The Leviathans

In Sheol, the moment of decision had arrived. In the valley of the Damned, on the banks of the Styx, millions of demons, of all castes and sizes, gathered together in a disorderly mob, awaiting the command of their dukes. Unlike angels, not all of them flew. His hordes grouped together on the chirp, like nervous ants bursting out of an anthill. Others, equipped with wings, filled the sky, drooling in angry agitation, with their tridents raised. Some were nothing more than imps, with a defenseless appearance, but there were also those with enormous constitution, hybrids, with an animal, with horns and tail. Several had sharp fangs, fiery eyes, dark claws, and dark, scaly skin. One group rode winged monsters, similar to Lilith's beast, and another rode skeletal horses, like terrible knights from hell. And there were also slaves, who seemed more ferocious than beasts, reminiscent of lions and jackals, howling in haunting cruelty.

At the anchorage, the eight dukes, with the exception of Apollyon, who had been absent for days, waited for their instructions from Samael, indignant and enraged. In front of them, the hated Serpent of Eden, reptilian and disgusting, which crawled instead of walking, announced to the nefarious nobles:

"Gather your hordes. The ships will soon arrive."

"Ships?" snorted Molloch, the Executioner, a muscular demon with a big head and small horns and narrow pupils like cat eyes. "Not a million boats could transport this entire crowd. The heat of the Devil's cave has shattered your reason, Satan."

"Those were our leader's instructions?" amended Asmodeus, a perverse and elegant demon, who carried a red scepter. Polite words were his weapon to discredit Samael.

"Anyone who doubts me defies my master," he threatened, with the whistle of his pointed tongue. Terror incited, as he knew how fragile his leadership was.

Molloch stopped, speechless to react, and was supported by Orion, while the other princes moved away. They writhed in rage.

"Patience, comrades!" reassured the Fallen King of Atlantis. "It's still early, and the battle in ethereal hasn't even started. I do not believe that the Morning Star would spare our efforts."

Orion didn't usually wear armor, but for the final clash he donned an exotic silver breastplate, ancient clothing of the warriors of Atlantis, adorned with the symbol of the Jewel of the Sea. He didn't take a sword, just a pointed stick, but his claws were as lethal as any blade.

"What the hell!" growled Mammon, a fat demon with the body of a hippopotamus, the head of a pig, and huge horns. "I will not bow down to a despicable sycophant!" he shouted, and Alastor, Baalzebul, and Molloch joined him, raising their weapons.

But when the four came forward to attack Samael, the hordes on the field fell silent, and from there Porto, the dukes saw what, for them, was impossible.

Hundreds of ships were born in the distance, where the Styx rose, at the entrance to the valley, and they approached like giants, sinking the riverbed and fraying its edges. The red waters overflowed with the flow of ships, drowning and trampling those closest to the edge. They were, in fact, no ordinary ships. Longilinear like Egyptian floats, they totaled a thousand meters from bow to stern, and as they passed the banks of the river Styx lengthened to support the journey and then returned to their original dimension. On the bridge, each vessel carried three drivers with a sinister presence, each wearing a black tunic. Those captains were the terrifying boatmen, ghostly creatures, devoid of soul or essence and lacking in nature or morals.

Without hesitation, the dukes retreated at the sight of those incredible transports. They were so long, wide, and tall that just one of them could support, on its freighters, approximately five hundred thousand combatants—and there were close to ten hundred boats like these sailing and rushing to the dock.

"Definitely, the Son of Dawn has not forgotten his army," muttered Bael the Unhappy, the prince of despair, thin and hideous, with a cadaverous face and decomposed flesh.

"They are leviathans, the giant ships," Orion remembered. "I had heard legends about them, but never took it seriously."

"Then let's go to war," agreed Mammon, giving up attacking Samael. "He escaped this time, you disgusting snake."

"And who will we fight against, anyway?" pressed Mephistopheles, an aristocrat with fiery skin, wings of a bat, and a man's face. "Which of the two angelic parties will be our target?"

"They will know in time," replied Samael, at the moment the gigantic ship docked at the port. "Now, come with me aboard," he invited them, crawling inside when the bridge lowered.

"This whole story still intrigues me," Asmodeus whispered to Orion, at his side. "What will be the Dark Archangel's true intention?"

"We will still know today," replied Satanis, marching towards the platform.

The God of Love

Throughout the afternoon, Ablon traveled across the plain in review of the troops. Continuously acclaimed by all celestial bodies, he did not find time to talk to each soldier, but he interviewed the generals, collected information, and prepared to formulate final battle tactics. He was with Varna, from the regiment of archers, and met the unforgettable Baturiel again.

Like many fighters scattered there, Baturiel the Honorable was subordinate to the First General before the purge and had even seen him on the Mount of Olives, when Gabriel had ordered him to defend the I die against any invasion. The two almost came into combat, but the arrival of Varna, and after the Master of Fire, had interrupted the confrontation. At the time, the Renegade Angel had misjudged him, believing that he was on the bad side, and that's why he soon justified his mistake.

"I would have done the same," comforted his friend. He wore a golden breastplate, common to officers, stamped with the ancient heraldry of the Legion of Swords.

Afterwards, Baturiel himself led him to Ishim Elohai, the Blacksmith, famous for forging the most resistant armor of heaven. The celestial took Ablon's measures and promised that at the end of the day he would have the best board ever made.

When the day was already ending, the cherub climbed the rock and returned to the presence of Gabriel, who had mounted his tent on the top of the mountain, from where he watched over the entire expanse of the desert and the mountains around him. Zion. Lonely, the archangel was satisfied only with the company of Varna, the cold cherub who lived nearby, to escort him, in blind obedience to their rebel leader.

From there, on a relief on the top of the hill, the Master of Fire glimpsed the wonderful army, golden, which for many centuries he had improved during the civil war. His face was as tender as a lotus plant, whose root touches the fertile profusion of the earth and whose petals leap into the emptiness of the sky. His serene movements respected the flow of the cosmos and accompanied the palpitation of infinity.

Suddenly assaulted by the radiation of the universe, Ablon felt small in the face of the enormity of legions and the giant mass that completed the unbeatable army. He regretted his long absence and for his inability to have previously led them in productive revolution.

