Seated on his stone throne in Sefirah Castle, a smile spread across Merlin's face. His now-black eyes watched intently as the humans he had rescued integrated into life in Utopia. A halo of peace, as fragile as it was precious, hung over the newly founded city. Of course, not everything was so peaceful: many of the newcomers still carried the skepticism etched into their souls from years of wandering aimlessly through the night, unable to believe in a reality far removed from daily terror and the shadow of death. Others, however, clung to this newfound hope like shipwrecked sailors to a plank, accepting the protection of a being who, though unknown, had dedicated his time to saving them.
Of all ages, the children were the ones who best embraced the change. Their free and carefree laughter echoed through the squares as they ran among puppets and humans alike. For the first time in their lives, they could simply be children; they no longer had to silence their voices to avoid being found by the beings consumed by madness.
Merlin slowly lowered his eyelids, closing his eyes. In his mind, choruses of prayers filled with gratitude, reverence, and devotion echoed again and again, seemingly without end, for as soon as one finished, another immediately took its place. Among the prayers, some voices sounded more familiar than others; these received more attention from the wizard simply out of whim.
[God, have I ever told you this?] The voice was childlike, typical of her age. Merlin recognized the girl with blond hair and blue eyes; she had belonged to the first group to arrive in Utopia and the one he interacted with most. [Your Angel is truly beautiful. Do you think I could ever be like her? So elegant, self-assured... and cunning.]
A laugh escaped Merlin's lips. He wondered what Morgana would think upon hearing that description, though he was certain her attention would be focused more on the fact that he had borrowed her appearance to use as a divine envoy.
~She can't get angry about something like that... can she? —should I ignore her sudden nervousness?
Another prayer, this time from a more masculine but equally childlike voice, came to her mind after the girl finished hers.
[God, please forgive this child who bothers you with such trivial questions] —Merlin bowed his head; he already had a theory about who it could be—. [She doesn't understand that you don't have time for such simple chatter.]
[God hears everything we say! How dare you scold me in front of him?!] —the girl's scream was followed by a dull sound that Merlin had no doubt about: a well-placed blow.
[What will God think of your brusque attitude?!] —his friend reproached him.
Merlin shook his head, amused by the childish squabble. He wondered how the children would react if they knew he was actually listening. But the Angel's amusement didn't last long; his smile froze the moment a more solemn prayer reached him.
[Mr. Madman, we have finished writing the Bible. We beg you to review it and give your approval.]
The voice was Bella's, the woman who had stood up to him even with her nerves on edge. Once she arrived in Utopia, Merlin had used a puppet to offer her a job at the Cathedral as a reward for her bravery.
Who would have imagined that women would be so devout and would insist on the creation of a Bible?
The worst part was that the idea was quickly embraced by the other refugees as they began to gain confidence. And so, the Angel felt anxiety and terror for the first time in a long time. Emotions that intensified when a leather-bound book passed through the sacrificial door and ended up in his hands.
The Angel stared at it with such intensity that, if his gaze had any power, the book would surely have already disappeared from Sefirah Castle.
"It can't be worse than the Bible created by those... enthusiasts of Silver City and Moon City. Right?"
He lied to himself, trying to calm his growing anxiety; even if it were good for his humanity, it wasn't good for his mental health. Braving the stress, he opened the book to the very first page. His eyes were drawn to the lines of the opening paragraph. It was only a few seconds of reading, but the ability of an Angel allowed him to read the entire page in those few seconds.
Eye!
The book was flung back onto the bronze table, closing in the process. Merlin covered his face with his hands, trying to suppress the nervous smile that now graced his face. His eyes returned to their usual brown, and his cheeks flushed uncontrollably.
A highly exaggerated reaction, especially if the being was an Angel whose control over his physiology was top-notch.
"GODDESS!" she screamed in her mind.
Shame, an extreme shame that even he could not bear without reacting.
~By the Goddess!... this... this Bible... is... is...
IT IS INFINITELY WORSE THAN THE PREVIOUS ONE.
---------------
The fine, steady rain enveloped the cemetery like a cloak of melancholy. The Angel of Liberty serenely walked along the soaked paths; his violet eyes scrutinized the names and dates inscribed on the tombstones. The solemn atmosphere somewhat calmed the agitation that still resonated in his chest.
"It's that way..." he turned a corner.
A strange compulsion drew her to a secluded section where a small group of mourners gathered around a coffin about to be buried. Something about that grave called to her with a disturbing force.
His eyes narrowed, searching for an opening in the crowd that would allow him to see the deceased's name. When the words were finally revealed, the Angel felt his soul reel, as if someone had struck him a direct blow, bypassing all his defenses.
