Chapter Six

The once-peaceful casino floor had transformed into a battleground. As Aeron walked into the center of the skirmish, he could feel his heart begin to beat. "Ah, that's better. It was starting to get chilly," he said as he slithered through the piles of bodies and broken glass like a snake. The melody of his steps echoed throughout the strangely quiet hall. The chestnut-haired assailant had been pushed to the back of the room by the casino's security. However, the fight was far from over. With his mighty fists, the man crushed the guards; the sound of bones cracking filled the air.

"This is what you get for protecting a crook!" the man yelled as he pulverized them into a fine paste. How such a violent soul managed to get into Heaven was a mystery. The man's cronies weren't much better. They may not have been as strong as their leader, but every one of them had been consumed by bitter rage. The freed mob members grabbed broken bottles, pieces of glass, table legs, anything that could be used as a weapon and fought back against their captors. Amidst this chaos, Aeron reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. On the outside, it looked like a simple black revolver, but this was more than that. His gavel was a weapon granted to judges by God himself with the power to dispense heavenly retribution upon sinful worlds. In an instant, he could summon a flood to drown them all or a storm of fire to burn their bodies to a crisp. Sadly, before he could indulge in his twisted desires, he would have to inspect them first.

"Go to hell!" one of the men yelled as he lobbed a stone towards his skull. They weren't even trying to be selective. At this point, these men would attack anybody, even if he was an ally. Aeron dodged the projectiles effortlessly, and before the men of the mob had time to realize what was happening, he pounced on them. The man he had grabbed first looked relatively young, twenty-six at the most, and was covered in freckles.

"You'll be first," Aeron smiled as he dug his thumbs into the sinner's eyes. In that instant, he knew everything about the man. He knew when he was born, when he died, how he had died, and even what his last meal was. In those precious seconds, Aeron saw the man's life flash before his eyes. "You have lived quite the life, Mr. Thomas," he spoke, the man shuddering as he removed his thumbs. There wasn't any blood; his eyes were healthy. Mr. Thomas, obviously very distraught at what he had just done, recoiled back and fell onto the floor.

"What did you do?!" Mr. Thomas yelled as he rubbed his eye sockets. His corneas felt like they were on fire. Aeron grinned—if only that had been the worst of it. Now it was time for the fun part. In a matter of seconds, he had decided Mr. Thomas's fate. He rested the barrel of his gavel right in the center of the man's forehead and laughed.

"I judged you," Aeron hissed as he pulled the trigger. Suddenly, Mr. Thomas burst into flames. The ferocious fire ate through his clothes and flesh in moments. Before anyone had a chance to realize what was happening, the sinner's soul was drug down to the depths of Hades. Aeron shrugged as he turned to the rest of the mob. They were all terrified, as they should be. A few of them even recognized him! Or maybe they just recognized the gavel. Either way, at that moment, everybody in that room realized that he was a judge. "Alright, who wants to be next?" he announced as he stepped through the ashes that used to be Mr. Thomas.

"It's a judge!" one of the men yelled as he frantically tried to find a way out. In all honesty, Aeron found their futile attempts at escape charming. However, no matter how hard they tried, these men would never be able to free themselves from their fate. All of them would burn in Hell. And he would be the one to make that happen. With a wave of his hand, a small blue orb rocketed out of each of the men. These orbs were their memories. He could have gotten Mr. Thomas's memories by using this method, but where would be the fun in that? The balls then gravitated towards his being, his body absorbing them with a beast-like hunger.

After a few more milliseconds of judging, he arrived at his conclusion. "You're all guilty." With that, he clapped his hands together and fired—throwing their souls down to the fiery pits of Hell.

"What's happening?! Water! I need water!" Their screams shook the casino to its core, their ashes painting the walls a lovely light grey. Some would say he had gone too far. After all, these men had still managed to make it to Heaven. Did they deserve damnation for such a relatively insignificant slight? Most people would say no, but frankly, he didn't give a shit. And that was what made him the best.

"That just leaves one person," Aeron thought. All that was left was the man who started all this.

"I give up!" the criminal conceded as he put his hands in the air. Aeron smiled; at least he wasn't a complete fool. The security took this chance to pin the man to the ground. They read him his rights, cuffed him, and, just in case, hit him a few times. Once the guards had made him suitably docile, Aeron walked over to the criminal and repeated the entire process.

"Are you ready?" he said as he placed a hand on the man's shoulders. "I'll give you some leniency since you surrendered willingly." That was a lie; there would be no mercy for this man. Aeron didn't even let him utter any last words before he sent him straight to Hell. There would be no mercy for sinners, and in his book, even less for saints.

Eight hundred and forty-four years ago...

People often ask me if—since I'm the Templar—I get a special gavel or tool to do my work. The answer to that question is a flat, resounding no. Besides some gold and pretty patterns embroidered on the back, my gavel is just like any other. What makes me different is my vivid imagination. Most judges rely on a simplistic plague for their apocalypses, which is fine, but those are so uninspired! I strive to turn my work into art. During my last assignment, I transformed an entire planet into a barren tundra. The sinners sat freezing for months before they finally succumbed to the cold. Now that's rehabilitation!

Still, to become a templar, you have got to be strong, and that I am. The majority of that is due to my celestial body. A boulder that would take fifty mortals to lift would weigh as much a pebble to me. However, simply being strong would never get you the templar rank. You also have to be accomplished and strive to do what others would not. I distinguished myself through action. Unlike every other judge, I actively participated in the apocalypses I set in motion. If I decided a world needed rehabilitation through war, I would fight in it. Of course, I would alternate sides often. Sometimes I fought as a lowly foot soldier in the glaring heat of a desert. Other times I took on the role of a chief strategist. Either way, I made sure that I got to observe every detail of the worlds I ruined. Currently, I have fought in seven hundred and twenty-two wars. In that time, I have mastered multiple forms of hand-to-hand combat and martial arts.

Many of my comrades find my love of war worrying. After all, judges aren't supposed to participate. We're supposed to observe, record, and clean up sinful worlds. By personally involving myself in these conflicts, some believe that I am betraying the pillars of my post. I couldn't disagree more. I think that I am expanding the position. If judges refuse to participate in the chaos we sow, how will we ever learn from our mistakes? Then again, I am the only Angel in the profession. Who knows? Maybe their hesitation stems from the fact that they are mortal.