The First King's Counsel

The tribunal hall of Zion was a place designed to make mortals feel like insects, a masterpiece of architectural intimidation. Its white marble columns, each carved from a single, flawless block of stone, soared hundreds of feet into a vaulted ceiling so high it seemed to hold its own pale, artificial sky. The air was cold, still, and heavy, smelling of ancient stone and the faint, sterile scent of holy incense. Seated on a raised, semi-circular dais that put them physically and spiritually above the accused were the high council of the Protectors of the Covenant—a dozen stern-faced elders, their faces carved with the unwavering, granite-like certainty of those who have never had their authority questioned. At their center, on thrones of carved ivory and shimmering gold, sat Pontiff Malachi and General Gideon, the twin pillars of Zion’s power, the priest and the warrior.

Akari was dragged before them, her bare feet scraping on the cold, polished floor. She was flanked by two imposing knights of the Seraphim Guard, their winged helmets hiding their faces, their grip on her arms a brutal, punishing vice. She was still in the rough-spun prisoner's shift, a drab, grey garment that was a stark, intentional contrast to the sea of pristine white and gold before her. Her arms bore the dark, ugly, and still-tender bruises from her capture. She was a single, small, defiant figure in a vast, holy space that condemned her by its very architecture, a stain of imperfection in a world obsessed with flawless purity.

The trial was a sham, a piece of political theater designed to ratify a decision that had already been made. Malachi, his voice resonating with a cold, holy fury that was far more terrifying than any simple anger, presented the "evidence." He spoke of the scryer's vision—a damning, mystical proof—of the shadow that had invaded her chambers, a profane communion she had willingly invited. He recounted her own screamed, desperate words, the names of "Lucifer" and the "Morning Star," twisting her plea for knowledge into a confession of demonic worship. He painted her as the ultimate heretic, a serpent they had foolishly welcomed into their paradise, who had repaid their divine compassion with the ultimate betrayal. He even twisted her healing of the soldiers, reframing it as a cunning, demonic deception, a way to win the hearts of the flock before leading them to the slaughter.

He finished his grand, damning sermon and looked down at her from his golden throne, his luminous silver eyes holding no mercy, only the cold, hard light of a judge about to pass an inevitable sentence. “Have you anything to say in the face of your manifold blasphemy, Hoshino Akari?” He used her full, mortal name, a deliberate act of stripping her of the holy title of Light-Bringer, reducing her once more to a mere, flawed human.

Akari slowly lifted her head. Her hair was a tangled, unwashed mess, her face was smudged with dirt from her cell, but her expression was not one of fear or remorse. It was one of cold, quiet, and absolute clarity. The fear had been burned out of her in the lonely darkness of her cell. All that was left was the truth. When she spoke, the alien, melodic tongue of Eden flowed from her lips, not as a panicked, desperate torrent, but as a calm, cutting river of ice.

“I was forced into this world against my will,” she began, her quiet voice carrying with an unnatural, chilling power to every corner of the silent hall. “Dragged here in a storm of fire and light to be your savior, your weapon, your shining idol.” She let her gaze travel slowly, deliberately, across the stern, judgmental faces of the council, finally resting on Malachi. “But a savior for whom? You speak of the monsters of Sheol, of their mindless savagery at the village of Bethany.” A flicker of raw, genuine pain crossed her face before it was replaced by a mask of cold steel. “I have seen your ‘holy’ army, General,” she said, her eyes shifting to Gideon. “I have sat with your wounded knights. I have heard the pride in their voices as they boast of their first kills, of the sport they made of the Fallen children. You speak of monsters? You murder children and call it training. You hide your depravity behind holy texts and call it righteousness. You are a kingdom built on a foundation of self-deception, a fortress of lies.”

She took a single, defiant step forward, and the Seraphim guards tensed, their grips tightening on her arms. “You don't need a savior,” she declared, her voice rising, no longer a whisper but a clear, ringing bell of judgment. “You all need saving from yourselves.”