Gabriel enjoyed the warmth of the sun that set in the west, gilding the war terrace with its rays. He crouched down with his legs crossed to praise the fiery star.

"Today I watch the last sunset, with the same fascination with which I contemplated the first," he confessed, melancholy. "I am a watchman of the world, general, lanced by longing and punished by memory. I can feel the passing of the ages and touch the marks of time, like footprints in the sand, that disappear with each lick of the sea."

"I understand your bitterness. It is the reverse of immortality. It is the difficult burden of the invincible. I also have my spirit wounded, but I am young, despite my age. I suffer for the actions I failed to do and for the battles that I stopped fighting. I wish I had been more competent in defending creation and freed men from decadence."

"We all aspire to the unattainable, and this anguish is the spark that ignites the heat of existence. When all the questions are answered, the stimulus of life is also lost."

The general complied and turned to face the archangel.

"Tell me what happened, Gabriel. What happened after the brotherhood was disowned? There is a feeling of deficiency in my heart, which grieves me for the lost years."

The Fire Master exhaled a sigh and wrapped his wings around his shoulders.

"Paradise was never the same again. The expulsion of the renegades put the unity of the archangels, already worn out by slander. After the conjuration, many celestials, including Lucifer, began to believe that revolution was possible, and then the opportunists appeared to corrupt the desperate."

"When I left the rubble of the cursed city of Enoch, I knew that the Dark Archangel had engineered his own revolt and attracted a third of the angels to his cause, ensnared by lies and empty promises."

"Yes. Lucifer, the Son of the Dawn. He and his advisors distorted the brotherhood's ideals. They swore to free the celestials from tyranny, but in the beauty of their speeches, the Devil hid his true objective, which was to take the place of the Angelic Prince. Unfortunately, discontent grew, and these disgusted, weak of character, were deceived by his fascinating rhetoric, as often happens during periods of crisis."

"And how was this war?"

"Bloody, voracious, and terrible. Many good spirits were lost amid the chaos of battle. On the battlefield, while swords lit up lightning in the sky, Lucifer and Michael avoided each other, taking their thrones on the opposite limits of the firmament. And so the slaughter continued until the blood of the angels made Canaan fruitful, and the Morning Star surrendered in humiliating defeat. As a sentence, the losers were isolated and condemned to exile in the darkness of Sheol."

"Sheol. It is curious that Michael did not impose a more severe punishment on the fallen."

"Before the arrival of the Dark Archangel in hell, Sheol was just a cemetery dimension, a place of absolute blackness and desolation, where Yahweh had sent the remains of Tehom and the dark gods, destroyed in the Primeval Battles. The Nimbye Abyss, in the Killing Fields, would represent the supposed womb of Tehom, a passage to limbo, full of horror, agony, and hopelessness."

"The Bringer of Light..." muttered the general, unlocking the key to one of the many titles attributed to Lucifer.

Ablon stuck his sword into the hardened ground, as he sometimes did, because it had no scabbard to carry it nor a belt to support the case. The blade straightened on a red stone.

"Why do you think Michael captured the Enchantress of En-Dor?" asked the warrior. "The angel who took her said she would be fine if I didn't join the Devil. Supposedly wanted to prevent my alliance with Lucifer."

Gabriel stood up straight and climbed down from the rock towards the ravine.

"It's a bluff, a distraction to divert you from the central path. Michael knows his nature, his past, and he knows he would never enter into an agreement with a traitor. Furthermore, the soldiers of hell never would have the capacity to invade Zion. The diabolical hosts are numerous, but weak. Most of Satanic units are made up of slave spirits, who fall at the first blow of a sword. Only the fallen are truly fierce, but they do not add up to a fearsome contingent. If the Prince of Angels expected a military offensive, it should prevent you from joining us," the archangel pointed to their flying lines, training in perfect discipline, and to the troops on the ground, spearing the air as if it was the enemy. "Our army does have the vigor and training necessary to take down the defenses of the tower, even when outnumbered."

"So Michael could just be trying to lure me to the fortress?"

"I didn't say that. It is not easy to understand my brother's ambitions, nor his delusions of majesty. Your desires are an enigma even to me, who for so long shared your selfishness."

"But why would he kidnap the necromancer? I don't see any sense in such an unusual kidnapping. How could a mortal be useful to your insane project, whatever it may be?"

Gabriel reached the edge of the cliff.

"It's possible he's trying to use her for some macabre purpose," he ventured, without further ado. "I wouldn't doubt that Michael has discovered a way to use the woman's soul to ascend to divinity. To do so, he would need a human spirit, graced with the gift of free will."

Ablon scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"That's exactly what Lucifer told me, when I went to meet him in the Valley of the Damned. Second, he, Michael intends to reach the majesty of the Creator with the conclusion of the Apocalypse. But with that, he forgets the fundamental element that will end Armageddon: the awakening of the Most High." The Messenger tilted his gaze, sadly, and looked back at the crimson horizon.

"Yahweh has not fallen asleep, general," he announced, in a surprising revelation. "He dispelled his essence in the cosmos at the end of the sixth day of creation."

The Renegade Angel shook his head slightly, in a frightened negative reaction. "That can't be!" he protested. "So Yahweh is dead?"

"No, my friend," reassured the archangel. "God has never been so alive. For billions of years, the Lord shaped the universe, and one day his work was done. Proud of his work, the Most High wished omnipresence. He wanted to be everywhere, see everything, and taste the beauty of the world. Of his most prized fruits, he adored the human race, a savage species that lived in the rot of caves. Tired of admiring his offspring, Yahweh wanted to touch her, live among her, love her. Thus, he dispersed his spirit, and from this divine energy, the human soul was born, blessed with free will and graced by the sap of love. With this, the Creator's energy prospered, survived, and multiplied upon the surface of the earth. For know, o valiant warrior, that in every mortal heart beats the power of the Father, and this grace is infinite, indestructible, and immortal."

The First General responded to the crash with a prolonged silence, during which he recalled his life trajectory, its celestial and earthly journey, paying attention to the subtle signs that made clear the absence of the Most High. "Somehow, I think I always suspected the truth. Eat few, I preferred to live my own path, but the search for the Almighty became a motive, a purpose. But what about you, Master of Fire? Why did he not share his knowledge with the winged ones or warn men of his celestial ability?"

