"What will I choose?"
The question echoed louder than the clash of sword and broken staff on the battlefield. But the true war raged not on bloodied soil—it blazed within Micafer's fractured soul.
Each swing of Beelzebub's dual-forged blade bore a divine echo: on one side, the searing judgment of Michael's justice; on the other, the seductive promise of Lucifer's freedom. Yet neither light nor darkness stirred his heart. It was not pride that made him hesitate—it was something deeper. Destiny. A mark etched into the very core of his being. A twin-born inheritance that belonged to neither Heaven nor Hell.
His staff, splintered but still humming with residual energy, trembled in his aching grip. His body shook. His vision blurred. Yet his soul stirred. Through the fog of despair, through the storm of fear and temptation, four elusive words rose like a whisper of fate:
"Child of the Veil."
He had come seeking purpose—but now, in the eye of the storm, he realized he had been blind to that same purpose.
BOOM.
Another strike descended, but he staggered back just in time. Like all the others, it passed through him—an illusion imbued with too much truth.
A whisper stirred in the depths of his soul.
And for once, the answer was clear.
He moved—instinct, not strategy guiding him. Back-stepping, not to evade Beelzebub's strike, but to invite it. To place his fate in the path of destiny. And Beelzebub came, as if reading from the same celestial script. He soared into the air, his swords locked in murderous grace.
Micafer smiled; his body was broken, but newfound hope surfaced.
"Time for Plan B."
He stood, knees quaking beneath the unbearable weight of pain and transformation. He held his broken staff—now twin splinters—level not at Beelzebub, but just beyond him. A feint. A prayer.
The King of Purgators lunged, blades flashing with regal wrath. Dodging was beneath him; he struck both splinters, shattering them into vapor—but the boy did not flee.
No, Micafer stepped forward.
In that instant, he saw the gap between strikes. A sliver of space where destiny lived. He slid into it like a serpent, smooth and precise.
The blades struck the earth on either side of him—but found only illusion once again.
Then, the miracle.
He knelt between the twin blades, hands extended to touch each hilt. The moment his fingers made contact, a shift reverberated across every realm. His soul split cleanly between light and shadow, aligning perfectly—a flawless 7.0 on the divine scale.
White linen shrouded his right side, flowing like a holy raiment. Midnight-black shadow wrapped his left, cloaking him in infernal grace. Not born of Beelzebub's twisted might—but from the divine essence of Michael and Lucifer themselves.
Within him, something ancient stirred. Not pain. Not power. Something deeper.
Awakening.
Beelzebub stumbled back, not from injury—but awe. The very aura around Micafer repelled pride, humbled royalty. He had become something the king could not comprehend.
And still, Micafer did not strike.
There was no need.
In a breath, he stood before Beelzebub. No motion. No threat. Just presence.
The king's head fell gently into Micafer's palm, like surrender plated in agony.
A moment later, Beelzebub's body collapsed in silence.
Dead before he could even die.
Gasps rang across the battlefield. The purgators froze, shattered by the weight of what they had witnessed. Their expressions were torn like fabric—grief, awe, terror all stitched into the same breathless silence.
Then came reverence.
The purgators bowed—not to a tyrant, but to a sovereign reborn.
Above them, the skies cracked open with divine contradiction. Michael descended in radiant light. Lucifer in devouring shadow. Their presence was unbearable. Mortal souls shattered under the strain of their gaze—not even purgators could withstand the sight.
Beelzebub's body disintegrated, leaving only a soul-mark. A shard of legacy, split between Heaven and Hell, now reclaimed by its makers.
Micafer turned to face them—his heart no longer tormented, but alive with a strange new gravity. He was no longer bound to confusion.
He was bound to purpose.
Michael stepped forward, his gaze heavy with awe.
"You have done what neither of us could."
Lucifer followed, his grin razor-sharp with wonder.
"You chose nothing—and in doing so, you chosen everything."
A silence passed.
"You have earned a second life," Michael said, voice like thunder smoothed by wind. "One entirely your own."
"A world where good and evil wage eternal war—but where no corner truly holds you," Lucifer added.
Michael knelt, retrieving a twisted, dark ring left where Beelzebub fell. He extended it. Micafer raised his left hand, index finger outstretched.
The ring slid on—and changed.
Darkness gave way to a shimmering balance: half light, half shadow. The air shifted.
Time stood still.
Above them, the sun and moon fused into a single orb of unmoving brilliance—neither hot nor cold, neither day nor night. A new age had begun.
From the Veil's barren soil, life erupted. Shrubs, trees, vines—black and white, jagged and soft, wild and sacred. The realm had been cursed. Now, it bloomed with paradox.
And in the hearts of the purgators, loyalty found a new center.
A new king had been born.
Fear fractured as divinity thundered across the realm. Michael and Lucifer joined hands—beams of opposing forces crashing in radiant chaos.
Their voices roared as one:
"A new king has been born.
An angel of his own reign.
Woven from our opposing bond—
He is Micafer,
He is the King of the Veil."
From their joined essence, a robe descended—black coiling around white in divine embroidery. Not a symbol of conquest, but of harmony. They vested it upon him.
And in that moment, Micafer transformed. No longer a boy. No longer a mortal in limbo.
He stood as a demigod sovereign, crowned in truth.
Michael spoke:
"The Veil is your home. You may enter or leave at will. Decide who passes through—and who remains."
Lucifer's smirk returned.
"Your rewards go far beyond this robe. They lie within you. Awaiting your command."
Micafer's soul burned—not with rage or ambition—but a steady, curious fire.
He stepped forward.
Michael and Lucifer placed hands over their hearts—mirroring the mark he now bore.
Their final words echoed:
"Go, and be the bridge between Light and Darkness."
And then—he vanished.
Transmigrated.
But the echo remained.
And in his chest, his mind, his every breath:
"Who am I now?"
"What awaits me?"
"Is this destiny... or the birth of something greater?"