The Fallen King of Atlantis

Rio de Janeiro, East Coast of South America, The Near Future

The sun was setting.

Standing on the gigantic hand of the Christ the Redeemer statue, the Renegade Angel gazed over the city as twilight approached. His expression was unshakable and serene, the look of someone who had lived countless lives—a wanderer who had traversed the world, unraveled its infinite mysteries, and faced the fates of both abyssal and celestial creatures. His countenance bore the marks of a pioneer who had visited lost nations and sat at the tables of the great men of old. In the depths of his gray eyes lay fragments of every civilization, every culture, ancient and modern—from the shining towers of Atlantis to the pyramids of Babylon; from the Greek city-states to the majesty of Rome; from medieval cathedrals to the caravels of Sagres; from Napoleonic campaigns to the horrors of nuclear warfare. The history of an entire species now resided in the mind of this fugitive, a young-looking warrior preserved in the prime of his thirties.

For hours, the fighter would stand motionless in absolute silence, meditating on his fallen friends, ensuring he would never forget them. His greatest fear was forgetting—forgetting his ideals, his past, and his tireless struggle.

A gust of wind swept across the mountain, ruffling the renegade's blond hair. He tied it back with a ribbon and walked along the stone structure of the statue. His balance was impeccable, even on the narrow passage of the titanic sculpture's arm. He didn't look like an angel, as his wings were hidden, tucked into his flesh. His face was Nordic, his body athletic, strong, and slender—feline in its alertness, always ready to strike. His golden goatee framed his mouth, and his dark clothes outlined a shadowy silhouette. Static, unshakable in the wind, the Cherub waited. He smelled the air, listened to the movement of the clouds, and watched the sun bid farewell.

From the summit of the mountain, even the tallest skyscrapers were mere needles, tiny barbs in the heart of the city. The waters of Guanabara Bay, framed by Sugarloaf Mountain and the white sands of the cove, reflected the rosy glow of the sunset. As he contemplated the landscape, the celestial being realized how much the metropolis had grown since his arrival in Brazil three hundred years ago. The beaches were now closed, factories polluted the bay, and bridges, streets, and antennas sprouted like weeds across the hills.

Now, it was only a matter of time before the sun extinguished its fire, and mortal civilization perished. The giant of the ages understood why he felt such sorrow.

Though he had once been an angel, he was now human too.

The Fabric of Reality trembled, and thunder rumbled through the clouds.

The mystical membrane separating the Physical World from the Spiritual had been disturbed, casting two visitors into the Material Plane—two entities as powerful as the exiled general. One materialized in the distance, standing on the iron railing encircling the base of the statue. A terrible, evil aura emanated from it, filled with hatred and fury. The second visitor was friendly, with no desire for combat. It appeared nearby, on Christ's shoulder, close to the renegade host. Limping, it approached the warrior angel, leaning on a sharp cane.

"Ablon, the Renegade Angel," whispered the stranger, invoking the general's true name. "I thought I'd find you here. In a way, it's ironic…"

The creature stepped out of the shadows, resembling an ordinary man. Mature and broad-shouldered, he was shorter than the celestial. He wore a tailored suit, mimicking worldly fashion. A dark beard covered his face, framing a round chin.

"…in the arms of God," he added.

Orion, the Fallen King of Atlantis. That was his name.

"I thought you came alone," the Cherub replied, glancing at the devilish figure climbing the metal grate thirty meters below.

"Ah, yes, Apollyon…" Orion's attention shifted to the iron railing. "I'm sorry. I had to bring him. Boss's orders."

The mountains swallowed the last light of the sun, and the ocean awaited the moon's rise. In the darkness, Ablon turned to face his old comrade—a fallen angel, now one of Hell's dukes, a failed monarch who had followed Lucifer's hosts during the War in Heaven. Like many, Orion had been deceived by the Devil's persuasion. Once a celestial, he had been sent to Earth to govern the legendary city of Atlantis, but the Flood destroyed the island and buried his beloved people. Disgusted by the catastrophes incited by the archangel Michael, Orion joined Lucifer's rebellion. When it failed, he was cast into the Abyss. This was after the purge of the renegades. Had Orion been in Heaven during the conjuration, he might have joined them.