The giant smiled again, but there was also frustration on his face. "So I tried, but no one wanted to listen. The palpable existence of God is food for men and angels. Many depend on it to justify their failures, beg forgiveness, or to encourage a miserable life. And I don't condemn them. It's not easy to admit that we are alone, that our success depends only on our own efforts and no one else's. Understand now, general, the obviousness of paradise. God's power resides in unconditional love. When we truly love, we achieve the divine. It was this heat that drew us to the source and ignited our passion for human women. Being close to them transports us to the Sublime Presence, to the one who gave us life and loved us intensely. It was his love for Shamira that freed him from evil. It was her love that stopped his sword, ready to execute Nimrod. It is in tenderness that the spirit of God resides, and through it, we access it."

At that moment, Ablon saw, as in a dream, the legendary Babel, the Sea of Rock, and the tower in construction, which was lost in the clouds. He remembered the sorceress, persecuted by Babylonian villains and cornered by the wizard with the pointy beard. Then the nightmare disappeared, and he felt the heat of the fire in his cave on the mountain, the same cave in which the two embraced for the first time and which afternoon sheltered the burial mound of Ishtar. The cave, as it was kept in mind, was a magical place, special, one of those spaces frozen in time, a safe corner, where your fantasy wandered in the moments of disenchantment and loneliness.

"The Savior also brought the message of love to the world," continued Gabriel, "and spoke then on the nature of the Father. But not everyone has the ability to see what permeates the reality, the solvable secret of existence, which is beyond icons, rituals, and prayers. For me, I confess, it's hard to think that not even Uziel, our youngest brother, knew how to contemplate the truth. Neither even he, who was an archangel and saw the dispersion of the Most High, knew how to accept his choice. Like many angels, Uziel cultivated, for years, the illusion that Yahweh was sleeping in Tsafon, until the day he climbed the mountain and was killed by Michael. But perhaps I lived better this way, in ignorance. Rafael, on the other hand, always lucid, swallowed his absence with bitterness, and at a certain point gave up everything, choosing through exile."

The reality, defined by the Messenger, was absolutely clear and simple. God is the totality of the universe and the understanding of infinity. He is pure goodness, unrestricted love, and acceptance of the unequal. In the circle of feelings, love is the greatest because it brings together a mixture of sensations convergent aspects, such as passion, friendship, and respect. Thus, Ablon finally understood the reason for the empathy that linked him to the necromancer. He was an angel, born to serve the Divine, and would always be linked to the supreme energy, the creative power that the woman carried in her fervent soul.

At the same moment that the general was reflecting on the extraordinary mysteries of the world, the Master of Fire removed his mystical sword from his belt and raised it against the solar halo.

"This is the Scourge of Fire," the archangel rambled, "the most feared of the celestial weapons. How does she overthrow the gods of darkness and defeat the fallen? The flames that crackle on its leaf will not go out as long as there is a hero to wield it. I, who carried it so many times, now hand it over to you, formidable warrior, who surpassed me in purity and wisdom. Use it today, with rectitude and dexterity, to defeat the forces of evil," presented the Angel of Revelation, extending the fist of the sword to the fighter.

Even flattered, the renegade couldn't accept it.

"I appreciate your offer, Gabriel, but I must not take your weapon. I'm a cherub and I have my own sword, the Holy Avenger," he pulled out the steel tip, until then embedded in the ground.

Faced with the refusal, the Messenger said nothing. Instead, it acted like a storm burst, brandishing the sword above his head, in an extravagant attitude. Astonished, the general defended himself reflexively, and the Scourge of Fire descended with a noise of fire, to tear him in half. Luckily, the Avenger Sagrada blocked the advance of the deadly leaf, and the two duelists remained there, static, with their weapons crossed, as the archangel's blazing saber melted the renegade's icy blade.

"Why are you doing this, Gabriel?" shouted the general, resisting the pressure of the attack. "Why are you attacking me?"

Unshakable, the giant applied tremendous force to the blow, until the Avenger began to give way. The metal bent, and the edges split. Within seconds, the grip boiled, and Ablon was forced to release it, or his palm would be inflamed by the terrible superiority of the opposing instrument. Smartly, he jumped to the side before the Scourge touched him, but the Angel of Revelation stopped the attack and collected the saber to sheath. The general's sword shattered into pieces, and its burning fragments were reduced to dust, after being cooled by the afternoon breeze.

"Understand," resumed the Messenger, to the noisy panting of the admired warrior. "The Avenger Sagrada would not resist the confrontation with the Flame of Death, the mystical blade of the archangel Michael," he clarified, handing his flaming sword to the cherub. "But don't be sad about it. And one soldier knows there is no shame in returning to the ashes when we have completed our mission. The Avenger brought you back, rekindled the vigor of battle in you and fulfilled the purpose for which you were built. Just like her, I also finished my quest."

"Your words are confusing, archangel."

"I organized this army for you and prepared it for the greatest of battles. Now it's up to the First General the task of guiding the legions into conflict. I wish I could help you, my honored commander, but I can't. This war was never mine; I just borrowed it. Michael is still my brother, and I could not face him, much less kill him."

"Then be our partner in peace," Ablon didn't want to lose him. "We will need you to lift the planet from the rubble of war."

"The universe has narrowed to my senses, general. I'm old, lethargic, and tired. I've seen a lot, and I tasted everything. Now, it is my duty to follow in the Father's footsteps, dissipate my essence and return to the darkness."

And so, suddenly, a shrill noise ended the dialogue. In the field and in the fortress, attackers and defenders flinched as the noise echoed. It was the signal of the Fifth Trumpet. Its sound, though disturbing, was filtered through the fabric, thus becoming much more tolerable there, in the depths of the ethereal.

"There are only two more left until the Final Judgment," Gabriel observed. "Armageddon announces itself. Retreat my spirit from the living sphere and I hand it over to eternity, but I leave it a legacy. In your hands rests the destiny of the world and the work of reconstruction. When you are discouraged and distressed, pull the Scourge of Fire and listen to my voice. Remember the things I told you. As long as there is only one man in the world, there is hope, because mortals carry the pride of God in their chests."

