Judge stared at Selena, then at the empty throne room, then back at Selena.
"...So this is it? No dramatic lightning? No ghostly encore? Not even a slow clap?" He raised his hands to the ceiling. "You drop the whole ’kill the gods, break the cycle’ bombshell and just... Irish exit? Real classy, Clio."
Selena snored softly. Judge squinted. "Oh, sure. You get beauty sleep. I get existential trauma. Totally balanced arrangent."
He pushed himself to his feet, dusting off his coat.
"But considering you spent your entire rebirth inside a cozy dark cell with bad wifi and absolutely no gas, I’ll let this slide."
The sound of his boots echoed far too dramatically for a man who was basically babysitting a comatose girl.
"This is my life now," he muttered. "Caretaker of unconscious people, collector of cryptic monologues, and occasional errand boy for the universe. Honestly, I should start charging rent. Or at least therapy fees, and maybe go for therapy myself. Are there even therapists in this world?"
He glanced at Selena again, sighed, and crouched. "Fine. Let’s make a deal. You stay asleep, don’t cause trouble, and I’ll handle decrypting the cryptic monologues myself... until you wake up at least. You can then buy lunch. Expensive lunch. None of that two-nen street food. I’m talking steak, worrak steak. Multiple sauces. Dessert."
The silence that followed was thicker than ever, but Judge nodded anyway, as if she’d agreed.
"Good. Glad we’re on the sa page..." he paused, "but where the heck would you get the money to buy food, considering you haven’t even been outside your little playroom? Maybe I will lend you so money? No, but that would make her treat with my money... Argh, this is so confusing."
With nothing to do except maybe secretly stalk his mother, find whatever this looping world thing is, maybe kill a few gods in the process. And have a cup of coffee, or tea if he was feeling British enough.
But first of all, he had to watch how his little minions were doing, maybe he should reward them with sothing since he was in a good mood and all.
He snapped his fingers, threads of records spilling out like nosy film strips, each one tugging at the line of a Recorder.
Lucifer ca up first. Judge squinted. "...Is he narrating Seraphis like she’s the special guest on a cooking channel?" He listened closer. ’Ingredients: one extrely angry woman, several dozen ether beasts, and absolutely no chill.’
Judge buried his face in his hands. "This is who I left in charge of Pride? A food critic with eyeliner?"
Next thread. Gabriel.
The man was crouched in a corner, whispering like a governnt spy. "He’s brushing his hair again. Suspicious. Smiled at a baby... with both eyes. Classic cultist behavior."
Judge blinked. "That’s not surveillance. That’s fanfiction." He yanked the thread closed before Gabriel could start taking notes on the prince looking at a random advertisent.
Then Uriel.
Judge leaned in. "Alright, what nonsense—" He froze. The so-called dragonfinders were currently holding a group eting over an Avian coin. It should be an unfamiliar treasure considering Avian were not the best examples to consider themselves outgoing "...By all that’s holy, and my whole family, she’s livestreaming idiots discovering currency."
Uriel whispered, breathless with joy: ’It’s not that the world was wrong... it’s that the world was afraid.’
Judge gasped... dramatically. "She’s quoting them. She’s actually quoting them."
Next. Barachiel.
The film-view imdiately slamd him with Gereon Drakonis casually deleting an entire assassin order while looking like he was deciding between soup or salad. Judge coughed and slamd that thread shut. "Nope. Not dealing with Grandpa Content."
Then Asmodeus.
Goat war. Potato soldiers. A chicken general. Judge didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. "I leave her unsupervised for five minutes and she’s docunting a civil war that could’ve been solved with a leash."
Finally, Satan.
The image of shadowy churches and priests speaking in ominous riddles slid into view. Judge frowned. "At least one of them looks like they’re doing actual work." Pause. "Wait. Did he just complain about the interior design? ...Never mind."
The threads collapsed back into him, except for Satan’s records, which he still kept open. Judge rubbed his face like a man reconsidering every choice that led to this point.
"These are my Recorders. A cooking show host, a conspiracy theorist, a dragon-fanclub babysitter, a gore journalist, a goat-docuntarian, and a goth who critiques architecture."
He leaned back against the throne, exhaling slowly. "Yeah. Totally reward-worthy."
But sothing caught his eye that really put a damper on the mood.
Satan had gone really deep inside enemy territory. And Judge finally saw soone he really wanted to kill — Percival.
But at least there was no child with him this ti.
Clara, was it? He would hate gutting a child, even if the child stood between him and his goals.
He laughed at the irony; he had always been a ruthless killer. Committing all the non-existent war cris. These laws governing the wars were utterly thrown aside and ignored by both parties. He had even personally ordered the bombing of a whole city.
And here he was, hesitant to kill a child, maybe it was him growing soft with ti... and peace.
Percival was standing with three other figures, a dashing young man with jet black hair and dark silver eyes. The silver glittered like the stars inside his iris.
’Aldric’
Judge did not know the guy; it seems Satan did for so reason. And the reason most likely was not a friendly one, considering that Aldric might be behind his friend’s demise.
The other was an adult, and he had a muscular build with a long scar that spanned across his face, over his left eye. But he still opened both his brown eyes with no problem whatsoever.
The guy was a complete mystery, he did not exactly let out a fearso, mysterious villain aura, but he gave the creeps.
Judge shivered unknowingly as he listened in on their conversation intently.
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