"Orion, out of respect for our old friendship, I agreed to meet you. Make this quick. Your master betrayed me. The demon accompanying you"—he gestured to Apollyon, a ruthless killer who had slain ten of the eighteen renegades—"murdered many of my friends. I never sympathized with the convicts in the Basement." He used the slang term for Hell. "So be brief. Time is short."

The Fallen King smiled. This was the Ablon he remembered—the comrade who had visited him in Atlantis and shared banquets on festive days. The general hadn't changed. Orion admired him because, despite trials, losses, and persecutions, he had held fast to his values. He challenged everyone to defend a cause and would continue fighting for it. Orion wished he could be like him but recognized the cost of freedom. Death and loneliness followed the exiles, and he wondered if he could have walked that path, even if he had chosen it.

"So you've noticed it too, haven't you?" Orion pressed. "The signs. They're definitive proof that the end of the Seventh Day is near, and with it, all human life."

The Apocalypse.

Orion was right. The signs were evident. All symbols and prophecies pointed to the Final Judgment.

"I am a renegade angel, the last one still alive. I'm condemned to live in this Physical World. I can no longer traverse the Fabric of Reality like you. But you don't need to be wise to see that Armageddon is approaching," the warrior paused, then concluded, "And it's sad to think that everything we did was in vain."

Orion approached the exile and touched his shoulder. Despite his limp, he balanced masterfully on the stone statue's arm, dragging his cane.

"There's no way out, Orion," the fugitive continued. "There's no more hope. The archangel Michael will finally achieve his goal, but this time, he won't send his angels. Human civilization will destroy itself with its wars and modern weapons. And against men, we can do nothing."

A long silence followed, stretching into the dark night. Ablon kept an eye on Apollyon, the Terminator, who watched from afar. The two were sworn enemies, dating back to their time as generals in Paradise. Apollyon, like Orion and Lucifer, was a fallen angel. Their ancient feud could only be resolved by the sword.

"Many years ago, I was the prince of Atlantis," Orion began. "Like a god, I ruled the city. Every human was like a child to me. Happiness was everywhere, and suffering was rare. Back then, I had a friend—a formidable warrior, brave and wise. He often visited my palace. We would speak to the crowd and sing praises to the Most High." He gazed at the sea. "But one day, utopia ended. The fury of the archangels devastated my island, and my people perished. With them died my dream of spreading a perfect civilization, free from pain and misery. When I returned to the Celestial Hall, I learned that my friend, the tireless general, had faced the firstborn, and his courage inspired me. All I wanted was revenge, so in desperation, I accepted Lucifer's ideas. We were defeated, and our punishment was terrible, but I never regretted confronting the oppressor. I was inspired by someone." He looked at the fighter. "Throughout your life, you've fought, general. You can't give up now."

"What's your proposal?" Ablon asked, softened by the monarch's confession.

"I know Lucifer betrayed you. He may not be the fairest creature in the universe, but he knows the weaknesses of the tyrannical Michael. Everyone in Hell and Heaven awaits the final confrontation—the battle of Armageddon, which will precede the awakening of the Most High. This fight is our last chance to strip the Prince of Angels before the Creator returns. The victors will stand closer to God and present their weapons to Him."

"When Yahweh awakens, He will punish the wicked," Ablon argued. "Michael will be the first to be condemned for using His Word to justify so many massacres. Why not wait for Jehovah's return?"

"I don't know about you, but we want revenge," Orion replied, studying the fugitive's pained expression. "And I'd say you do too."

"All I want is justice."

"Call it what you will. Our interests are aligned. Michael is preparing for war, and we have a common enemy."

"You're proposing an alliance," the warrior digested, incredulous.

"The Morning Star wants you by our side."

"Your master knows I would never join him, not after he deceived us and betrayed the conspiracy. If I must fight this final battle, it won't be under the wings of a damned fraud."

Orion had expected that answer. He had even thought his master foolish for sending him to Earth with such a proposal. But the Fallen King had often been surprised by the Dark Archangel's cunning and chose not to judge him hastily.

"I understand your concerns, but this time is different. This is the final clash of a war that has lasted thousands of years. There won't be another opportunity to defeat the archangel."

