

Boom!

Michael staggered from the blow only then noticing Cold Flame beside him.

“You shall be slain,” Michael declared, summoning a sword of light and pointing its tip at Cold Flame, full of commanding arrogance, as though he alone controlled life and death in the world.

So full of himself. Perhaps among ordinary mortals he did indeed hold their lives in his grasp—but could he control everyone’s life and death? Cold Flame curled his lip disdainfully. Ignorance was a kind of sin too. And to think he was even trying to speak in archaic language.

But that was not all he did. Even as contempt appeared on his face, he attacked.

A six-winged seraph? Today I’ll show you that the identity and power you are so proud of amount to nothing at all!

Clenching one fist, with the imposing force to uproot mountains and rivers, Cold Flame launched his full-strength strike using only the power of his flesh. Michael had said he did not regard him as a threat, as though the one before him posed little danger, but when Cold Flame suddenly closed in, he still defended himself with full concentration.

Clang!

A wall of light appeared before him. The heaven-splitting fist slammed into it.

Boom!

The wall of light shattered instantly, breaking into countless fragments. Michael was called the Angel of Battle precisely because of his extraordinary close-combat ability. The instant the defensive wall broke, he spun sharply, leaving behind only an afterimage as his true body shifted a step aside.

“Go, sword of light!”

With a low cry, Michael swung the white-glowing blade toward Cold Flame. The seven seraphim did not possess swords granted by God; they did not need such things. Like Michael, he could shape one through his own power.

He did not notice the sudden flash of brilliance in Cold Flame’s eyes, or else he would never have attacked so rashly.

Cold Flame changed his fist into a claw. Five long fingers, like talons tearing through space, caught the speeding sword tip amid a flare of light. As though locked by iron tongs, Michael immediately felt an unprecedented resistance and could not draw it back.

Clang!

One of the five fingers that held the sword of light tightened no further; instead, it flicked the blade lightly.

Tap...

It was the faintest of sounds, but to Michael it rang like a thunderclap. The sword he had formed had begun to crack, fragment by fragment, until only the hilt remained.

One must remember that this sword of light was no ordinary weapon. It was formed from Michael’s own energy and was to some degree linked to his spirit. How could it be so easily shattered?

Yet the impossible had happened before his eyes. Michael, his spirit wounded, spat out a mouthful of golden blood and was sent flying backward.