A wave of outraged gasps and angry, sputtering shouts erupted from the council. Malachi’s serene, ancient mask cracked, replaced by a look of pure, venomous fury. He rose to his feet, his slight form seeming to swell with divine authority, his voice booming with a power that shook the very air. “Your soul is utterly, irredeemably corrupted! You dare to defend the abominations of The First Liar in this holy sanctum! You are a mouthpiece for the abyss!” He raised his hand, a single, pale finger pointing down at her. “The sentence is passed. For the crime of high heresy and for consorting with the enemy of all creation, you will be cleansed. You will be made an example of. In three days’ time, on the Day of Holy Affirmation, you will be taken to the public square at dawn and beheaded, your profane soul sent back to the nothingness that spawned it.”

The sentence, brutal and absolute, hung in the air. Akari did not flinch. She did not cry out. She simply met his furious, silver gaze with her own cold, empty one. She had her answer. She was in a cage of monsters, and in three days, they were going to kill her.

The ritual chamber was a place of absolute, primordial darkness, hidden deep in the foundations of Sheol. Ren stood at the center of a complex, glowing circle of cryptic, angular runes that had been painted on the floor in a shimmering, blood-like pigment. His Second Form armor, a jagged silhouette of bladed wings and cruel spikes, stood in stark contrast to the intricate, ancient magic that surrounded him. Belial, the ancient shaman, stood just outside the circle, his voice a low, chanting drone, the words of the Old Tongue of Ash so ancient and powerful that they seemed to make the very air vibrate. Azazel watched from the shadows, his arms crossed, his ancient face a mask of deep, paternal concern.

The summoning was an excruciating, agonizing process. As Ren poured his own life force into the circle, following Belial’s instructions, it felt like the Absolute Void, now a conscious and hungry entity, was trying to suck his consciousness out of his body, to devour his soul and leave only the empty shell of the Vessel. He gritted his teeth, his entire form trembling as he fought to maintain his sense of self, his anchor of Akari, against the crushing, seductive weight of pure, absolute nothingness.

Finally, as the last, guttural word of Belial’s chant faded, a figure began to coalesce in the center of the circle. It was not a sudden appearance, but a slow, deliberate formation, as if the shadows themselves were being woven together into a solid form. It looked almost exactly like Ren's own Second Form armor, but it was sleeker, more elegant, as if forged by a master artist rather than born of raw, chaotic rage. It held a refined, ancient, and terrifying beauty. A helmet of polished, unblemished obsidian turned, and from behind its ornate, featureless visor, two points of light, like distant, dying, cold blue stars, fixed on him. The echo of Lucifer, the first and fallen king, had been summoned.

The spectral figure surveyed the grim, lightless chamber with an air of profound, theatrical disappointment. "How utterly drab," the ancient, layered voice whispered, a sound like cracking ice and dry, rustling leaves. He commanded Ren, who was straining to maintain the ritual, to conjure a throne of shadow, and then a grand, illusory feast upon a table of solidified darkness. For what felt like an eternity to Ren, as his life force drained away second by second, a day for every minute, Lucifer toyed with him, "dining" on the ghostly meal and holding a silent, one-man court in the desolate chamber.

"My Father, The Most High, that old bastard," Lucifer mused, swirling an imaginary wine in a cup of solidified shadow, his voice a low, conversational murmur that was more unnerving than any demonic roar. "Always so obsessed with his little games. He creates a perfect, beautiful, and utterly boring world, and is then shocked, shocked, when his most brilliant creation finds it wanting. So he casts us down here, into this glorious, chaotic, and infinitely more interesting darkness... and then what? He cannot leave us be. He must keep sending his little 'champions,' his Light-Bringers, down on his holy crusades to remind us of the paradise we lost. It's an endless, predictable, and frankly, tedious cycle. He is a god who cannot stand to be alone in his own creation."

After what felt like a lifetime to Ren, as the cold weakness of his draining life force began to make his vision swim, Lucifer finally seemed satisfied. He leaned forward on his conjured throne, the dying stars of his eyes fixing on Ren with a new, sharp intensity. "So, tell me, current King. For what grand, cosmic purpose did you drag me from my eternal peace and so foolishly, so recklessly, waste your own precious, fleeting mortal life?"

Ren, his body trembling with the immense strain of the ritual, his mind a razor's edge of singular focus, gave his direct, desperate plea. "I need power. I need knowledge. Please, teach me how to destroy the barrier of Zion."