Ablon clenched his fists and closed his eyes, meditating briefly. All he wanted was to complete the mission of his life—to face the Celestial Prince and avenge the memory of the renegades. He knew he couldn't win the war alone, but it couldn't be won without him. After so many battles, the fugitive was the ideal commander to lead an army against the tyrant. But with or without an army, Ablon would challenge Michael eventually. The duel would only be possible when the Fabric of Reality fell, as the exile was trapped in his physical body, unable to pass to the spiritual plane and travel to Paradise. The membrane would only disappear at the conclusion of the Apocalypse. If he allied with Lucifer, would the Devil provide the means for the prince and the fugitive to face each other in a deadly fight?

"I'll be waiting near the Rio-Niterói Bridge in four days," Orion said, breaking the silence. "If you're not there, I'll return to Sheol and tell my master your answer."

The renegade nodded slightly, never taking his eyes off his hated rival, Apollyon, still perched on the railing. The Terminator was a formidable warrior demon, a Malikis—a soldier of Hell. His skin was brown like a Bedouin's, his black hair thinning. He wore a worn brown overcoat and thick clothes, exuding the instincts of a predator, ready to attack if the sky erupted.

Orion walked into the darkness but paused before disappearing. "I want you to have this," he whispered, pulling a fragment of stone from his pocket. It was a black shard of basalt, marked with a bas-relief symbol.

"The Atlantean rune of peace," he explained. "It's from the monolith I erected in Atlantis's central square. The only remnant of my city."

"I remember," Ablon said, accepting the gift.

Ablon wasn't the only one haunted by memories. Orion, too, carried his ghosts. Perhaps it was their shared pain and nostalgia for days of glory that united them. The link between demon and renegade was strong, forged by inviolable memories that had become mythical, unreachable icons for their troubled minds.

As the moon rose, trailing the indigo of spring, the two infernals vanished. The membrane had closed, and Orion and Apollyon were on their way back to Hell.

"Lucifer was clever to send you here, Fallen King," Ablon whispered. "But I'll be ready for anything. As I always have been."

He leaped from the statue and took the road back to the city.

The Castle of Light

Fourth Heaven, Twelve Thousand Years Ago

The Ethereal Wars

In the beginning, there were Heaven and Earth—the two great dimensions of a young universe. Long before Lucifer's fall, Hell did not exist; only Gehenna, the purgatory of souls, one of the seven heavenly layers designed to shelter the spirits of sinners. Gehenna was not unlike Sheol, where the Dark Archangel and his followers were cast after their failed war. In Gehenna, the Morning Star ruled until the archangel Michael expelled her.

In those ancient days, before the conjuration, the angels were numerous and strong—some too violent. Before the Flood, human civilization on Earth was dominated by two rival nations: Enoch, the Beautiful Giant, and Atlantis, the Pearl of the Sea. But despite their majesty, their influence did not reach every corner of the planet. Tens of thousands of tribes and clans inhabited the world, many of which did not recognize a single God, worshiping their own local deities instead. These deities were spirits of great heroes who, venerated after death, became powerful entities sustained by the energy of their followers' prayers. To remain connected to their worshipers, these entities chose not to ascend to Paradise but to dwell in the deepest layer of the spiritual world—the Ethereal Plane.

Over time, these ethereal spirits, personified as tribal deities, expanded their influence as their cults grew. This parallel power in the mystical sphere threatened the authority of the celestials, who watched their supernatural dominion over humanity wane.

In response, the archangels decreed that the ethereal spirits must be confronted and destroyed. The Ethereal Wars began—a series of military campaigns on the Ethereal Plane aimed at annihilating all deified entities. The wars lasted two thousand years, from twelve thousand to ten thousand years before Christ. In some regions, particularly in the East, the celestial legions were dethroned, but in others, they emerged victorious.

At the end of the Ethereal Wars, the archangels resumed their policy of mass slaughter, sending platoons of angels to Earth to murder humans. According to Michael, who claimed to speak for God, Yahweh was ashamed of His creation, and wicked men had to be discarded. Many angels disagreed, but how could they question an entity that was the Creator's voice? The archangels were unmatched in intelligence and power.

