Chapter 682 Shadows Within the Light

In the deepest chamber of the fractured sanctuary, Joanna sat alone. Her once white wings were now dark at the tips, and the golden gleam in her eyes began to fade, replaced by an unfamiliar shadowy glint. Deep within her chest, a faint core glimmered—not a heart, not a soul, but the essence of Michael, the fallen archangel.

Whispers of anxiety crept into her mind, casting shadows of doubt in every corner of her thoughts. How could she possibly meet the expectations placed upon her? Each decision now felt like betrayal, her steps hindered by the lingering shadows of Michael's magnificent past. Time and again, she pondered: Where is the line between remembering and resurrecting this painful legacy?

It was not merely power that had been bequeathed to her, but a heavy burden:

With every breath, Joanna carried the echo of Michael's voice—sacred counsel and celestial laws that she no longer fully believed.

Amidst the emptiness, she wondered if she could be the light sufficient to guide those who depended on her. With each shadow that appeared, Joanna felt increasingly estranged from herself, as if she were merely a hollow visage behind an unerasable ancient spirit. She understood that her existence would serve as a reflection—a reflection of an angel whose hopes had become a weight to bear.

"You are not Michael," the core whispered to her each night, "but the world expects you to be."

In the silence, she spoke to herself, hearing Michael's voice in her head—not as a guide, but as a shadow continuously testing her resolve. Every night, as darkness enveloped her thoughts, Joanna often found herself questioning, "Is all of this real?" Michael's voice, once full of inspiration, now felt like a shackle. She felt trapped between cherished memories and shattered hopes, as if she was warm in the embrace of a sweet yet deadly love. The loss of empathy felt like the loss of her identity, taking away more than just her feelings; it stripped her of her aspirations for the future.

"You are not Michael," whispered that core every night, "but the world hopes you become something even I cannot achieve."

Joanna lowered her gaze, feeling the tremors in her own hands:

Throughout her journey, she constantly recalled a vital lesson instilled by Michael: "Leadership is not about control, but about giving meaning." However, the more she tried to embody that saying, the more she sensed the distance between idealism and reality. In every decision she made, Michael's voice haunted her — not merely as guidance, but as an unyielding hope, even though she often felt inadequate. "Who will give meaning if I am engulfed in this confusion?" she pondered.

She had witnessed more deaths than Michael had in a thousand years.

Empathy was slipping away from her, replaced by exhaustion, even cynicism towards the remaining hopes of the people.

Yet, she knew:

In quiet moments, Joanna often spoke to the stars, as if hoping for enlightenment from the heavens. "Where can hope be found when everything seems dark?" she whispered to herself. Each star seemed to represent the faces of those who had fought alongside her, accusing her: "Why do you continue to struggle if what you seek can never be attained?" This sentiment transformed into a heavy burden that kept her anchored in despair. However, she was aware that beneath that weight lay an undeniable responsibility.

If she gives up, the entire host of angels will lose their way. If she becomes too rigid, she will simply become a new shadow of the "tyranny of heaven"—a Michael devoid of compassion.

In another sacred space, the angels gathered in whispers. None dared to speak Michael's name, yet all longed for the certainty that had perished with the great commander.

Ariel spoke softly to Zadkiel,

"Joanna... she is not the same anymore. She is growing more silent, more cold. Every decision, every command seems taken not from her conscience, but from the shadow of Michael that hangs within her."

Zadkiel, once faithful to Michael, now looked at Joanna with eyes full of doubt,

"Should we continue to follow 'the new Joanna'? Or is this the moment for us to choose our own path?"

Remiel, the comforting angel, tried to mediate,

"Michael chose Joanna, not because she was perfect, but because she was the last hope of the world. If we abandon her now, it won't just be humanity that is lost, but heaven as well."

Yet, in every sentence, it was clear:

Every night, as silence enveloped her heart, Joanna reflected on Michael's footsteps. How could that magnificent figure bear the weight of the world without losing his smile and warmth? In the shadows of uncertainty, she felt an overwhelming burden. The responsibility that should have empowered her had instead become a shackle. She was not just leading; she was fighting against herself, struggling to find the voice that was supposed to guide her, rather than the terrifying shadow.

The angels mourned the warmth of their former leader.

They began to speak behind Joanna's back, questioning her newfound decisiveness, lamenting the loss of compassion in a face that now often bore no smile.