Klein Moretti
An earthquake shook his chest. His heart, until now indifferent, throbbed with irrational violence while his spirituality screamed silently, rebelling against the scene as if witnessing the most absolute blasphemy. Only the deep-seated certainty that it was all a space-time illusion prevented his already fragile emotional equilibrium from collapsing into profound denial.
"Who are you that your loss resonates so deeply in my soul?" she murmured to herself, suppressing the urge to burst into mourning.
She decided to wait with the patience of one who has learned to navigate between eras. She remained motionless in the downpour, transformed into a statue of melancholy whose soaked cloak clung to her skin. She didn't even blink when the last mourners left and passed by her; she had already stolen their ability to perceive her with a simple movement of her hands.
When the place was completely abandoned, she walked forward until she was standing right in front of the tombstone of the "known stranger".
The dead man's epitaph was finally fully visible:
{Klein Moretti}
{The best little brother}
{The best big brother}
{The best colleague}
Outwardly, the Angel's body remained still, showing no signs of movement, but inwardly his spirit continued to tremble, just as his heart raced. Only his mind remained in darkness, trying to understand the reason behind his sudden pain.
"Should I dig up the coffin?" The macabre but practical idea crossed his mind. "Seeing his face might grant me answers. After all, this is nothing more than an echo. No one real will be affected."
The sound of calm, measured footsteps from behind cut short his train of thought.
He turned his head slightly to look over his shoulder; his amethyst eyes met a pair of deep gray, a color very similar to that of the clouds covering the sky at that moment. The owner of those eyes was a tall, slender man. He wore an impeccable dark formal suit which, although soaked, could not conceal the otherworldly elegance its owner possessed and the aura of serenity and antiquity that surrounded him.
~Death surrounds him... but not as a threat, but as an old companion —Morgana analyzed, maintaining a watchful calm.
The stranger approached until he was beside her. With a fluid movement, he removed his hat, revealing jet-black hair, and gave a slight but perfect bow.
"I didn't expect there to still be people left," he commented.
His voice was deep, with an academic accent. Even so, it conveyed a well-hidden sense of weariness. The man straightened up, replaced his hat on his head, and turned toward the grave.
It was at that moment that she noticed the small white flower she was delicately holding in her other hand.
"Was he... someone important to you?" she asked, unconcerned with social conventions. This man, like everything here, was a trace, a reflection. Only she didn't know from which moment in time he came.
"My student," the man replied, and raised his hand to drop the flower onto the mound of earth. A wave of melancholy so deep and ancient emanated from him that it dwarfed even the pain Morgana had felt at seeing her own family as mere traces in time.
"I'm sorry. I arrived late." The unspoken thoughts were stolen by the Angel's ability, revealing the deep regret carried by the being beside him.
"He must have been an exceptional student to inspire such lasting affection," Morgana remarked, without taking her eyes off him, studying his reaction.
He nodded with a small smile.
"She was. She possessed an innate efficiency, but fate didn't grant her enough time to fully develop," he replied, turning his gaze from the gravestone to her. "Miss, were you also close to Klein?"
For the third time, the deceased's name stirred within her with a disconcerting intensity. She closed her eyes, weighing her words; she wasn't sure what the best answer to this question would be, she herself being unaware of her connection to the young man named Klein.
"Would you believe me if I told you that not even I know?" Her gray eyes lit up with a flash of pure curiosity, the first feeling to break through the fog of sorrow that clouded them. "I arrived here by chance, and yet every fiber of my being screams that her existence resonates with mine. Don't you find that curious?" A broad, fake smile, completely out of place in a cemetery, touched her lips.
The man blinked, remaining silent, perhaps analyzing each of her words. Then, his eyes narrowed and he observed her with an expression so complex and indecipherable that Morgana, in all her centuries of human and divine existence, had no frame of reference to understand it.
Not even her Lord had ever looked at her like that... as far as she knew, at least.
"It is," he finally admitted. "But I must confess that I, too, am a seeker. I pursue the fragments of a past that eludes me."
"Amnesia?" Morgana guessed, tilting her head slightly. "Searching for the past… Aren't you afraid that what you find will hurt you instead of heal you?" The question escaped her lips before she could stop it. For her, who had only just come to terms with her own losses, the past was an anchor of identity, but also an eternal vortex of latent cracks.
"How could a rootless wanderer like myself renounce the answers about my own origins?" he replied with a polite but cold smile. "This difference, this otherness, is the fuel that powers my quest. I intend to follow this path, no matter the abyss it leads me to."
Morgana remained silent, recognizing in his resolve an echo of the very will that had sustained her throughout her constant travels. She had known her past and had long fled from it; this man, on the other hand, was plunging headlong into the unknown, accepting the risk of even greater pain. In her eyes, that was not recklessness, but the purest courage.
"The strong can flee from the consequences they can bear; the weak try to face those they know will destroy them... the universe is woven with such special paradoxes," he proclaimed to himself, closing his eyes for a moment.
