...Yeah. Asael lost it.
Again.
And, like any good mystical being with a savior complex and OCD for order and duty, he decided to call a meeting.
The traditional one. Annual. Almost worthy of becoming a holiday on the cosmic calendar of supernatural beings.
The internal guardians arrived, punctual and obedient like well-trained retrievers, and some externals, with that look of someone dragged out of a hammock mid-nap.
Actually, just finding those wanderers outside the walls is already like an RPG quest with insane difficulty.
Seventeen in total. All parading their impeccable uniforms, the Infinity emblem stamped on their chests.
'Eternal servitude and duty to balance,' that was the motto.
Pretty, huh?
Almost inspiring.
If you ignore the authoritarianism.
There was everything there: veterans with millennia on their backs and the blasé expression of someone who saw the apocalypse knock and just locked the door, and newbies with that sparkle in their eyes, full of youthful faith, thinking they'll make a difference.
Cute.
Naive, but cute.
All equally rare as diamonds.
Birthrate among them? One survivor every hundred attempts.
That is, if the mother's internal mana doesn't fry the fetus in the process...
Tragic.
Brutal.
Like everything involving the Intermediary.
Forty chairs. Less than half occupied.
But don't be fooled, this is considered packed.
Seriously, it had been over a century since so many celestial asses sat in the same room.
And at the epicenter of this glorious institutional mess? Him.
Eliyah.
Sitting like someone promoted to chaos manager against their will, staring at both sides of the balance with the dead eyes of someone who'd trade it all for a hammock, tea, and the silence of an abyss.
He wore the robe of robes — white, with golden sleeves screaming 'importance.'
The classic ceremonial garb of guardian elites.
He hated it. Seriously.
He hated every ceremonial greeting delivered with the enthusiasm of a call center agent, every passionate speech about the 'balance of the four worlds' as if fancy words could fix dimensional craters.
And the meetings?
They felt more like improv theater than any real attempt to fix chaos.
Sometimes the problem was even applause-worthy. Other times... it made you want to ask, 'Seriously? We stopped everything for *this*?'
'What is it now?' he finally asked. A question disguised as an invitation, just to allow someone the nerve to speak up.
And there was Cael. Again, the accused.
Pale. Worried. Wearing the expression of an intern about to be fired… or executed. Hard to tell.
Keep this up and I'll need a loyalty card for courts…
And it wasn't like the cosmic tribunal he faced the day before — that one at least seemed organized.
Here? It felt more like a mafia with homicidal tendencies.
Everyone seemed, at the same time, way too familiar… and dangerously ready to erase you with a glance.
'Sir…' Asael knelt with the solemnity of someone carrying the world on his back.
'I bring bad news…'
He looked at the boy like he was handing over a bomb.
But before Cael could open his mouth (or run, which might've been wiser), a voice cut through the air:
'…So this is the anomaly?'
It came from a man with long, straight black hair cascading down his back like he'd just walked out of a shampoo commercial.
His look? Like he just stepped on a cockroach… disgusting.
'…Interesting, isn't it?' muttered another one, clearly crazier than the rest of the room combined. Red eyes, messy gray hair, and a smile that said he kept pet spiders — dead ones, obviously. 'ANOMALY!? What a magnificent title!'
'…And not just the title!' sang a third voice, sweet as poison. A girl with pink hair, angelic looks and that aura that made your brain scream 'cute!' while your survival instinct yelled 'RUN!' She was cuteness and threat in human form. 'What did he do to make Asael look like he sucked on a lemon and lost faith in life? Hmm…'
And there he was.
Standing still. Eyes still locked on him with the weight of a silent tribunal.
It was one of those unwritten, sacred rules: the accused speaks first. Before any sentence. Even before judgment.
What a bunch of weirdos…
The crowd might have been noisy, but his silence weighed more than anything.
'I…'
'What's with that face, brat?' snapped the disgusting long-haired guy, slouched in his chair like the universe orbited his navel.
The tone? Pure contempt.
'I…'
But he didn't even get to finish the thought.
The psycho had already lost patience with the dramatic silence – and the teenage hesitation.
'He's dangerous…'
'Dangerous how?' snapped the pink one, 'I don't feel any power from him. Inside or out… he's just a… a boy.'
She paused, wrinkling her nose like sniffing a mystery — or a sewer.
Now all eyes weighed on him like a collective judgment. A festival of stares glowing with suspicion, morbid curiosity, and that basic sadistic pleasure of watching someone sweat on center stage.
'It's all about intention!' interrupted the long-haired creep again, now more enthusiastic than he should be, 'Ananit, you know it!'
She laughed.
Awkwardly.
That crooked kind of laugh, like someone hiding a master plan behind bubblegum-pink lipstick.
The kind of laugh that precedes a 'relax, babe' and ends with three stab wounds during the first jealous fit.
The blonde raised a hand, ending the little argument between the accuser and jury.
Asael sighed.
