Chapter 5 — The Tale of Mr. Angurich

The crimson twilight deepened into a shade of gold and scarlet as Mr. Angurich and Golka walked slowly along the great corridor. The echo of their footsteps mingled with the whispers of the evening wind drifting through the tall, arched windows. Golka’s eyes glittered with feigned innocence, though within her mind her hunger grew sharper. She had achieved what she desired — the trust of Mr. Angurich, the man whose wisdom guided the colony of angels.

At last, his voice broke the silence, soft but carrying a weight that seemed to come from centuries long past. His words rolled like distant thunder, yet there was a strange calm in them — the calm of a man revisiting memories carved deep into his soul.

“Golka,” he began, his tone heavy with reverence, “you asked about Magrichela’s history. There are stories so old, so profound, that even after a thousand years, they remain shrouded in mystery. And yet, they define who we are today. What I am about to tell you is not written in any book. It is passed down from those who bore witness — a history of blood, sacrifice, and salvation. The greatest history of Magrichela… the one battle that still echoes in every breath of our realm.”

Golka tilted her head slightly, her lips parting in quiet anticipation. Inside, she was thrilled. The vault was opening, and she would drink from its secrets. She gave the perfect answer, her voice trembling with curiosity.

“Please, Mr. Angurich… tell me. I want to understand. I want to know how Heaven came to be what it is now.”

Mr. Angurich nodded. His gaze drifted toward the glowing horizon, as if he could see across centuries. Then he began.

“It was one thousand years ago,” he said slowly. “A time when Heaven and Hell lived in constant tension. The border between us quivered like a fragile thread, threatening to snap at any second. There were no mortals then, no world of men and women to distract us — only Heaven above and Hell below. And at the very edge of both, a border crisis that could erupt into war at any moment.”

He paused, his brows knitting as if the memory itself pained him. “In Hell, there reigned a ruler unlike any other. Pavathian — the monstrous immortal who commanded the demonic legions. His hunger for power was unending, his cunning sharper than steel. He waited, watched, planned, always searching for a moment of weakness in Heaven’s defenses. And then, at last, his moment came.”

The corridor seemed to grow darker, the crimson glow deepening into shadows. Golka’s heart beat faster, though not with fear — with triumph. Every detail Mr. Angurich gave her was another piece of knowledge she could use.

“Pavathian found a way to mask his demonic presence,” Mr. Angurich continued. “He concealed his essence so completely that even the divine signals, the barriers woven to protect us, could not sense his intrusion. Heaven remained blind while Hell’s ruler crept closer. We thought ourselves safe, but we were wrong. Gravely wrong.”

His tone sharpened, carrying the weight of loss. “At that time, Heaven had no God. Just as now, we were without a divine protector. The duty of defense lay with the ruler of Heaven — King Ruther Diedrich. His holy power alone kept the barriers between realms strong. But fate was cruel. Ruther, the guardian of our realm, fell into sickness. His health withered, and with it, so did the barriers he sustained. The light grew dim. The shield that guarded us flickered, fragile as a dying flame. And Pavathian, ever the predator, struck.”

Mr. Angurich’s eyes darkened. “With each step he took into Heaven, the very ground grew corrupted. Flowers withered. Rivers turned black. The skies themselves recoiled at his presence. Every footfall was poison, every breath he drew a stain upon our world. Heaven trembled, and for a moment, we thought it was the end.”

Golka kept her eyes lowered, hiding the spark of wicked amusement in them. Yes, she thought, just as her master Pavathian had always claimed. Heaven had always been fragile. Always too easy to deceive.

But Mr. Angurich’s voice shifted, softer now, filled with awe. “And then… a miracle. A mercy of God, though no God was present. From the unknown, a figure appeared. An archmage whose origin none could name. He shone brighter than the sun itself, a star descending upon the battlefield. His presence was like hope taking form.”

His lips curled faintly in reverence as he whispered the name. “Julius Seraphiel Ignatius. The founder of Magrichela. The savior of Heaven.”