"I was a vagabond too," she confessed suddenly, her tone softer. "Until someone reached out and offered me a home. Now they're waiting for me on the other side, and I must hurry. My business is pressing, and I've already delayed too long."
The sound of an ethereal bell, familiar and powerful, resonated in her ears. And in that moment she knew: its intensity and clarity meant that this time it not only signified the proximity of the next distortion, but also marked the end of her journey.
His ascension ritual had ended.
Perhaps out of joy at the end of this journey, the Angel of Liberty decided to look at his ephemeral companion with playful eyes and a smile that foreshadowed future encounters.
"May I know the name of the person who shared this peculiar moment?" she asked with a mischievous smile that seemed to confuse the man for a few seconds. "I must go now."
Now I knew.
The reason why this moment felt so different from the rest.
It was because this was not a reflection of the past.
It was a prediction about the future.
An unknown future.
—... Azik Eggers —he introduced himself, but his brow furrowed in an expression of genuine concern—. But, miss, someone so young shouldn't be thinking of leaving; why don't you try to find a hobby and enjoy life?
Morgana's smile twisted into disbelief. Her eyes blinked rapidly; she seemed to be having trouble understanding his advice.
"Do you think that 'the other side' I'm referring to is death?" she thought, dumbfounded.
A laugh bubbled up in her throat, and she had to cover her mouth with her hand to hold it back.
"Pfff... I think there's been a misunderstanding, Mr. Eggers," he managed to say; his voice trembled with amusement and growing interest. "I never said anything about dying."
This time it was the man's turn to blink, looking somewhat confused. But, just like her, he recovered quite quickly.
"I'm glad to hear it," he replied, a slight but sincere smile softening the severity of his features. "It would be a true tragedy if a young woman with so much ahead of her were to consider suicide."
It was the unique blend of concern, courtesy, and mystery in his gaze that caused her newfound interest in him to grow rapidly and impel her into a whimsical and deceptive promise, typical of a Marauder.
"I hope to see you again, Mr. Eggers," she declared, a playful glint lighting her amethyst eyes. "I suspect the wait will be long, but I will still keep this promise: at our next meeting, I will let you know my name. Though it is quite likely you will not be able to remember me."
Before Azik could respond, the space around him distorted like a mirage, and the graveyard world vanished, taking Morgana to her final destiny.
---
the next and final distortion, Morgana didn't waste a second. With great precision and speed, she extracted the ingredients and threw them into the container she had brought out. As the supplementary elements fused into a luminous vortex, she drew out the very essence of her ascent: Sequence Characteristic 1: the Time Worm.
It was a crystal that existed between light and shadow, and at its heart twelve-segmented worms swam in a perpetual temporal frenzy. Without hesitation, he threw it into the center of the brew. The reaction was instantaneous: the components fused into a substance of ethereal cyan that shone with a soft, platinum glow.
His hand didn't tremble as he grasped the vessel. He raised it above his head as if he were in the middle of a toast and, without the slightest hesitation, drank the potion in one gulp.
A convulsion tore her apart the next second. Her body, soul, and consciousness disintegrated into a swarm of countless twelve-segmented worms, which were swept away by the chaotic currents of space-time. In less than a second, Morgana ceased to exist as a unified entity. She was now hundreds of fragments of instinct and basic consciousness, scattered aimlessly and purposelessly in the temporal torrent.
Just when the dissolution seemed irreversible, the first mistake occurred.
A crack appeared in the center of the vortex. Then another, and another. These were not accidents of chaos, but consequences. Each fissure was the result of an action by Morgana on her travels.
• His talk with the children.
• Her advice to the teacher in her childhood.
• His accident in the distant past.
• Their interaction with the saber-toothed cat family.
• An exchange with an old acquaintance.
• The pleasant conversation he had with a figure from a future yet to be written, Azik Eggers.
Each moment in which his anomalous presence had altered the flow of time in those instants manifested as a fissure in the River of Time.
Each crack acted like a magnet, trapping the scattered worms and redirecting them toward a single point of convergence: the ghostly silhouette of their primary self. Upon recognizing it, a primal instinct surged from the depths of each worm: to converge.
Separated they were mere echoes destined to fade away. But united they would once again become the main body, a being whose authorities were Destiny and now, Time.
All the worms swarmed in a coordinated fashion toward the epicenter. The initial fusion was an amorphous, twisted nightmare. But slowly, the mass began to take on a recognizable human form. Morgana's consciousness resurfaced as the supreme personality among the countless fragments, and her will stifled any hint of rebellion. Her body reformed into its former appearance, but now, beneath her cloak, ethereal tentacles adorned with Roman symbols related to time extended with a life of their own.