The few who saw the truth knew that Michael was envious of humanity, resentful that God had given them the world, the soul, and free will. The Prince of Angels wanted to end humanity, steal their land, and assume the throne of the sleeping God. But he wasn't alone in his ambition. Lucifer, too, sought the same, and thus they became rivals.

As human civilization flourished, the Fabric of Reality weakened, making it harder for celestials to act in the material sphere. Determined, Michael engineered a cataclysm to eliminate humanity once and for all. But he would soon discover the resilience of the earthly species.

Blood Rain

The Fourth Heaven

In the Fourth Heaven, isolated in the heart of the celestial ocean, stood a slender mountain that widened at the top, resembling a mushroom. At its summit was the Castle of Light, the main stronghold of the winged warriors in Paradise. The fortress was designed to withstand a thousand legions, ready to defend Heaven against any invasion. Its leader was the arrogant Balberith, the prince of the cherubim caste. Feared by all soldiers, he wore sacred armor called the Courier of Honor, gifted to him by the archangel Uziel, patron of the order of combatants.

On that day, twelve thousand years ago, dawn painted a spectacle across the sky, and the rising sun drew a shimmering road on the sea. Ablon, the First General, landed in the central courtyard and folded his wings. He had just returned to the fortress after a long period of recovery. Seriously injured during the Ethereal Wars, he had nearly lost his sight in a battle against the god Rahab, leader of a horde of ethereal entities. Though not fully healed, a terrible event had forced his return.

Just and good as he was, Ablon could not tolerate participating in the carnage ordered by the archangels. While he rested, command of his legion had been handed to his greatest adversary—the abominable Apollyon, the Destroying Angel. This nefarious murderer led his soldiers in a bloody incursion through Haled—the celestials' name for the physical plane—annihilating an entire village. The operation was called Blood Rain, a reference to the legion's atrocious passage.

Outraged but restrained, the general returned without delay, determined to reclaim command of his divisions. But despite his feud with the Destroyer, another event was about to change angelic politics forever, and Ablon could do nothing to stop it.

In the Celestial Palace, in the Fifth Heaven, the five archangels debated Michael's plan to unleash a cataclysm on Earth. The decision would soon be announced, and the ten generals—the great cherubim under Balberith's command—were to be assembled. Ablon and Apollyon were among them.

Lucifer, the Morning Star, opposed the hecatomb. The impasse was resolved by sending three celestials to Haled to prove—or refute—the wickedness of humanity. If even one just and upright person existed, they would be spared.

The chosen angels were Balam of the Hashmalin caste, Nathanael of the Ophanim, and Baturiel, a cherubim captain. During their mission, Balam attempted to corrupt every mortal he encountered, while Nathanael tried to counteract his schemes. Balam would have returned with a flawless report if not for one man who resisted: Noah. It was Noah's fate that the archangels now deliberated.

Ablon, meanwhile, had a conspiracy in mind. He planned to gather like-minded celestials and seek the support of Lucifer, Michael's greatest rival. But for his plan to succeed, humanity had to survive the coming destruction.

For now, the situation rested in the hands of the archangels.

The Legendary Duel

The Castle of Light was a grand structure carved from light stone, gold, and marble, nearly inaccessible by land or sea. By air, enemies would have to overcome the numerous winged patrols defending the fortress. Angels glided through the wind, rising, falling, and twirling in a deadly dance.

In the smaller courtyard, cherubs practiced infantry techniques, wielding swords and spears against invisible opponents. A regiment of angelic women practiced archery with their bows. Ablon adjusted his golden armor, a glowing breastplate reserved for high-ranking warriors. He tightened his belt and rested his hand on the hilt of his mystical sword, the Holy Avenger. For the cherubim, the sword was an extension of the body, an essential tool for battle.

On the heights of the fortress, the cold breeze carried the scent of the sea. Ablon listened to the waves crashing nine hundred meters below, the splashes and salty drops running down the rock.

