THE BROKEN SELF, THE BREAKING HEAVENS

"A throne cannot be claimed with power alone—it must be claimed with purpose. And purpose… is born in ruin."

The Trial Begins.

The skies split.

Gabriel stood alone inside an infinite chamber of obsidian mirrors, each reflecting a different version of himself—some wounded, others victorious. But one… one reflection stepped out.

It wasn't a mirror anymore.

It was him—but twisted. His body burned with corrupted flame. His eyes were void. No kindness. No mercy. No restraint.

The Broken Self.

"I am what you become if you stop pretending you're different from them," the reflection snarled. "You think destiny makes you pure? That tattoo on your back doesn't make you a king. It marks you as a weapon."

Gabriel clenched his fists. "You're wrong. I chose to fight for balance—"

"You chose to kneel!" the Broken Self roared, flames exploding around them. "You have godhood in your veins and still beg for meaning!"

The chamber trembled. Battle erupted. Fire met fire. But this flame—the twisted version of Gabriel—it consumed, it laughed, it wanted to burn the world just to feel warm.

Meanwhile, in the Council of Thrones

Heaven was no longer unified.

Michael stood against Seraph Uriel. "We are divided because we are afraid. That boy holds the flame of the First Dawn, and we bicker like mortals!"

Uriel slammed her spear to the marble. "He is chaos incarnate. Every breath he takes distorts the balance!"

Raphael spoke quietly. "Perhaps that's why the Final God allowed him to rise. Not to bring peace… but judgment."

Suddenly, a blinding light burst into the chamber—a tear in the veil.

From it emerged a messenger of Olympus. "Zeus demands audience. Olympus will no longer remain silent while Heaven dithers."

In the Underworld

Lucifer laughed, sitting upon his throne of blades.

"So even Olympus fears him," he whispered.

Medussa sat at his side, eyes fixed on the reports flooding in. "They call him many things now. Slayer. Heir. Starborn. But none call him friend."

"Good," Lucifer said. "Let them crown him. Let them kneel. Because the higher they raise him…"

He stood, his eyes igniting with ancient fury.

"…the deeper I'll carve his fall."

Back in the Trial

Gabriel bled from a dozen wounds, both real and not. The Broken Self circled him, unharmed, mocking.

"You fight gods. You defy fate. But here's the truth, Gabriel…"

He whispered it in his ear:

"You're afraid you're already me."

Gabriel dropped to his knees, shaking, flame fading. The chamber began to collapse. His enemies in the real world gathered. His allies fought amongst themselves.

He was losing.

And then—

The fire returned.

But it wasn't rage.

It was clarity.

Gabriel stood. The tattoo across his back ignited in gold—more divine than before. A new pattern unfolded across his chest and arms. The flame was no longer just inherited.

It was his.

"I am not you," Gabriel said.

"I am everything you were too weak to be."

And with a scream that shattered the dimension, Gabriel incinerated the Broken Self.

But outside… every god, angel, and demon felt it.

The mark was complete.

The flame had chosen.

In Olympus, Zeus dropped his thunderbolt.

In Heaven, Uriel fell to one knee.

In Hell, Lucifer closed his eyes and whispered, "So it begins…"

Gabriel returned from the trial, marked and changed.

He did not need the tatum.

He had forged something greater than prophecy:

A will of his own.