Morgana slowly opened her eyes. In that instant, the ascension was complete. Her amethysts barely retained a trace of the human sparkle her eyes once possessed. She was no longer an Angel, she was an Archangel...
The King of the Angels of his path.
The newly ascended Archangel of Liberty leaped. She soared into the air as her earrings chimed, a melody of pure anticipation. Her body transfigured, attaining her true form as a mythical creature in mere seconds: the Time Worms writhed in an irrational dance, forming the phantom of an ancient clock. Its dial, divided into twelve sections, was the map of destiny, and the hands that sprouted from the void were poised to rewrite the intangible vortex of Time.
The clock chimed. And the world around her slowed to a near standstill. Tentacles emerged from her, clinging to nothingness and tearing a fissure in space. Morgana regained her humanoid form and crossed the threshold with the calm of someone who had calculated every move.
The Angel of Liberty, after seven long days, had escaped from the chaotic space-time vortex.
Now all that remained was to fulfill his Lord's command, and then... all that remained was to wait for him to open the way back to his side.
Her violet eyes, now possessing an abyssal depth, gazed upon the Western Continent that stretched before her. This land received her, ignorant of the storm of blood that her hands were destined to unleash.
In the distance, a blaze of power ignited her spirituality, whispering a path, a purpose to her.
~Let's see what interesting events fate has in store for me in this new land.
Her figure vanished into thin air as the distance receded; there was no trace left that she had been there moments before.
The believers in the Heavenly One, in their blind devotion, never imagined that their executioner already walked among them. And to their infinite misfortune, none possessed the power to even touch the shadow of their executioner.
-------------
Bonus: The Madman's Bible (Part #1)
"From the unknowable Realm of Mysteries, the Mad Lord gazed impassively at the unfolding of the worlds. For eons, no prayer had managed to pierce the veils of his indifference; no cry had merited the touch of his will."
But in the abyss of an age torn apart by darkness, a collective groan rose from the corrupted lands: the lament of humanity, drowning in despair. These were not mere pleas, but a plaintive song woven from pain, resistance, and a faint flame of faith. For the first time, the voice of mortals pierced the celestial realms and shook the very heart of the deity.
And the God, whose name is secret and whose design is an enigma, inclined his ear to the profane. Moved by a glimmer of interest in those wandering souls—those ephemeral lights flickering in the gloom—he decided to build them a bridge from on high.
Thus he summoned his most loyal emissary: the Angel of Liberty, guide of the lost and guardian of the Divine Kingdom. With a command whispered in languages long since lost to time, he sent him across the planes of existence, bearing a divine offer for those who dared to believe.
The Angel descended like a breath of light in the eternal night. With his mere presence, the shadows retreated. Hundreds of souls, held captive in the clutches of despair, were freed and guided through wastelands and unspeakable horrors, to the gates of the City of Mysteries, the sacred Utopia where the chosen and the most ancient faithful of the Lord dwell.
There they were received not as strangers, but as lost brothers and sisters. Devoted believers shared the Holy Scriptures and God's prophecies, igniting in the newcomers the spark of unwavering devotion. The once silent city resounded with new songs of gratitude and reverence.
Having fulfilled his mission, the Angel of Freedom ascended back to the divine realms, leaving behind a legacy of reborn faith.
And from that crucial day, the Mad Lord not only turned his gaze towards his devotees, but extended his grace to all who, in any corner of the world, raised their heart with authenticity, ready to accept the mystery, the madness, and the hope of his infinite love."
—...
Merlin remained in absolute silence, petrified.
"These... these writings..." Her voice, usually calm, was barely a trembling thread. "They're cloying to a catastrophic degree! They far surpass the already unbearable enthusiasm of the fanatics of Silver City and Moon City!"
A scream of pure existential horror escaped from his lungs and traveled through the infinite rooms of Sefirah Castle, getting lost in its echoes.
Social death! Social death! SOCIAL DEATH!
His mind echoed with the thunder of his own shame. He could feel it physically: the blush elevated his humanity to such heights that, for a long time, it efficiently suppressed the cold weight of his own divinity.
"How am I supposed to let my followers read this... this... this nonsense?" he wondered, rubbing his brow in despair and weariness. "Instead of thinking I'm a benevolent god, they'll think I'm a narcissist with a divine superiority complex!"
Although he had only read the first page, Merlin, with the urgency of someone fleeing a fire, ordered the entire text to be rewritten. The result, however, was a different, but equally shameful, version. Defeated and scandalized, he selected the first version, considering it the lesser of two abysmal evils.
What the Lord of Mysteries, in his agony, could not even begin to imagine, was that this was only the prologue to his torment. His only small consolation was that he would not suffer alone. His Angels, present and future, were condemned to endure a similar social shame. Whether this shame would be milder or, on the contrary, infinitely worse, was left to the capricious judgment of history and poorly written faith.
Notes: