The Originals

The Devotees

The wind carried the scent of smoke and soil.

Asmodeus stood at the crest of a withered hill, overlooking a valley where life once thrived. The Colony of Wealth had been known for its beauty—rolling fields, lush farms, river-fed towns. But now, the ground was splotched with ash and rot. What remained of the trees bent unnaturally, as if flinching from something unseen.

Below, a camp sprawled across the valley basin.

Tents stretched in perfect symmetry. Fences of glowing wire marked its borders. Banners fluttered overhead—white and gold, stamped with a three-winged sigil: Michael's emblem.

Civilians filed in lines between booths, sleeves rolled up, necks bared. They moved like cattle, calm, smiling, eyes too bright.

He could smell it from here: Fluid.

And something worse.

He descended silently, a shadow beneath the horizon.

As he neared the entrance, he passed a man—bare-chested, pale, veins glowing faintly blue. The man stared straight ahead, lips murmuring something between a hymn and a growl. His eyes had no irises. Just rings of silver.

"Devotees," Asmodeus muttered. "Willing offerings."

A large injection tent sat at the center of camp. Inside, men and women lined up before giant brass vats of Fluid, their surfaces rippling like quicksilver. Priests in gilded robes—each adorned with luminous halos—moved between the lines, administering the substance.

But it wasn't just Fluid anymore.

He could feel it.

Michael's Gift had taken root.

Every syringe carried not just enhancement, but a sliver of Heaven twisted into poison.

A sudden hush rolled across the camp.

Asmodeus turned—every neck had craned toward the far platform.

A man was descending from the sky.

Not floating.

Descending—like a blade dropped from Heaven.

He landed with force but no sound. The crowd knelt immediately, even the Fluided ones, as if his presence compelled obedience.

Asmodeus watched from the shadows.

The being stood tall—nearly seven feet. His armor was dulled silver, cracked in places like old porcelain. Six wings lay folded behind his back, feathered but ashen, some tattered, some skeletal. Where light should have poured from him, there was instead a hollow glow, as if something sacred had been pulled inside out.

His face was human, but wrong. Too symmetrical. His eyes, once golden, had faded to pale yellow, rimmed in red. His hair was streaked with white, braided and tied back in soldier's fashion.

Across his bare chest, a sigil burned: the name "Zerachiel."

Zerachiel.

Asmodeus felt something twist inside him.

He remembered that name.

A marshal of judgment during the War of Eden. One of the seven Archangels tasked with weighing souls, purging chaos, balancing wrath with order. But during the war, Zerachiel had sided with Michael too fiercely—turning balance into conquest.

He had been banished when even Heaven recoiled from the brutality of his justice.

Yet here he stood.