Speechless, but swollen with greatness and praise, Ablon saw the archangel ascend to the heavens, piercing the white from the clouds and dissolving like a radiant star in the indigo of twilight. His aura disappeared, and the consciousness went out.

Gabriel had reached infinity and ascended to the final stage. He was alive, more than ever! Your energy was now the continuum of the cosmos.

And, in the general's hands, the Scourge of Fire continued to burn.

Almost at the same moment that Gabriel ascended, three angels arrived flying to the rock. One of them, Elohai, the Blacksmith, carried a golden plate, adorned with the symbol of the Legion of Swords. He was accompanied by Baturiel the Honored and Aziel the Holy Flame.

"We brought your armor," said Elohai, placing the breastplate on the ground.

Ablon noticed that the plate was identical to his old one. It could be opened on the side and then closed against the chest. On the back, two parallel slits left space for angel wings, making it easier to wear flight maneuvers.

It was time for the cherub to take off his worldly clothes. He took off his shirt and, for the first time since Babylon, freed his blood-streaked wings. He fit the breastplate to the torso and fixed the scabbard to his belt.

In the parlor, he removed the Scourge of Fire from his leather and pointed it at the sky, as a challenge to the bastion enemy, embedded beyond the mountains. It was almost night, and the moon was creeping in the east. On the plain, the rebel army saw the general on the top of the hill, with golden armor, which gleamed in the brightness of the burning blade. The combatants saw their marked feathers, which were the symbol and pride of the renegades, and reiterated their love for justice.

In the Fortress of Sion, the archangel Michael and the Black Angel saw, in the distance, the glow of the sword, and they knew who wielded it.

"Cursed be Gabriel!" shouted the Angelic Prince. "He gave the purged the Scourge of Fire."

At the top of the hill, Ablon collected his weapon and prepared to descend the ravine. But Varna continued to be on his side, as he had been since the beginning of the afternoon, and approached the rebel commander, with his fascination warming his cold countenance.

"General!" called the warrior. "It's a privilege to be under your command," he surrendered, finally recognizing the leader's charm.

Spearhead

In the field, in the center of a circle of tents, there was a stone table, on which the generals laid down a parchment map, which outlined the entire desert. The planisphere showed the plain, the mountain ranges around Sion, the river Styx, and beyond Mount Megiddo. Other documents, wrapped in leather and papyrus, rested at the foot of the back, with diagrams, plans, and information about enemy forts, tactics, and captains.

The moon had already risen when the commanders gathered to hear the final strategy. Among the ten generals, veterans of several campaigns, were powerful cherubs, many of whom had served in the Legion of Swords before expulsion from the brotherhood. Varna and Baturiel figured as the more praised, and together they formed an excellent duo, each with their own attack weapon. Next to the group, Aziel accompanied the council. The Sacred Flame and its Ishins from the Citadel of Fire would have decisive participation in the battle, according to the tactic imagined by Ablon. Above them, a platoon flew spiraling, rising and falling in wakefulness.

The First General touched a point on the map, indicating the enemy stronghold. "How many angels do you estimate are defending Sion?" he asked Varna.

"One hundred million, just outside," she replied, laconic. She had the numbers on the tip of her tongue.

"At least five thousand legions protect it from the interior, as reported by spies," added Baturiel.

"That's three times the rebel contingent," said Aziel, covered in white silk robes and a golden belt, in typically angelic attire.

"Each of ours can shoot down five of them," assured the renegade. "Logic puts us at an advantage, but practice crushes us. They are well aligned, arranged, and will hold positions. We have to undo their lines before throwing us into a clash of weapons."

"And what would be the strategy?" asked Eblis, the second angel woman on the council of chiefs. She was thin and slender, but she carried a mace, an impact weapon most appreciated by brutes.

Ablon looked up at the camp and noticed how willing his fighters were, always alert, always training, excited by battle and thirsty to brandish their blades. In front of each detachment, a banner embroidered with the insignia of the rebel troops, in black and red, went up.

"I will advance first, at the command of an elite tactical group, to break the defense belt that surrounds the perimeter and disorganize the squads. I need a thousand volunteers, ready to fight until the last drop of blood."

"This part is easy," assured Varna, knowing the mood of the fighters.

"While we fight, the archer regiment must cross the desert at a low speed and climb the mountains that surround the tower," and he showed the drawing of the mountain range on the map. "There they will be hidden until the start of the offensive. At a certain point, I will leave the vanguard and infiltrate Sion, to save the En-Dor Enchantress and confront the archangel Michael."

"What about the legions inside the fortress?" recalled Shenial, a celestial who had led the defense of the Holy City of Jerusalem, on the night of the execution of the Illuminated One. "They will notice your assault."

"The practice of life on earth taught me to suppress the emanations of my pulsating aura and thus escape from my hunters. I will fly through the shadows and use stealth to sneak through the corridors of the fort and find the Prince of Angels."

"The Fortress of Sion is a labyrinth of empty halls, chambers, and tunnels," insisted Shenial, who was known for caution. "I could explore it for years and not even reach Miguel's rooms."

The Renegade Angel immediately remembered the remote campaigns of the Ethereal Wars, when his legion first arrived at the castle of the god Rahab, the Prince of the Seas, and defeated the deities that lived there, destroying the palace and burning its balconies. Later, in that same place, the Tower would be built of the Thousand Windows, a landmark of the victory of the winged over the pagan entities.

"I saw Sion being built and participated in its architecture. I was there when Miguel stuck the top of the Wheel of Time, stealing it from the Malakins in the Sixth Heaven. It won't be the first time I've crossed its defenses with sword in hand, to challenge the besieged."

"And when should we launch the attack?" asked Ebriel, one of the generals armed with a spear instead of a sword.

"At the sound of the Sixth Trumpet, the archers will fire their arrows at the soldiers detached from the tower, disorganized by the action of the elite group. Then all units will boot to the heat of the combat," Ablon opened a second scroll, which showed in detail the enemy fort and its surroundings.

"Our central objective is to concentrate the offensive on a single point and open a spearhead, to let the Ishins penetrate the tower and set the fortress on fire from the inside."