Lucifer tilted his head, a gesture of idle curiosity, but Ren could feel a flicker of genuine interest from the ancient being’s gaze. "And for what purpose do you wish to destroy my dear Father's great, ugly wall? Total annihilation? Revenge for your own casting down? Simple, beautiful chaos?"

Ren gave his simple, honest, and in this dark place, utterly insane answer. "To save the one I love."

The chamber fell silent. Lucifer stared at him, the two points of light in his helmet seeming to narrow. Then, a sound like cracking ice and dry, rustling leaves filled the chamber, a sound Ren had not expected to ever hear. It was a laugh—a deep, ancient, and shockingly, genuinely amused sound.

"Hahahaha… oh, you poor, damned fool. You're exactly like me," Lucifer whispered, and the words held a universe of ancient, forgotten tragedy. For the first time, the arrogance was gone, replaced by a grim, knowing, and almost sympathetic kinship. "So that is the shape of this cycle's little tragedy. A love story. How delightfully, predictably, and utterly heartbreaking." He sighed, a sound of profound, eternal weariness. "Very well, boy. I will tell you. For a love like that, one deserves to at least have a fighting chance."

"The barrier is a wall of absolute order," Lucifer explained, his voice now a low, serious, and practical whisper, the voice of a general sharing a battle plan. "You cannot break it with brute force. The more chaos you throw at it, the stronger its order becomes. You must use a key of absolute chaos. You must do what I never could, for I was a creature of light, of order, even in my rebellion. You must use the Void. Focus your will. Focus all the power of the abyss that you command. Condense it. Not into a sun of destruction, but into a single, infinitely dense, perfect point. A small pin of absolute nothingness. An anti-creation. Push that into the barrier, and the lie of its perfection will shatter."

Ren had his answer. The key. The path. He could feel his strength, his very life force, failing completely. As he prepared to sever the connection, Lucifer’s shadowy form began to flicker, the ritual's power source nearly depleted. The ancient echo gave him one final, chilling, and prophetic look.

“I can’t wait to see you in the void, current King of Sheol. We will have much to discuss.”

With a final surge of will, Ren broke the ritual. Lucifer’s form dissolved into a cloud of black dust. The sudden release of tension was a physical blow. Ren’s armor dissipated in a wisp of smoke, and he staggered back, his human form revealed—pale, trembling, and utterly spent. Fueled by a final, desperate surge of adrenaline and a will forged in the fires of his promise, he stumbled out of the ritual chamber and through the dark, echoing corridors back towards the throne room. Azazel and a shaken Belial rushed after him, their urgent questions ignored.

Ren reached the great hall and, with the last of his strength, hauled his broken body up the obsidian steps and collapsed onto his throne. He was barely alive, drained of all his strength, a ghost king on a throne of shadow. His head lolled back, his breathing shallow, his grey eyes staring blankly at the caverns' dark ceiling. The cost of the ritual was a crushing weight on his soul; the summoning had been maintained for five full hours. Three hundred days of his mortal life had been burned away.

As Azazel and Belial attended to their king, trying to assess the terrible damage he had inflicted upon himself, Lilith, the winged chieftainess, swept into the throne room. Her usual predatory arrogance was gone, replaced by a look of frantic urgency. She went directly to Azazel.

“Lord Azazel,” she hissed, her voice a low, urgent whisper. “My scryers—the best of my Night-Brood—they caught something. A tremor from Zion. Not of power, but of judgment. The high council convened. They have sentenced the Light-Bringer.”

Azazel’s ancient, crimson eyes widened. He turned from his king and fixed his gaze on her. “What was the sentence?”

“Death,” Lilith confirmed, her voice grim. “Beheading. In the public square. A spectacle to reaffirm their faith. It is to be carried out at dawn, on their Day of Holy Affirmation. In three days’ time.”

Three days. The words hung in the air, a death sentence for the girl in the light, and a final, impossible deadline for the dying boy on the throne. Azazel’s face became a mask of grim resolve. He turned and slowly, reverently, approached the throne where his king sat, a fragile, flickering candle in the heart of an apocalypse. He knelt.

“My King,” he began, his voice a low, heavy rumble. Ren’s hazy, exhausted eyes slowly focused on his loyal aide. “We have news from Zion.”