A week passed.
The boys and Leonel sensed imnse mana fluctuations coming from the lab. Without hesitation, they rushed toward it, the intensity of the energy making the air around them feel thick, almost suffocating. It wasn’t just magic. It was sothing deeper, sothing primal.
Three days prior, they had carefully transferred the golden cocoon back to the lab, ensuring that Damon’s transformation would take place in a controlled environnt. But now, as they arrived at the entrance, it was clear—this was beyond their control.
The mont they stepped inside, they saw it.
The cocoon, once pristine and golden, was now covered in cracks. Thin fractures stretched across its surface like veins of lightning, pulsing with a strange radiance. The energy within surged wildly, as if sothing inside was struggling to break free.
Then, all at once, the cracks widened.
A set of arms tore through the shell, shattering it like fragile glass. Golden fragnts disintegrated into the air, swirling in an unnatural motion before vanishing completely. In the midst of it all, the figure at the center finally erged.
Damon.
But the transformation was not yet complete.
The remnants of the cocoon didn’t fall away like ordinary debris. Instead, they lifted into the air, shimring as they spiraled toward him. He inhaled deeply, and the particles rushed into his mouth, absorbed as though they were always ant to be a part of him.
Then, his eyes opened.
For the first ti, the boys truly saw him.
His wings unfurled behind him, vast and radiant.
At that exact mont, across the realms, every Demon, Angel, and Neo-Nephilim paused.
The Demons and Angels, locked in their eternal struggle, felt sothing stir within their souls—a sensation they could not na, but one that filled them with unease. Sothing terrifying had been reborn. The Neo-Nephilim, on the other hand, felt sothing else entirely. A new presence. A new kin.
Zeke, Castiel, and Leonel stared at Damon, their expressions unreadable.
He was nothing like a normal Neo-Nephilim.
His hair was a dark shade of purple, almost unnatural in its depth, shifting ever so slightly under the dim lab lights. His eyes were black voids, unreadable and endless. A single, curved horn jutted from his right temple, gleaming faintly. Like Zeke and Castiel, he had four arms. But even with these features, there was one thing that truly set him apart.
His wings.
They were unlike anything the trio had ever seen.
Unlike their own draconic wings, Damon’s were an impossible fusion of two vastly different beings.
A blend of fairy wings... and phoenix wings.
They were breathtaking.
Grand and majestic, his wings radiated an ethereal beauty that felt almost unreal. Their expansive form shimred with deep purples, rich blues, and streaks of shimring gold, interwoven with iridescent pinks and violets that shifted with every movent. Each feather, intricately layered, bore delicate gold filigree patterns, as if crafted by divine hands.
A faint glow lined the edges, pulsating like a heartbeat. The colors did not simply stay still—they flowed, morphing ever so subtly as if they were alive, responding to sothing unseen. A celestial force infused them, making them feel less like wings and more like sothing cosmic.
Zeke swallowed hard.
These wings... they reminded him of sothing.
A tale that Mael had once told him.
The legend of the Supre Gods. The real ones.
Before ti had aning, before history had nas, there was a being of pure creation. It did not rule. It did not demand worship. It simply created. Its breath brought forth life. Its hands shaped existence.
But all things, no matter how great, must one day end.
Without warning or explanation, the Creator ascended, vanishing from the cosmos, leaving behind only its five sons: Michael, Samael, Uriel, Gabriel, and Raphael.
For a ti, the five brothers remained together, bound by blood and purpose. But unity never lasts.
Ambition took root.
Each believed themselves the rightful heir to their father’s legacy. And so, war erupted. A war so fierce that the heavens themselves trembled, and the stars wept.
Uriel, Gabriel, and Raphael perished in the conflict, their divine essence shattered across the cosmos. Only Michael and Samael remained. Yet instead of continuing their blind battle, they sought a different way to prove their worth.
The Creator had not been a ruler—he had been a giver of life. If they wished to inherit his power, they would not conquer.
They would create.
Thus, they made a wager: each would forge a race in their own image. The superior race would determine the victor.
Samael turned to the dragons, creatures of wisdom and hunger. He studied them, unraveled their essence, and from their boundless curiosity, he forged the Demons—beings of insatiable ambition and relentless pursuit of knowledge.
Michael turned to the phoenixes, eternal warriors of fire and rebirth. He captured them, reshaped them, and from their ashes, he created the Angels—beings of absolute discipline, soldiers bound to unwavering purpose.
Their creations were powerful. But incomplete.
Sothing was missing.
In their final attempt to perfect their races, Michael and Samael sought to imbue them with sothing beyond re existence—sothing divine.
But sothing went wrong.
Perhaps it was a mistake. Perhaps it was the will of sothing greater.
Instead of blessing their creations, they bound themselves to them.
Michael’s soul fractured, rging with the Angels. His will beca theirs, his voice whispering in every warrior. Samael’s essence was absorbed into the Demons, his hunger for truth echoing through every generation.
Neither won. Neither lost. They simply... beca.
And so, their war never ended.
It was no longer a battle between two brothers—it was woven into the very fabric of their creations. Angels and Demons fought not by choice, but because it was their nature. Written into their blood, their souls, their existence.
Centuries passed, and the origins of their conflict faded into myth. Angels believed themselves divine warriors, fulfilling a holy duty. Demons saw themselves as seekers of ultimate truth.
Few rembered that they had once been brothers.
Zeke had always thought of the story as re legend. A tale spun to justify the blood feud between the two races.
But looking at Damon now...
Sothing about him—his presence, his wings—suggested otherwise.
It also explained so of their Innate Skills.
Zeke took a steadying breath and finally spoke.
"Damon, how do you feel?"
Damon flexed his fingers, clenching and unclenching his fists. The extra limbs were a strange sensation—instinctive yet unfamiliar. He gave a slight shift, trying to move his wings
And imdiately crashed into the wall in front of him.
Castiel rushed forward, concern flashing across his face, but then he stopped.
Damon, sprawled against the floor, was grinning like an idiot.
"I’m fine," he said, his voice laced with exhilaration.
And for the first ti since the transformation began, the tension in the room shattered.
Castiel let out a breath and smirked.
"Yeah. I think you’ll be just fine."
Reviews
All reviews (0)