Golka’s head tilted ever so slightly. She had heard whispers of the name, but never the story told in such vivid detail. Her smile remained sweet, though inside her heart burned. So this is the man who sealed my master…

Mr. Angurich pressed on. “Julius was unlike any mage before him. He surpassed even the archmages of the Majestic Castle, those who wielded the power of seven stars. His strength was immeasurable, his mastery without equal. When Pavathian descended, Julius alone stood in his path.”

Angurich’s voice lowered to a grave tone. “What followed was a bloodbath beyond imagination. The skies rained fire and shadow. Angels fell in countless numbers, their wings torn, their light extinguished. Demons perished in heaps, their corpses rotting the soil. The battlefield was drowned in blood, a stench so foul that even the strongest among us retched at the sight. Heaven became a graveyard. But amidst the carnage, Julius fought on.”

He clenched his fist, his voice rising. “Julius and Pavathian clashed as equals — no, more than equals. Each blow shook the heavens, each strike split the skies. Their duel was a storm, fire and shadow colliding until the very fabric of the realms quivered. For days, perhaps weeks, they battled. None could intervene. None could even draw near. It was a war of gods — though one of them had not yet been named so.”

The corridor’s silence seemed to thrum with the echo of his words. Golka found herself leaning closer, her voice soft, filled with the perfect mix of awe and innocence.

“And… who won?”

Mr. Angurich closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. “Julius. By strength, by will, by sacrifice, he triumphed. Pavathian fell. His body could not be destroyed — for he is immortal, cursed to exist forever — but Julius sealed him. Bound him to Hell itself, locking his presence behind chains of divine magic. Pavathian was cast down, unable to set foot in Heaven again. Unable even to touch the world that would come after.”

He straightened, his voice firm. “That was his victory. Julius Seraphiel Ignatius saved us all.”

Golka’s lips parted, her voice carefully measured, brimming with excitement she did not feel.

“And what became of him? What happened to the great archmage after his victory?”

A shadow crossed Mr. Angurich’s face. His eyes drifted away, as though chasing a memory too far to grasp. “No one knows. Some say he transcended, becoming a God himself — for it is said that any who surpass the power of the seven stars step into divinity. Others believe he gave all his strength to protect the Balance Tree, that ancient force which steadies the three realms, and then vanished into nothingness. But what is certain is this — because of Julius, we live in balance. Because of Julius, we breathe peace. Every law, every harmony, every sector of Magrichela stands upon the foundation he built with his blood.”

He let the silence linger, his words settling like stones in the still air. Then his eyes narrowed with grief, and his tone dropped.

“But Pavathian’s corruption left scars. During his intrusion, he seized ten percent of Heaven. That piece of our world was neither holy nor fully corrupted — tainted beyond restoration. We could not cleanse it, nor reclaim it. So we abandoned it. That land became what you now know as the mortal world — a realm where both Heaven and Hell’s influence live together in fragile balance. The humans, beings of short lives, came to dwell there. They are born in light, yet constantly tempted by shadow. That is why the mortal world exists — the very scar of Pavathian’s footsteps.”

Golka’s heart tightened, though not with sorrow. So this is how the mortals came to be. A wound of Heaven, left to fester. How poetic. How pitiful.

Outwardly, her eyes shimmered as if with tears, and her voice quivered with admiration.

“Truly… he was a savior. Without him, there would be no Magrichela, no Heaven as we know it. I… I am grateful to know this story. Thank you, Mr. Angurich. Thank you for sharing it with me.”

Inside, though, her heart coiled like a serpent. So this is the tale they cling to. This is the savior they worship. Foolish angels… your history is my weapon. One day, the name Julius will be forgotten, and only Pavathian will remain.

But outwardly, her eyes shimmered as if with tears, and her voice quivered with admiration.

“You honor me with this story, Mr. Angurich. I will carry it with me always.”

Mr. Angurich placed a hand over his chest, bowing his head slightly in solemn respect. “Remember it well, Golka. For it is not just a story. It is the reason we exist. And it is a reminder — that even in our darkest hour, light will always descend.”

The crimson glow of twilight faded into night, and the corridor fell into silence. Yet the tale lingered — a story of gods and demons, victory and blood.

And as Golka walked beside Mr. Angurich, her mask of innocence never faltered.

But within her, the serpent stirred.

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