Suddenly, a movement caught his attention. In the sky, two soldiers engaged in a fierce duel. Without weapons, they exchanged punches and kicks, shooting through clouds before descending into the courtyard. Duels were common in the castle, encouraged as part of the cherubim's nature. Any warrior could challenge another of the same rank to combat, though weapons were prohibited, and armor was mandatory to prevent lethal outcomes.

The custom of summoning someone to a duel involved unfastening the belt buckle and letting the sword fall—a signal that the challenger was unarmed and ready to fight. Angels with different weapons, like spears or bows, would drop them on the ground and await their opponent's response.

Ablon watched the fight until Captain Dariel, a fighter known for his speed and perception, approached.

"General, Prince Balberith requests the presence of all legion leaders in the central courtyard," he announced, folding his wings in respect.

"What's happened?"

"Baturiel has returned. He brings the decision of the archangels."

The Will of Men

The main courtyard of the castle was vast, three hundred meters in diameter. To the east, a half-moon staircase led to the war room, a domed structure supported by white columns and surrounded by steel statues of the five archangels. The square was bordered by a peristyle, a gallery of pillars forming a circular corridor.

To the west, rows of pine trees marked the path to a marble pool, its water sourced from the mountain's heart. On the towers and walls, pennants displayed the coats of arms of the legions.

Balberith, the prince of the cherubim, ascended to a parlor in the courtyard and faced the ten generals kneeling before him. He wasn't the strongest fighter, but he was agile, cold, and bold. In his full armor, he resembled a golden god, with long, whitish wings and fiery red hair.

"Michael, the Prince of Angels, has decreed the final destruction of humanity," he announced, his voice tinged with satisfaction. He was a sycophant of the archangels, supporting their fatal campaigns. Ablon suspected this was why he had placed Apollyon in command of his legion.

"But the mercy of the giants is abundant, and they have chosen to spare one virtuous mortal and his family."

"So, there is at least one righteous human on Earth?" asked Sheníal, a general known for his caution.

"That is what was found."

"And what is our role in this event?" asked Apollyon, eager to participate in the hecatomb.

"None," Balberith replied indifferently. "The cataclysm will be a natural event. The Ishins will handle it. A great flood will bring destruction."

"And who will command the slaughter?" Apollyon pressed.

"Amael, Lord of Volcanoes, ruler of the Citadel of Fire."

"Amael is weak," Apollyon grumbled. "Even his apprentice, Aziel, despises him. The Ishins are incompetent."

"Remember your place," warned Varna, commander of the archer legion. "We are soldiers. Our duty is to obey."

"There is no place for us in this destruction," Ablon added, contesting the Destroyer. "We will do as ordered."

Ablon was relieved he wouldn't have to participate in the killing. But Noah's preservation was a deception to obscure a frivolous decision. The archangels didn't believe a single family could survive the flood's devastation.

Apollyon seethed at being contradicted by his rival. His blood boiled, but Balberith cut him off.

"That's enough. Instruct your soldiers and ensure the Ishins are protected during the operation. Some of us will escort them to Haled. You may volunteer."

Apollyon's anger fell on Ablon, who had questioned him so boldly. "Who does he think he is?" he thought. "He became a hero at my expense, surpassing my legion in the Ethereal Wars."

As the generals dispersed, Ablon wondered how he could orchestrate a resistance. The Castle of Light wasn't the ideal place for a conspiracy, but time was short. He had never been a skilled politician and would need to think carefully to gain support.

He decided to seek out Baturiel.

Baturiel the Honored

Baturiel was one of the most prominent cherubic captains. His rival, Euzin, served under Apollyon. Euzin had distinguished himself in the Ethereal Wars, earning fame for his deadly blade, the Steel Bolt. But his pride made him detestable, and he often challenged weaker angels to duels, flouting the caste code.

Ablon and Baturiel met on the outer walkway. Despite his disciplined nature, Baturiel was sympathetic to humanity. Ablon knew his fighters well and understood the captain's kindness. Still, he didn't include Baturiel in his conspiracy, fearing he might not challenge the archangels.

"Haled… the land of men," Ablon mused, staring at the horizon. "Few angels know the material dimension."

"It's a suffocating place for us," Baturiel added. He wore golden armor and carried a spear and sword. "The Fabric of Reality limits our powers, and every day, Earth moves further from the spiritual plane. Since the first mortal became self-aware, celestials have lost their dominion over them. The strength of men is peerless, General. That's what I learned from my mission. Fragile as they are, their will is unsurpassable."

