A week passed in the blink of an eye.
In the cold void before the Eighth Earth, the contract materialized—a vast monolith of blackened stone and living infernal script, towering larger than mountains, suspended weightless between the planet and the stars. Golden runes crawled across its surface like veins of fire, and at its center burned a single, rciless countdown.
One hour remained.
Then, from Earth’s shadowed curve, figures rose.
Father Black led them, cloak snapping in solar winds that no longer carried warmth. Beside him flew Perseu, his expression was grim—then Kanada, Crusher, Athena with her glow, and finally King Alexander the Great, armor radiant, eyes burning with the unquenched fire of a conqueror who had already died once and refused to stay dead.
Each one of them formidable.
Cosmic energy cloaked them all, as their auras flared like newborn suns.
At their flanks hovered Odin riding upon Sleipnir.
After seeing Michael on his mount the last ti, he too wanted to display his power, and the fact that his mounth had eighth legs.
His one eye glead beneath his wide-brimd hat, Gungnir resting easy in his grip;
Deter flew beside him, golden wheat stirring in her wake even in the vacuum, her face stern with fury of a woman that had her man’s back.
Opposite them, Heaven’s host advanced.
Ranks upon ranks of angels on winged mounts of pure light, armor blazing, trumpets silent but ready. At their fore rode Michael—tall, terrible, sword already drawn and flaming. His face was stone, but his eyes carried the weight of millennia of obedience.
Gabriel drifted forward alone, wings folded, with that trumpet at his side, he strucked from ti to ti, weighing Lucifer’swords carefully.
Of course, none knew.
He stopped an arm’s length from Father Black, gazing down at the mortal-turned-regent with cold disdain.
"Have you made your choice, ant?" Gabriel asked, voice carrying effortlessly through the void, ringing across every watching realm.
Father Black’s lips curved into a smirk—sharper, more arrogant than it had been only days ago. He did not even grant Gabriel the courtesy of his gaze.
Instead, he turned deliberately toward the dead sun, where Lucifer still lounged upon his golden throne, wings half-spread, watching with lazy interest.
"We are going to sign the contract," Father Black declared, voice calm, absolute.
A ripple of shock rolled outward. On Earth, billions watching through broadcast arrays gasped and murmured, fear and confusion sweeping cities like a tide. In distant galaxies, ancient beings leaned forward. Even the fallen angels around Lucifer shifted—most chuckling cockily.
But he was not done. He knew what they were thinking.
But Father Black would not be in the position he was if he was not capable of thinking like a seasoned politician.
Especially now that his confidence had been boosted by the knowledge that Lenny was watching, having his back.
Since it had co to this, and these ’vampires’ wanted to take a bite out of his ho, then he would take advantage of the opportunity.
Even right now, he was barely holding back the need to smirk in amusent. But he had to hold back.
The show must continue.
Father Black raised a hand for silence.
When he was sure attention had been pulled back to him, he spoke.
"However," he continued, eyes sweeping the assembled hosts, "I have conditions."
He paused, letting the void itself hold its breath.
’Conditions!?’
Many could not help but think how idiotic this was. Why would the losing party have conditions?
Even more. Who would care for his conditions?
Many thought he was just stalling for an end he could not avoid.
But then he added.
"This challenge will decide Earth’s fate. Therefore, Earth will decide who fights for it."
Perseus glanced sideways, brow furrowing—wondering, like everyone else, what the old war-dog was planning.
Father Black’s voice rang clearer still.
"We will hold our own tournant. Open to all willing to defend Earth. From the least of the lesser demons to the pinnacle of power. One champion for each rank of the realms and not one to represent the entire realm—from the lowest rung to the Morningstar’s own peak."
Murmurs erupted everywhere—on Earth’s screens, in Heaven’s ranks, across Lucifer’s court.
’A Morningstar representative?’ Earth had no such being.
And they were right. If Earth did, they would not be forced into such a situation in the first place.
Lucifer knew this. Still curiosity.
Lucifer himself arched a single brow, leaning forward slightly on his throne, genuine curiosity flickering in his golden eyes.
"But you do not even have a Morningstar," he called, voice warm with amusent.
Father Black ignored him completely.
Naturally, this pissed off Seraphina, but she held herself back.
It was not like she could do anything to the Regent at the mont.
He turned at last to Gabriel, eting the archangel’s burning gaze without flinching.
"That covers our first offer," he said coolly.
Then, louder, so every ear in the void could hear:
"Here is our second. Join Earth. Fight with us... against Lucifer."
Silence fell—absolute, stunned, shattering.
Michael’s sword dipped a fraction, flas guttering as though a wind had struck them. His perfect composure cracked; eyes widened, mouth parting in disbelief that bordered on outrage.
Gabriel froze mid-breath. For the first ti in recorded eternity, the Herald’s mask slipped—shock raw and naked across his features, white fire in his wings flaring wildly before he forced it down.
Far away, upon his throne, Lucifer’s lazy posture went rigid.
One wing twitched. His golden eyes narrowed, then widened—not in anger, but in pure, electric surprise. The smirk that had lived on his lips for eons faltered, replaced by sothing far rarer: genuine astonishnt.
But the people surprised the most were those that had arrived with him.
After all, Father Black had not had this conversation with them. Simply stating that he was going to handle it.
But was this handling it?
(Author’s note: Please bless the book with a Super gift. And I’ll upload in mass. Thank you in advance for you generosity.)
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