Marched toward the balcony edge like he was about to rip the curtains down — and maybe his patience too. He yanked the fabric so hard the tearing sound echoed like a slap to collective pride.
'See for yourselves!'
And they all saw.
At the edge of the training field, beyond the city rooftops, stood the wall.
The blessed one.
Corroded.
Rotting.
With a gaping hole growing like a living curse, pulsing like an infected wound in the fabric of that world.
'Hehe…' he tried to laugh.
Forced.
Weak.
More a nervous spasm than anything else.
It wasn't like he broke a vase or spilled paint on the wall.
'I'd say… that's beyond our hands now, sir. It's his Yesod —' Voice firm, but eyes wide, 'Imperfect, but capable of this…'
The blonde didn't reply. Just closed the hand he'd raised.
'Shit…' muttered the psycho, running a hand through his tangled gray hair, like trying to keep his sanity tied to the strands.
But he didn't seem worried.
He seemed… entertained.
Like the chaos-lover he always was.
And the blonde just watched, silently.
'So that's it…'
A crooked smile slipped out — mischievous, relaxed.
'All this mess because of *that*? Problem child…'
Asael frowned.
'It's not just mess. It's rupture. It's transgression. This shouldn't be possible. Should it?'
'Should it?' The word came dry from Elyah's mouth.
And then his eyes landed on Cael.
Not just landed — pierced.
As if searching deep in his soul for a justification… and finding not even a shred.
'Ehr… it's not like I meant to, geez…' he tried, trembling voice, childish, almost pathetic.
A "geez" like that wouldn't save anyone from the apocalypse, honestly.
'Imagine if you *had* meant it?' the master shot back, not needing to raise his voice. Calm tone, burning eyes. Something burned there – duty, maybe, or pure judgment… hard to tell. But the message was clear: no one was getting a pat on the head.
Mercy?
No room for that in this hall.
Not when the world was literally beginning to fall apart.
'Sorry, kid,' he said, with the empathy of a rock. 'But I believe, my lord… exile or execution, out of respect for the rules, would be ideal. Wouldn't it?'
'Execution…?' The word had barely left Cael's lips, and the guardians were already moving in unison.
Like gears in a celestial machine – well-oiled, well-rehearsed, and dangerously efficient.
Cloaks fluttered. Hands rose. No words, no sounds. Just the silent consensus of condemnation.
All except two.
The pink-haired girl, who looked like she came from a fairytale written by a sadist, crossed her arms with an indignant "hmph!"
'…What a waste!' she snapped, like a kid watching their new toy thrown away.
'Totally!' whined the half-psychotic one, voice shrill, as if his personal injustice was worse than the wall's destruction. He literally pouted. 'I didn't even finish analyzing him! I was going to do some gentle dissections…'
Clearly, he was surrounded by friends.
But only one had the final word.
The one verdict no one questioned.
'Eliminating him would be… acting like the gods,' the man said, voice firm as steel. 'Who owns fate? Who are we to decide what someone will be? To dictate how they act? What a rotten… arrogant thought… to believe we have that power!'
'But, sir…'
'There's nothing more to discuss!' he cut, standing in a sudden motion that made even the most composed straighten up.
He blinked at the accused.
But it wasn't kindness — it was sentence.
'Anomaly… danger…' he repeated with a bit of disdain, 'I bet he'll be more than that.'
He looked around, staring down each face like daring the whole room to disagree.
'Does anyone here… think otherwise? All of you?'
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't a search for consensus.
'Alright.'
It was an order masked as diplomacy.
'Then I'll be that boss who is absolutely right!'
'You, Cael…' he pointed with flair, 'Finish your training. And we'll deal with the mess you made!' Then turned, finger now aimed at the grumpy bald guy. 'You… will finish training him. That's an order. And don't make me regret it!'
Silence.
Holy crap…
Almost.
Almost.
His hands trembled, like he'd just been stopped by Death's patrol car.
Almost got drafted by Vasco… DAMN BALD RAT!
The bald one knelt like begging heaven for forgiveness.
He bit his lip so hard it looked like he was about to self-punish right there.
'As you wish,' he said, deep breath, heavy, dramatic, worthy of an interdimensional soap opera. 'I don't judge him harshly. I want to correct. And if I fail…' he looked at his hands like they held the world's fate, '…I will renounce my title as guardian. That is my promise!'
Silence again.
But now it was different. A thick silence, almost sticky, filled with tension and secondhand embarrassment.
The leader looked at him.
Expression of someone who'd seen too much drama for one morning.
Sigh.
'Alright, alright! Get to work now!' he snapped, with the authority of someone who just wants coffee in peace.
UFF…
One breathed in the bittersweet relief of knowing — against all odds — he'd survive another day.
The other?
Carried the weight of a war.
What was right?
What was just?
How do you act when the balance of the world depends on an overgrown child and a repentant bald man?
Yeah… tough time to be him.
The curtain fell.
End of act.
Not that it mattered.
The show was just beginning.