"So, will humanity survive the holocaust?" Ablon asked.

Baturiel paused. "Men have feelings we angels don't understand. They protect their children with a divine instinct. Perhaps the Most High gave them this instinct to preserve their species."

"And your conclusion?"

"The archangels know nothing about humanity. I suspect they fear descending to Haled and never returning, fascinated by its wonders. The flood will fail. Mortal existence will endure."

Ablon smiled briefly but suppressed it. Deep down, he felt hope.

"And will Noah's family rebuild civilization?"

"Not just them. Many will survive. The archangels' unity will be shaken. A fight between Michael and Lucifer could destroy Paradise."

Lucifer—Ablon thought. The Morning Star would be the conspirators' trump card. But he didn't yet realize Lucifer's true nature. The Son of Dawn was charismatic, the voice of freedom in an oppressive kingdom. But his ambitions were hideous.

The Legendary Duel

Ablon remained silent beside Baturiel, lost in thought. Apollyon approached, followed by two celestials. The Destroyer was a giant, powerful and vigorous—the strongest of the generals. His silver breastplate gleamed, and his dark eyes burned with malice.

Ablon gripped his sword but kept it sheathed. It was unlikely he'd be attacked, but Apollyon didn't always follow the rules.

"Relax, warrior," Apollyon said, noticing Ablon's tension. "I've come to return command of your legion."

"It seems you got your revenge," Ablon replied, referring to their feud. "We're even. Let's end this."

"That victory was mine!" Apollyon protested. "Our conflict will only end with your humiliation—or your death."

"If that's your choice, you'll never get your revenge," Ablon challenged.

Enraged, Apollyon unfastened his belt and let his sword fall. Ablon understood the challenge and did the same. But before his sword hit the ground, Apollyon charged, landing a punch to Ablon's face. The general was thrown across the courtyard, his back slamming into a column.

Blood dripped from Ablon's nose as he watched Apollyon take flight.

"He still hasn't accepted that I surpassed him in the war," Ablon muttered, dazed. "But he'll have to get used to it."

The soldiers gathered to watch the duel. This would be a fight remembered for millennia.

Ablon stood, leaning on a pillar. His vision blurred, but he saw Apollyon charging again. He spread his wings defensively, using his other senses to anticipate the attack. As Apollyon closed in, Ablon dodged, grabbing the Destroyer's collar and taking flight. He hurled Apollyon to the ground, creating a crater in the marble floor.

The angels cheered, but Apollyon wasn't finished. He leaped into the air, intercepting Ablon and delivering a fierce kick that sent the general crashing into a row of pine trees.

Ablon rose, blood filling his throat. He was at his limit but had one chance to turn the fight around. He focused his divine energy into a single blow—the Wrath of God.

His fist glowed with a golden aura as it struck Apollyon's stomach, shattering the Destroyer's armor and sending him flying into the castle walls. The impact sent debris tumbling into the sea.

Balberith watched uneasily from a golden tower. Should he intervene? The duel was escalating, and without armor, the fighters were vulnerable.

Ablon removed his breastplate, determined to fight on equal terms. He dove toward Apollyon, who was falling toward the sharp rocks below. The two engaged in close combat, rolling down the mountain.

At the base, they came to a stop, battered and bloodied. Apollyon pinned Ablon, his hand tightening around the general's throat. He raised his fist for the final blow, aiming for Ablon's heart.

But Ablon had a strategy. He feigned weakness, waiting for the right moment to dodge and counterattack.

As Apollyon prepared to strike, Balberith's voice thundered across the ocean.

"Stop now!"

Apollyon hesitated, his fury unabated. Balberith descended, his presence commanding.

"Do you intend to disobey me, Apollyon?" he asked, his tone terrifying.

The Destroyer relented, and the duel ended. The two rivals rose, their hatred undiminished.

"Next time, there will be no prince to save you," Apollyon growled.

"I look forward to that day," Ablon replied, flying back to the Castle of Light.

The duel was over, but the conflict between them would continue.