"More than five thousand meters separate the mountains from the bastion," warned Eblis. "From a distance it can be an opponent for arrows."

"That's point-blank range for my warriors," replied Varna, precisely.

"What if you don't return?" Aziel wanted to know, visibly worried about his friend's fate. "Should we burn the bastille anyway?"

"If I haven't returned by then, they'll know I'm dead. Varna takes command in my absence, followed by Baturiel and Shenial. Whatever happens, don't give up the fight. Continue the task until Sion is put down. Do not forget that the fabric of reality will have fallen at the end of the battle, and the two worlds will be one. If I don't resist, group the survivors and continue with the values of the brotherhood, preserving men who escape the war of the mortal world. Help us and glorify them, but do not forget who they are. It was jealousy and selfishness that brought us to this," he concluded and collected the maps. "Varna, recruit the best wingmen for the lead battalion."

She adjusted her chainmail and turned her green eyes to the fighter. "You'll have the soldiers in an hour, general."

The council dispersed.

The Key to Hell

While the troops prepared themselves, Ablon took refuge alone at the top of the hill, close to the rock from where Gabriel had ascended to heaven. There he remained, standing still, concentrating for the final battle. He saw the streamers fluttering wings, the warriors in their armor, and the mixed group of angels, composed of women and winged men, as designed by God. With eagle eyes, he observed the Fortress of Sion and looked at the pinnacle, obstructed by a dome of angels that defended it in a sphere, preventing as soon as anyone could see the terrace.

He sat down on a rock and looked for his old overcoat on the ground. He searched his pockets and recovered two objects of special importance. One was the key to hell, a mystical artifact given to him by Lucifer, which was supposed to open, in the Hall of Gates of Sion, the passage to Sheol.

The other object was Apollyon's white feather, blackened by time. Upon retrieving the feather, Ablon meditated about how he would find the Terminator, since he was unaware of the infernals coming to the ethereal. He decided that he would first end his dispute with the archangel Michael, and only then would he look for a way to hunt the killer. With this, he would avenge not only the specters of the desert, but also his friends renegades.

Ablon fastened the feather firmly to his belt, with an intertwined silk thread, and felt his hand once more, the clay surface of the key, a strange relic with a rustic appearance, smaller than the palm of the hand, and shaped like a cross-shaped ring.

Aziel, the Sacred Flame, landed in the parlor and went down to speak to his friend. But when he saw the general, absorbed in reveries, postponed the central issue.

"The key to hell," commented the Ishim, remembering the first time he had seen the relic in a pleasant café in the center of Rio de Janeiro. That was a week ago, but they seemed centuries since he, Ablon, and Sieme left Brazil for Israel, amidst the confusion that followed the explosion of the first bombs, recognized by the angels as the beginning of the Seven Trumpets.

"Lucifer's participation in this war is still veiled," said the renegade, running his look at the clay object. "He came to terms very quickly with my refusal to join his plan, but was determined to go into battle."

"The Dark Archangel's hands are tied," Aziel maintained. "Your hosts are no match for either of the two heavenly armies. You will probably take the shorter trail and wait for the end of the fight, and only then try to reach an agreement with the winners. Who, more than him, would enjoy seeing the angelic parties kill each other in battle?"

Ablon shook his head in a negative sign. "Then why would he have given me this key? Would it be a ploy to throw my mind off the scent, or is there really a hidden intention, previously agreed upon?"

Aziel remained silent because he also had no idea of the Son of the Dawn's aspirations. It was left quiet as he watched the general knead the sacred artifact with his hand.

"I don't think it's going to make much difference," said Ablon, "but it's better if it's destroyed once." He clenched his fist, and the key crumbled to crumbs. His mystical energy succumbed to the pressure and dispersed in space. "May Lucifer continue to sink into the Bottomless Pit."

He stretched out his fingers, and the remains of clay fell to the mountain floor. The finest flakes were carried by the night wind.

"The elite group is ready," Aziel finally announced after the dust had cleared.

Rubbing his hands, the renegade climbed back to the rock at the top of the hill for his last and definitive speech.

Thus began Armageddon.

From the parlor on the mountain, Ablon saw the plain. It was already night, and a strange shadow covered Zion, like a black storm cloud. The desert was too small for so many rebels, and many wings fluttered, hovered in the air, and lined up for the battle that would soon begin.

The general climbed the rock and pulled out the sword of fire, and then everyone stopped to watch their leader. In the field, a thousand warrior angels, dressed in silver armor and shining helmets, made up the force of elite, the group that would accompany the renegade in the first assault on the enemy tower.

"Attention!" shouted the First General, and his powerful voice reached infinity. In the distance, Baturiel tightened his spear, Varna drew back his bow, and Nathanael levitated to the top of Horeb. "The day has come of the Last Judgment, the Time of Reckoning. Of all wars, heavenly or earthly, this is the greatest, the dispute that will end the direction of the universe. The tears we shed for our renegade brothers now we will charge with the edge of the sword. We are the instrument of God, the hand of justice, the inheritance of the Father Creator. Today we will launch ourselves into combat in honor of the Most High and in defense of humanity. Burn your auras and set your hearts on fire, because this is the Battle of Armageddon, and no one will go unpunished. Blood will be shed until it swallows the foundations of the world, and the righteous will achieve triumph. To the probos, the laurels; to the wicked, death," he concluded, and the soldiers responded with a thunderous clamor, that echoed through endless space and was recorded in the flow of the cosmos.

Under fervent consecration, Ablon unfurled his fluttery wings and flew down to the field to find his vanguard battalion. With sword in hand, the cherubim saluted him, raising blades and banners and proving the enormity of their presence. Afterwards, the Renegade Angel and his silver warriors took off and together they launched towards Sion.

On the terrace of the Torre das Mil Janelas, even without being able to see the landscape, interrupted by the dome of angels, Shamira heard the roar of the rebel fighters and warned the celestials who surrounded her: "The First General will return to Sion. Woe to those who stand in his way," she prophesied and made weaken the morale of the unjust.

