A little earlier, as the Night Parade pulsed with energy and color, Hugo, Roxanne, and Eliza navigated through the bustling festival, their eyes scanning the sea of ethereal faces. Laughter and music filled the air, but the weight of their purpose kept them grounded amidst the revelry. They were searching—seeking someone, anyone, who could provide the answers they desperately needed.

Eventually, their wandering brought them to the park, where they spotted a lone figure seated beneath a tree. The man worked methodically, his brush moving with an almost hypnotic rhythm over the canvas before him. The painting depicted the Night Parade, but instead of the vibrant, chaotic colors surrounding them, his strokes rendered the scene somber shades of blue. The contrast was striking, as if the joy of the parade had been drained and replaced with a quiet melancholy.

The trio approached cautiously, their footsteps crunching softly against the fallen leaves. The man’s piercing blue eyes flicked up briefly, acknowledging their presence, before returning to his work. His black hair fell loosely around his face, framing his pale features. He wore a black-and-blue striped shirt under a paint-splattered black apron, his appearance neat yet unassuming. Despite his calm demeanor, his gaze had an unsettling depth, as though he saw far more than he let on.

“Hello there,” the man said, his voice low and smooth, yet carrying an edge of pity that immediately put the group on guard. “You pitiful souls, to have not died but to instead suffer the indignity of having your vessels stolen. How truly tragic.”

Roxanne tensed, but Hugo placed a calming hand on her shoulder. “You’re not wrong,” Hugo said evenly. “We are looking for answers. Can you help us?”

The painter set his brush down and regarded them fully for the first time, his gaze unflinching. “You seek knowledge, clarity—answers to the questions that plague your existence.” He tilted his head, a faint, almost enigmatic smile playing at his lips. “I can provide them.”

“Will you tell us everything?” Hugo asked, his tone calm but firm.

The man’s smile widened slightly, though his eyes remained cold. “Of course. But first, a condition.” He leaned back slightly, folding his arms as his gaze swept over them. “I only ask one thing of you, do not place your faith in the priest of half-insanity.”

“Michello?” Eliza interjected, her brows furrowing. “You’re talking about him, aren’t you?”

The man’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure disdain. “Yes, of course. That filthy wretch,” he said, his voice dripping with venom. “He is the most deplorable of all humans—everything you’ve heard about him, and far worse. To trust him is to invite chaos into your already fragile existence.”

Hugo’s eyes narrowed, his instincts sharpening at the painter’s words. “You seem to know a lot about him. Who are you exactly?” His tone was careful, probing. “Which of the Ten are you?”

The painter’s smile returned, though it was now tinged with amusement. He set his brush aside, his movements deliberate, almost theatrical. “As astute as ever, Hugo,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “I am Satisiel, the archangel of contentment.”

The air seemed to shift around them, growing heavier as the name settled in the space between them. Despite Satisiel’s calm exterior, there was an unmistakable authority in his presence—a quiet, unyielding power that set him apart from the surrounding mortals.

Roxanne crossed her arms, her voice laced with suspicion. “If you’re one of the Ten, why should we trust you any more than Michello?”

Satisiel’s expression remained calm, yet his piercing blue eyes darkened, a flicker of pain and regret visible in their depths. “You can’t trust me,” he said, his voice even but weighted with an unspoken burden. His gaze swept over them, lingering on each face as though searching for something intangible. “But I can promise you this—I am the far lesser of two evils.”

Hugo crossed his arms, his stance firm. “Fine. Then tell us everything,” he said, his tone sharp, carrying the authority of someone who refused to be toyed with.

Satisiel nodded slightly, his posture straightening as he began to speak, his voice resonating with an almost hypnotic cadence. “Long ago, before the worlds were fused, there were three realms, Nirvana, where we angels resided; Gaia, the domain you humans call Earth; and the Abyss, the shadowed realm of demons. Each world was separate, yet interconnected, governed by its own god—a delicate balance maintained for millennia.”

He paused, his gaze growing distant, as though reliving the memories he spoke of. “But that balance was shattered by a demon whose hatred for the divine burned brighter than the stars themselves. His loathing was not limited to the god of the Abyss. No, his ambition was far greater. He sought the death of every god in existence—a plan so audacious, so vile, it defied reason.”

Satisiel’s voice grew heavier, tinged with something close to sorrow. “His cunning was unmatched. He devised a method to corrupt and destroy the gods of each realm. I cannot speak for how he slew the others, but for our Lord Helios, the god of Sun and Rationality, his plan was devastatingly effective. Through some unspeakable act, he tainted our Lord with madness.”

The word hung in the air like a shadow, its weight palpable. “Madness,” Satisiel repeated, his voice a quiet whisper that carried immense gravity. “That insidious force that corrupts mortals and immortals alike. It seeped into our Lord’s essence, poisoning his mind and breaking his will. The god who once illuminated Nirvana with the light of wisdom and reason became a shell of himself. His body began to decay, his divine flesh rotting even as he still lived. The agony of his existence made him irrational, unstable… dangerous.”

Satisiel’s hands clenched at his sides, his composed demeanor cracking just slightly. “His madness drove him to cast us out—his own creations, his loyal servants. He thrust us from the heavens, and as we fell, we were tainted by the very madness that consumed him. Most of us were twisted beyond recognition, our forms shattered and corrupted. We became the Fallen—monsters trapped in a nightmarish cycle.”

He closed his eyes briefly, his voice steadying as he continued. “But we—the Ten Commandments—were different. We were Helios’s elite, chosen for our strength and resilience. We resisted the taint longer than the others. Yet even our strength had its limits. To survive, we needed vessels—bodies untouched by the corruption.”

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Satisiel’s gaze met Hugo’s, his expression solemn. “We sought out humans on the brink of despair, those who had given up on their lives. At the moment they relinquished their will to live, we took their bodies, seizing them to avoid succumbing to the same fate as the Fallen. It was not an act of malice but of desperation—a choice made in the shadow of annihilation.”

He straightened, his voice softening but no less resolute. “That is our story. It is not a tale of righteousness or virtue. It is one of survival. I do not ask for your forgiveness, for I know it is not something I deserve. But understand this, we did what we had to do to endure, to continue existing in a world that sought to unmake us.”

Hugo’s expression hardened, his voice cutting through the weight of Satisiel’s previous words. “Tell me, what happens when we’re devoured by the Fallen?” he asked, his tone a mixture of curiosity and dread.

Satisiel’s serene demeanor remained unchanged, though his gaze grew heavier. “When a Fallen consumes one of the dead, they begin to experience a form of purification,” he explained, his voice steady and deliberate. “This afterlife is saturated with the lingering power of the God of Death and Disorder—a force that taints everything and everyone within its grasp. Yet, paradoxically, it also has the potential to heal.”

He folded his hands behind his back, his posture almost professorial. “The gods of Gaia—yes, all three of them—still live. Their influence remains potent within the mortal realm, unlike our lord or the God of the Abyss, who have long since been diminished or destroyed. When a Fallen consumes the dead, they ingest residual traces of the God of Death and Disorder’s authority. This power, chaotic as it may be, begins to mend the cracks in their shattered forms.”

Satisiel’s blue eyes darkened further, his voice lowering as if sharing a forbidden truth. “They do not return to what they once were—not fully. But they become something new. Something… whole. Not entirely angel, not entirely monster. It is a fragile, unstable equilibrium. And with enough consumption, a Fallen can even escape this afterlife altogether. They can break free of the chains binding them to this realm and reenter the world of the living.”

Hugo exchanged a tense glance with Eliza before turning back to Satisiel. “And what about us? What happens if they devour us?” he pressed, his tone edged with suspicion.

Satisiel’s lips thinned, his expression becoming uncharacteristically grave. “You, Hugo—and you, Eliza—are unlike the rest of the dead. Your bodies were stolen by us, the Ten Commandments. We who once basked in the greatest blessings of Lord Helios carry remnants of his divine essence within us, even now. Should a Fallen devour you…” He paused, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “The process would be instantaneous. They would be revived completely, their corruption burned away in the heat of Helios’s lingering light.”

Eliza’s breath caught, her fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “You’re saying… we’re like a shortcut for them?” she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

Satisiel nodded solemnly. “Precisely. The essence within you is a fragment of our lord’s power, and it catalyzes their restoration. That is why you must tread carefully. To the Fallen, you are not merely prey. You are salvation.”

Hugo frowned, his mind working through the implications. Is there anyway to tell how many of the dead a Fallen has devoured?”

Satisiel’s gaze softened slightly, though his tone remained clinical. “A Fallen’s wings are a reflection of their progress. The more dead they consume, the more their wings regenerate. A completely winged Fallen is exceedingly rare, but they do exist. They are the most dangerous among their kind—those closest to full revival.”

Hugo’s eyes narrowed, the memory of the winged Fallen they had encountered surfacing in his mind. “That explains the one we fought,” he muttered, his voice tinged with realization. “It had wings.”

Satisiel inclined his head slightly. “Indeed. And to my knowledge, only one Fallen has ever devoured enough to fully revive. I cannot overstate the danger they pose—not only to you but to all who reside in this realm and beyond.”

Eliza clenched her fists, her voice tense. “If they’re this dangerous, then what do you suggest we do?”

Satisiel’s gaze settled on her, his expression unreadable. “Find the others,” he said simply. “Seek out those whose bodies were stolen by the Ten Commandments. You are not alone in your plight. There are others like you, scattered across this realm, lost and desperate. Unite with them. Together, you may stand a chance.”

His words lingered in the air like a commandment of their own, heavy with both hope and foreboding. The group exchanged uncertain glances, the weight of their newfound knowledge pressing down on them like an iron shroud.

Hugo’s brows knitted together as he stared at Satisiel, the weight of his question hanging in the air. “What is Michello?” he asked, his voice low but firm. “I’ve met plenty of people who can peer into the afterlife, but he’s… different. He has too many abilities, and too much knowledge. It’s like he doesn’t fit into any category. He’s an abnormality.”

Satisiel’s serene expression faltered for a moment, replaced by a faint shadow of unease. “Michello,” he began, his tone measured, “was born an Awakened, a rare soul with innate gifts. However, the abilities you’ve seen—the power to peer into the afterlife, his unsettling immunity to madness—those were not his by birth. They were granted to him.”

“Granted?” Roxanne interjected, leaning forward. “Granted by who?”

Satisiel’s blue eyes darkened, his voice taking on a solemn weight. “A gift from our lord, Helios,” he said simply, the words heavy with meaning. “In the waning days of his sanity, our lord foresaw a need for a successor. Someone who could inherit his will and carry forth his purpose. And so, he split his power in two, bestowing half upon Michello.”

“And the other half?” Hugo asked, his voice tight with anticipation.

Satisiel shook his head, a faint sigh escaping his lips. “That remains a mystery, even to me. Perhaps the other recipient has yet to awaken, or perhaps they are biding their time. Regardless, the blessing given to Michello was a grave mistake—one no one, not even our lord, could have foreseen.”

Eliza tilted her head, her gaze sharp. “Why? What happened?”

Satisiel’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Michello’s fall from grace began at sixteen,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “That was the year of the incident—the catalyst that turned him into an enemy of the world. Each of the great Pillars of power, the anchors of your mortal realm, felt the weight of his actions. A.E.G.I.S. The Vatican Order. Kings Cross. Santa’s Workshop. Even his own Church of the Infinite Gates. Every one of them suffered catastrophic losses at his hands.”

Roxanne’s eyes widened. “What kind of losses are we talking about?”

“Executives,” Satisiel replied grimly. “Each organization lost at least two of their most powerful leaders. Michello’s rampage was indiscriminate, his destruction unstoppable. As for the cult he belonged to, the Church of the Infinite Gates… they lost all five of their cardinals in a single night.”

“Five cardinals?” Hugo repeated, his voice laced with disbelief. “And they just… forgave him?”

Satisiel’s gaze hardened, his tone growing cold. “Their leader did. She wishes to keep Michello all to herself. She knows the true depth of the power he holds, and she wields him like a weapon. To her, he is nothing more than a loyal dog—a rabid beast she occasionally unleashes upon the world.”

“And Michello’s okay with that?” Eliza asked, incredulity coloring her voice.

“He is utterly devoted to her,” Satisiel said, his voice sharp with disdain. “He claims loyalty to her ‘divine will,’ but I suspect there is more to it. That so-called goddess that the cult believes in… she is no deity. I believe she is a demon. And not just any demon, but one of the same level as the fiend who tainted our lord with madness and brought about the fall of Nirvana.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Satisiel’s words settling over them like a suffocating shroud. Each member of the group exchanged uneasy glances, their minds racing with the implications.