In quiet moments, Joanna held her leadership badge tightly, feeling its coldness in the palm of her hand. She remembered how, each time Michael stepped forward, a light followed him, like an ancient trail on the ground that strengthened the angels. Now, in the darkness that surrounded her, Joanna struggled to carry on that legacy, fighting to prevent Michael's shadow from extinguishing the remaining hope.

In the ruins of Thirtos, the people gathered beneath makeshift tents. Once, the angels' light brought hope—every flash of wings was a promise of protection. Now, that golden light had become a herald of punishment:

In Joanna's mind, Michael's voice echoed, demanding answers to the choices placed before her. She felt the tension between protecting her people and fulfilling the spiritual expectations imposed upon her. Every time she gazed at the sky, it seemed as if the angels were holding her accountable, pressing down on her with a weight she could hardly express. Amidst the swirling chaos of her thoughts, Joanna longed for clarity; she yearned for a gentle presence that could guide her, yet all that surrounded her were dark shadows.

Each decision Joanna made felt more like a verdict than a blessing.

Many families had lost members due to duels, betrayals, and the clash of two worlds.

A mother held her child tightly in the corner of a tent,

"When will the angels truly come for us? Or do they only descend to kill one another?"

A young man whispered to his friend,

"Joanna is not Michael. She prefers to threaten rather than forgive. We are merely pawns on the chessboard of the gods."

Amidst those whispers, an underground movement began to emerge:

In the silence of the night, Joanna often woke up, trapped in decisions that felt more and more suffocating. She imagined the figure of Michael, someone who bore the same burdens but had a gaze filled with understanding. "How can I become like him?" she thought, "leading without fear and confronting the past that shackles my heart." In her dreams, she saw a timeline that branched out, each branch traversed by untold secrets, waiting to be revealed. This deep exploration of character and sacrifice had increasingly become part of her painful spiritual journey.

In the meantime, some of the people began to smuggle food, creating their own escape network—no longer trusting in the protection of the skies.

Some even quietly attempted to contact the Earth forces, offering information in exchange for safety. That night, Joanna stood on the balcony of the sanctuary, gazing at the starless sky. Behind her, Michael's core pulsed, pressing against her chest with an unseen weight.

For a moment, her mind floated back to the past, when hope for the future felt much brighter. She remembered her promise to her people, to be a voice for the marginalized, to bring about change. Yet now, the burden of that promise felt like a barrier, drowning her in a sea of doubt. "Am I strong enough to bear all of this?" she wondered inwardly, questioning every step she would take.

"Why was I chosen? I have no compassion like Michael. I don't want to be a new tyranny."

Michael's voice echoed in her core:

"Compassion is a choice, not a birthright. If you cannot love this world, then it will find a new leader—with or without you."

Joanna held back her tears. She knew there was no turning back. No paradise awaited, only the dawn that would bring more blood and decisions that would never be fair to all.

In the chaos of her mind, Joanna questioned herself, "Who am I without this choice? Am I merely a shadow trapped in the prophecies and hopes of others?" Her internal struggle became more palpable as she realized that each decision she made reflected the uncertainty that haunted her. Bearing hope on her shoulders felt like a responsibility that alienated her from herself. Would each awakening come at the cost of a part of her soul?

She looked down at the tents of the people, trembling in the cold wind.

"Who will save them if I fall?"

And deep down, she understood:

There are no gods who truly descend.

There are no cores that can provide her with answers.

She was alone, bearing the weight of two worlds, with only a sliver of empathy left.

When dawn arrived, Joanna no longer sought advice from Core Michael. She walked among the civilians, speaking not a word, only observing—and in that gaze, the people saw a mix of sorrow, emptiness, and strength that almost resembled a curse.

In her mind, an invisible battle raged on; the voice of her mentor echoed in her memories, reminding her of a hope that now felt faint. "What am I to do without direction?" she whispered to herself, feeling the weight of responsibility that continued to burden her soul. With each step, Joanna questioned whether she was strong enough to fill the void left behind, or if she would be trapped in shadows that stirred fear among those she loved.

The angels followed her more out of habit than conviction. Meanwhile, the people, for the first time since the war began, truly felt alone.

Joanna sensed their gazes, filled with hope and doubt, like a storm brewing at sea. "I am not Michael," she murmured, acutely aware of how contrasting her view of the world was from theirs. Yet, the morning light breaking at dawn seemed to beckon her, challenging her to step out of the shadows of the past and discover a new strength within herself. In her heart, Joanna hoped, "May I become something better."

And in the still-dark sky, one question lingered:

Would Michael's successor bring forth light, or merely multiply the old shadows?