Orion and Asmodeus

The fleet of leviathans, the giant ships, roamed the Styx, with the satanic horde filling their holds. On the deck of the main ship, led from the quarterdeck by three misty boatmen, Orion and the other dukes observed the strange dimension they passed through. The river entered and left bizarre universes, crossing cities of light, spaces of shadows, forests, deserts, lands of fire, and fortresses of ice. Now, they followed an empty plane, lined with stars like the outer vacuum, and where the bed of Styx was the only palpable path, floating in the immensity of infinity.

Samael stared at the distant stars, with snake eyes. On the same vessel, troops also came special forces, who would take the front line of combat. They were the infernal cavalry, who would sweep the ground, and the riders in control of the winged beasts, which would take to the skies and advance on overlapping levels, armed with huge spears. These flying beasts were not slave spirits, contrary to what one would think. They were monsters without will or instinct, born of hatred and evil. They were created by the dark powers of the Lord of Sheol, who sometimes liked to imitate the Most High, and in his inability to formulate a decent life shaped these Dantesque beasts.

Asmodeus lowered his red scepter and approached the Fallen King of Atlantis. "It is said that boatmen are not generous. The price for calling the leviathans must have been onerous whoever summoned them."

"Without a doubt," Orion agreed, remembering how devastated Amael, the Lord of Volcanoes, had been by paying for the Renegade Angel's trip to hell. "The contractor must be devastated, empty. But who, if not the dukes, would have the essence to invoke the conductors?"

Asmodeus looked at the stars, always calculating his words. "And where is Apollyon?" he whispered, suggesting, in a subtle gloss, the participation of the killer in the plot of boats. "It is strange to think that the fiercest of the Malikis disappeared on the eve of the final battle."

"Lucifer sent him to Haled, on a special mission. That's all I know."

"Maybe he was killed," suggested the diabolical nobleman.

Orion faced Asmodeus and showed an incredulous smile. "It would be too easy."

Deep down, he'd rather Deathstroke was dead.

But he wasn't.

In the rebel camp, the honorable Baturiel waited. His main weapon was the spear, but he also carried a sword, like all the cherubim. Even the archers carried blades on their belts, although short, to be used in the case of close combat.

The Honorable drew a blow in the void of air, just to test the efficiency of the tip. Varna was nearby, with his golden bow. His quiver was a sacred relic, because the arrows never ran out, even if a million shots were fired. It was a divine artifact, but the general's competence was in the precision of his aim and the rectitude of his methodical character.

"They say you never missed an arrow," commented Baturiel, noticing the deep eyes of the commander's greens.

"And how could I? I'm an angel, and that's my job. This is what I was designed for."

"But we are not perfect. We make mistakes, just like human beings."

"Yes," he agreed. "We are not infallible."

"And how many arrows do you think you will lose yet?" he instigated, when the archer admitted that she was susceptible to disability.

"Just one," he replied, incisively. 

"One?"

"Because the day I miss an arrow, my quest will be completed. My role in this world will have ended. And that will be the day I die."

Baturiel nodded, impressed by the celestial's determination. He walked away and returned to his regiment.

Red Wings Triumph

The Dark Angel, terrifying in his dark armor and closed helmet, had descended to a platform in the sky, second to last floor of the fortress, from where he could have a wide view of the legions and the defense belt that protected the tower. Millions of winged soldiers, organized into companies, flew in line, forming multiple rings around Sion.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the firmament, a famous squadron approached, prepared for the most epic offensive in history. A thousand angels, skillful and courageous, advanced in arrows, ready to pierce the enemy blockade. Although subordinate to the generals, who usually wore only plaques on the chest, these myrmidons wore complete armor, plated in silver, which reflected like a mirror to the shine of the moon. At the head of these brave celestials came a golden warrior, in his newly minted breastplate, forged, with flowing blond hair and gray eyes fixed on the target. It was Ablon, the Angel Renegade, who led the elite team, just as he had done thousands of years ago, when he invaded the castle of the god Rahab, the Prince of the Seas, during the Ethereal Wars.

And when these angels, even though they were brave, flew over the mountains, a sigh came over them all, before the vision of the task that awaited them. Not far away, the Tower of a Thousand Windows rose imposingly, alongside its three thousand meters in height. From a distance, it looked more like a hive of poisonous bees, surrounded by so many soldiers that it was almost impossible to see its axis. In each of the little balconies hovered a fighter, armed to resist the attack. And at the top of the fort, a battalion flew in a dome, surrounding the terrace and protecting what the general believed to be the Wheel of Time.

A cloud of darkness covered the bastille. Ablon did not know where it came from or who had summoned it, but its vibrations were terrible—it was full of hatred and cruelty, like a deadly wave in the service of evil.

Upon noticing the silver invaders, commanded by the First General, the wicked angels jumped in fright, despite their superior numbers. They saw the momentum of the invaders, their faith in victory, and the thirst for blood in their austere faces. Some thought of retreating, but the Black Angel, on the edge of the bridge, spread his dark wings and shouted an order. His voice was like a roar, and his countrymen stiffened in the lines—not out of bravery, but out of fear of their captain.

"Put away your rings, you cowards! Keep defenses secure."

At that moment, the silver attackers also weakened, but Ablon drew his sword and the eternal flames made the besieged tremble. A new breath stimulated the rebels and, on the platform, the Angel of Darkwing retreated into the tunnels, repudiating the Scourge of Fire, as if that were the only weapon that could harm him.

"Close it with a needle!" ordered the Renegade Angel, and the silvers lined up their position in the shape of an arrow. "And now!"

That was how the squadron penetrated the belt, like a spear, tearing the formation and undoing the ring of cherubim that surrounded the fortress. Swords clashed and armor cracked as the daredevil warriors broke through the enemy blockade.

At the tip, Ablon used the Scourge of Fire to pierce. Its heat was so intense that the needle looked like a burning arrow, flying at maximum speed around Sion. The enemy soldiers were charred to the touch, and those who left the front ended up torn on their sides, by the silvers that made up the side of the formation.

Within seconds, shattered pieces of armor whizzed through the air, severed limbs fell like meteors, blood gushed across the war area. More than anything, Miguel's defenders suffered from the surprise tactic. They never expected such a small group to attack them like that. Your generals were correct in a way. The success of needle training was only possible thanks to Ablon and his Scourge of Fire.

Disciplined, the silver men surrounded the tower's rings, killing and maiming with their sharp blades. No one could beat them, not even the awarded officers, and on the levels below, a rain of bodies fell upon the other perverts, increasingly astonished.

In the rebel camp, Varna and her archers watched from afar the first battle and the initial triumph of the elite troop, which continued to fight like a fierce lion. Their warriors were aligned on the ground, waiting for the signal. The armor was braided gold mail, lighter than that of infant soldiers. In addition to the bow, they carried short swords, proving that they were also capable of hand-to-hand action.

Next to the angel woman, Baturiel enjoyed the spectacle of the attack. "I wanted to be there with them," confided the Honorable.

"We'll be there soon," replied the fighter, adjusting the quiver string.

Baturiel retreated, and she, realizing the moment, raised her bow, ready to start the race. The archers imitated her, and the general fired, followed by her regiment. They advanced at a low speed, almost glued to the ground, so that their adversaries in Sion would not see them.

So they traveled through the desert like snakes in the night, hidden by the dust of the ground. They climbed the mountains, and there they remained, hidden, waiting for the Sixth Trumpet, with arrows on the thread.

In the Fortress of Sion, the battle continued.

Organized as a point, the rebels were nearly invincible, but their efforts as a compact body only acted in a single direction, taking down one line of defense at a time, while the rest of the blockade remained untouched. It was now necessary to reach multiple points on the tower. Investing in strategic targets, they could provoke disorder in each of the rings of soldiers, thus increasing the severity of the offensive—even if they couldn't defeat them all. It was a suicidal tactic because a single attacker, separated from the group, would not be able to resist harassment from enemies for long, no matter how vigorous he was.

But for that, there are epic heroes determined to die in combat.

"Undo training!" shouted the First General. "Spread out. Look for the leaders of the company. Kill the bosses. Die for your ideals!"

On command, part of the squadron dived, and another part rose, dispersing their force. Alone, they fought bravely, opening the way with their swords, until they reached their destination. The smartest ever harassed the captains, certain that, once overthrown, the companies would lose some of their strength and enthusiasm.

Disconnected from his cherubim, Ablon became the central target, and tens of thousands of angels came to seek his head. In the air, they surrounded the general, but their attacks resulted in nothing. Agile and fast, the renegade parried every blow. With each block, the Scourge of Fire melted the opposing blades and continued its trajectory, destroying swords and armor, and taking the lives of those who challenged it. Just the approach of Ablon's weapon already softened the metal of the enemies, who found no way to fight against the sacred instrument of the archangel Gabriel, now wielded by the last renegade angel. The hunters became the hunted, and a single attack from the warrior maimed ten or twenty assassins.

The head of the company that the First General was attacking was Asson, an evil commander, who had been present at the massacre of Sodom. Since then, he was a subordinate of Euzin, who at the time responded to Apollyon, then a celestial general of legions.

Ablon identified his objective when he saw the captain who controlled the wings. He flew straight into pursuit, tearing apart the soldiers who stood between them. A lonely thump, from behind, managed to hit the renegade, but his golden armor absorbed all the violence of the blast.

Asson wasn't sure what had happened to Euzin, but he had heard that he had been sent to Haled, with the mission to kill the outcast. So when he noticed the First General coming towards him, with fury in his eyes and blood on the metal of the cuirass, he discovered the fate of his superior, and of the Formidable Legion.

"Attack! Attack! Attack!" Asson repeated to his officers, almost without a voice.

A line of fifty cherubim, lined up in a row, arrived to dethrone the renegade, hoping that so they could beat him. They intended to commit drilling, with the next person on the wing replacing immediately the fallen combatants. This, supposedly, would lead the victim to fatigue until he gave in to the deadly clash.

But the strategy failed.

Dodging to the side, Ablon dodged the line and advanced, passing the Scourge of Fire through the center of the line. The burning sword divided the bodies without the slightest resistance and resumed its movement, to look for Asson, the fundamental object of the aggression.

More by luck than by skill, the captain escaped, and the renegade's attack failed. Your blow bounced off the structure of the tower, causing it to shudder, like the shaking of an earthquake. Inside the fortress, the battalions that guarded it felt as if they were in the belly of a great drum, listening to the muffled noise from the powerful blow.

Revived by his opponent's mistake, the nasty Asson taunted the warrior: "So, are you Euzin's killer?"

"No," replied Ablon. And it was true. Euzin had been killed by Varna's well-aimed arrow. "But I wish I had been the one to defeat the coward."

"I will end you now, in the name of the archangel Michael!"

Filled with rage, the vile adversary rushed to his death. And before he described the maneuver, the tip of Ablon's sword pierced his heart. The enemy let out a scream strident, which put an end to his cursed career. Stranded by the Scourge of Fire, the corpse began to explode. The Renegade Angel lifted the deceased and then threw him. The body fell, carrying a nauseating odor on the lower floors.

The besieged watched the captain fall and then turned to face the executioner—but he was gone!

Shrouded in the shadows, Ablon suppressed the pulse of his aura. The soldiers, with weak instincts and little intelligence, could no longer find him.

In the dim light of night and amid the clang of battle, the First General infiltrated Sion.

Meanwhile, inside the Fortress of Sion, the Black Angel arrived at a huge hall, with wide walls and a pointed roof. In the center of the chamber, right on the axis of the tower, a wide gap, of incalculable depth, descended to the depths of the dungeons, and in that void tens of thousands of angels, properly armed for combat. They were part of the internal legions, assigned to guard the bulge of the fort, in case the rebel invaders arrived there.

The Dark-Winged Angel flew down through the hole and highlighted fifty of the best soldiers there, captains and generals in the majority, to accompany him to the levels above. Many hated the call, because they were company leaders and could not leave their fighters alone. Even so, they swallowed their pride and said nothing, aware of who was commanding them.

"Let's go to the upper floors," ordered the Black Angel, taking a path that even the officers could find. "You will be Archangel Michael's last line of defense."

These fighters were the most powerful among the legions, the cream of the Celestial Prince's army. Your armor was like bronze, and they carried swords so sharp that the blades split the particles atomic in space.

And they all feared the Dark Angel.

Face to Face with the Dark Angel

Hidden by the cloak of night, Ablon crept through the shadowy corridors of the Fortress of Sion. Jumping from alcove to alcove, he deceived the perception of the angels who stood guard in the empty spaces, crossing passages and climbing stairs, without being noticed. He maintained the Scourge of Fire collected in the sheath, so that the watchmen would not see its glow or alert to the crackling of its burning blade. The armor didn't hinder his movements or make noise, but his reflection could give him away if he didn't sink deep enough into the shadows. So, he dribbled countless patrols and entire battalions roamed inside the tower.

The renegade knew the paths and labyrinths of Sion well, but many sections had been modified or expanded, which delayed its journey to access the penultimate floor and from there to the Hall of Portals. He remembered the day of the construction of the bastille and the night that Miguel came to the ethereal plane to found the Tower of a Thousand Windows, fundamental landmark of celestial sovereignty over the ethereal region of Canaa and Sinai.

With his fingers firmly clinging to the uneven wall, Ablon climbed up and stuck to the ceiling. It continued as a hunting spider and sneaked past two soldiers guarding an ascending staircase. That stepped tunnel ended in a circular, half-moon-shaped anteroom, bordered by balconies that opened up to the altitude. The southern end of the room continued into a long, wide corridor, supported by columns delicately worked with angelic motifs. In the background, there was a door, double, guarded by a single vigilant cherub. This guardian was called Dariel, and the general recognized it at first. Just like Asson, who he had just defeated outside the tower, Dariel had also been subordinate to Euzin and had participated in the carnage in Sodom. He was a powerful angel, agile and strong, and perception was his greatest quality—it was no coincidence that he had been appointed to defend the entry to higher levels.

Dariel was protected by full armor and carried a halberd, a type of long shaft, topped with a steel tip and cut by a blade similar to that of an axe. He was serious in front of the door—an ancient piece of iron, molded with hybrid images, with the figure in the center of the god Rahab, the Prince of the Seas. In fact, this object was the only one preserved from the castle of the ethereal entity, placed in Sion as a trophy for the victory of the celestials over the pagan gods.

Ablon would have to use all his speed to reach his destination without Dariel noticing him. If he were discovered, the guardian would sound the alarm, and his attempt to reach the Hall of Portals unharmed would result in frustration. His great skill in combat did not make him invincible, and he would not like to be surprised by more legions, although he was prepared for it.

Like the renegade, the vigilante also saw in the dark, so it wouldn't be efficient to slip through the cracks of darkness. Thus, when Dariel blinked, the general, at unbelievable speed, jumped back from a high pilaster—the last of an extensive row that supported the ceiling. There it remained, static, until the guard blinked again. And with each blink, Ablon approached the door, jumping from column to column.

At the precise moment, he ran towards a pillar very close to the cautious watchman, and finally, the soldier paid attention to the figure.

But before he could brandish his weapon, the First General appeared like a tiger and drew the Scourge of Fire. The sword blazed with red flames and cut the enemy in half, with no chance of counterattack.

No sound was heard. Ablon returned the burning leaf to its sheath. Then he pushed open the iron door.

The door gave way easily to the push and gave access to a second corridor, much larger than the first, flanked by many misty doorways, which led to other passages, and so on. These entrances, without handles, were centered by ringed indentations, each with its own symbols. They accessed many parallel dimensions, including heaven and hell. But the First General did not notice these arches nor did he give much importance to the fabulous tome, written inside and out, which topped a pedestal in the shape of a half column, right in the center of the room. His attention was focused on the primary objective.

At the other end of the chamber, he saw the Sorceress of En-Dor, bound by her arms, bound by chains, displayed like a trophy. His body, suspended in the air by iron bonds, blocked a door, wider than the others, which led to the pinnacle of the tower, where the Wheel of Time was located. In the gaze of the woman, the general distinguished a different expression, more controlled, almost unrecognizable.

And, between him and the necromancer, stood the most fearsome of adversaries.

Michael, Prince of Angels. A tall, imposing, merciless, and invincible figure. Your face, partially hidden by the helmet, was marked by deep scars. He wore full armor, of shining steel, decorated with golden details, and in his hands, he carried the Flame of Death, a flaming sword with an ornate handle. The wings were white, and their ends shone like threads of razor.

"Then, the outlaw returns to the house where he was consecrated," provoked the archangel. "For the second time, you invade Sion, seeking victory. But those were the glory days, when the First General fought at my side, reaping and massacring under the orders of heaven," he urged, remembering the time when Ablon killed in his name. "Now it is the image of celestial decadence."

The renegade did not give in to the affront. He was determined to free the sorceress, first and foremost.

"You know why I came," he replied and, involuntarily, his gaze went to the woman. "The Black Angel said I would have her back if I didn't join Lucifer. And here I am, honoring the conditions."

"I am above honor, renegade," he boasted. "I am greater than any agreement or promise. I am unique, absolute. I am the word, the order. I dictate my own laws and my intention. When the last trumpet sounds, all human life will have been extinguished. The fabric will fall, and then the soul of the Sorceress of En-Dor will be the final remnant of Yahweh's existence, the last vestige of a God disappeared, exterminated by his own will. I will take this power and consecrate myself as the Most High over this universe."

"He will fall before that, archangel," replied the general, convinced of his opponent's dementia. "You've already lost sanity, and now you will lose your life."

The tyrant smiled, with dangerous malice. "And who will strip me? You, the outcast angel? The celestial outcast? The leader of a brotherhood of heroes dead, humiliated? I know you defeated Balberith, Euzin, and so many others. But they were just angels. I am an archangel, a giant, the firstborn of the cosmos, the son of the Luminous One. I've never been knocked down, and I will not be. I have a destiny to fulfill, and it places me at the pinnacle of all creatures. In a few hours, when the Wheel of Time ends, I will throw your head to the rebellious legions. And then they will know who they must obey."

Displeased with his enemy's arrogance, Ablon prepared his blade. "I see that you are blinded by darkness, Miguel. I bring with me the Scourge of Fire, which once belonged to the Messenger. The flames of the sword will illuminate your reason and purify your ideas. And so it will be, for the good or for bad."

With that, the two celestials crossed their fiery weapons. And, before they struck the first blow, they heard the sound of the Sixth Trumpet.

It was the beginning of the end.