Meanwhile up above.

The clang of metal still rang faintly across the temple gaurds training ground, long after Luther and Mariana had left. Dust floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the archways, and for a long while, the world below was silent.

Then—

A ripple ran across the air, like a pebble dropped into a still pond.

And high above, beyond mortal clouds, the heavens stirred.

Piern stood at the edge of a floating platform of crystalline glass, his massive wings folded neatly behind his back. The white feathers glimmered faintly under the light of the Empyreal Sun—so bright it could burn mortal eyes to dust.

Below him, suspended like a painting, was the world of men: a tapestry of clouds, mountains, and empires… and right now, one singular idiot lying face-first in the training field with a sword yelling insults at him.

Piern sighed deeply.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, rubbing his temple with one gloved hand. "He threw me. He threw me like a sack of grain."

He scowled, remembering how Luther had grabbed him—an angel of high order, no less—and tossed him halfway across a garden like it was a tuesday.

A soft, melodic chuckle broke the silence.

"Still brooding, Piern?"

The voice was smooth, like wind flowing through silver strings. Piern turned to find Asmethan, seated lazily on a high throne of moonstone and ivy, legs crossed, chin resting on her knuckles. Her presence distorted light itself—half her face hidden in shadow, the other glowing faintly gold.

In her current form, she looked like a man: tall, regal, with hair white as frost and eyes that shimmered between lilac and silver. But there was something unmistakably feminine beneath the illusion—a poise too graceful, too deliberate to be masculine.

Piern bowed stiffly. "Lady Asmethan."

"Please," she said with a faint smirk, "I told you—drop the formalities. You make me feel ancient."

"You are ancient," he said without missing a beat.

Her eyes narrowed playfully. "Careful, little bird. I can still pluck those wings."

Piern winced and straightened immediately, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "tyrant."

"I am a tyrant but it's not like I'll allow the mortals to know I'm a female tyrant"

"Only men can be tyrants" she giggled amused.

Asmethan leaned forward, her gaze turning toward the vision pool before them. The image shimmered and focused—showing Luther sitting cross-legged in the courtyard, still scolding his sentient sword like a tired teacher dealing with an impossible student.

The sword was complaining loudly about "holy light giving it rashes."

Luther was poking it with a stick.

It's form back to normal length.

Asmethan's lips curved upward in quiet amusement. "He's… quite the peculiar mortal, isn't he?"

"Peculiar?" Piern's feathers bristled. "He bodyslammed me into a garden pillar and then lectured me about 'personal space.' The man's a lunatic."

"Mm," she hummed. "That's true. But a refreshing lunatic."

Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp—like someone looking through layers of existence itself.

She watched Luther with interest, seeing beyond the surface: the faint golden threads of divinity that clung stubbornly to his soul, refusing to fade. "He shouldn't have survived the being ripped from his world," she murmured. "And yet, there he is—laughing, shouting, annoying everyone in sight."

Piern frowned. "You make it sound like a virtue."

"Sometimes chaos is divine," Asmethan said simply. "Especially when it mocks the heavens."

He blinked. "You're encouraging this?"

Asmethan shrugged. "Mortals need madness to survive destiny."

Below, the scene in the courtyard grew even more ridiculous.

The sword had decided to lecture Luther on "proper hero etiquette," to which Luther responded by threatening to melt it down into a butter knife.

Piern groaned audibly. "This… this is who you've placed divine favor upon?"

"Not favor," Asmethan corrected gently. "A thread."

Piern raised a brow. "A thread?"

"Yes. His life is… tangled in something larger. You've felt it too, haven't you?"

Yes I have...

Your reputation not going down the drain

But Piern hesitated, watching the mortal's golden aura flicker faintly in the vision pool. There was something strange about it. Not purely holy, not entirely corrupted. A mix—unstable, yet powerful.

"He reeks of both blessing and blasphemy," Piern said.

"That's what makes him fascinating."

Asmethan leaned back, stretching her limbs with the languid grace of a cat. Her illusion flickered for a moment—revealing the faint outline of her true form: ethereal and radiant, hair cascading like liquid moonlight, voice echoing with the tone of countless lives.

She caught Piern's fleeting glance and smirked. "See something you like?"

He flushed and looked away quickly. "You're impossible."

"Thank you," she said sweetly.

Piern returned his gaze to the mortal. "He doesn't even act like a saint. He mocks the divine, argues with cursed relics, and breaks sacred protocol daily."

"Yes," Asmethan murmured. "That's why the gods took notice."

He shot her a look. "You mean you took notice."

She didn't deny it. "He's unpredictable. I enjoy unpredictable things."

Down below, Luther was now pacing circles around the sword, grumbling under his breath.

"Talking swords, glowing staffs, angels falling from ceilings… what next? A horse that sings lullabies?"

The sword snorted.

"I could find you one. Would you like it in white or cursed black?"

Luther squinted.

"Shut up before I sell you to a blacksmith."

"You wouldn't dare—"

"Try me."

The two bickered like a married couple while Piern watched in disbelief. "He's mocking a demonic relic."

"He's taming it," Asmethan corrected. "There's a difference."

Piern rubbed his temple again. "Taming it by kicking it across the room?"

"Effective, isn't it?"

The angel made a noise halfway between outrage and resignation. "You are the most infuriating deity I've ever met."

Asmethan laughed softly, the sound melodic and ancient. "You've only met a handful. The rest would bore you to death."

For a moment, they both fell silent, watching the mortal below finally flop backward onto the grass, exhausted, his cloak fluttering beside him.

Piern sighed. "He hides his pain well."

"Of course he does," Asmethan said quietly. "He's been raised in suffering. Mockery is the only way he knows to keep breathing."

Her tone softened—no longer teasing, but wistful. "He reminds me of someone I once knew."

"Someone mortal?"

A pause. Then, almost reluctantly, she nodded. "Once."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Then Piern cleared his throat awkwardly. "So, what now? You plan to just… watch him mock heaven for the rest of his life?"

Asmethan chuckled. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll see how far his madness can go before the gods break him."

"Cruel," Piern muttered.

"Honest," she replied. "He was born in defiance. Why rob him of it?"

The air shimmered again. This time, not from Asmethan's power—but from something brighter. Sweeter.

A voice echoed through the heavens before the form appeared.

"Oh, Asmethaaaan!"

Piern froze mid-sigh.

Asmethan groaned audibly. "Oh, for the love of creation…"

The doors to her chamber burst open in a shower of pink petals and radiant sparkles.

And through them waltzed a woman of absurd beauty—long rose-gold hair, crystalline eyes, and a gown made entirely of light and perfume. She twirled once dramatically before pointing a delicate finger at Asmethan.

"I have fallen in love!" she declared in a sing-song voice.

The silence that followed could have cracked a mountain.

Piern buried his face in his hands.

Asmethan just blinked slowly, visibly restraining herself. "…with who, this time?"

The goddess clasped her hands dreamily. "With him!"

The vision pool shimmered—and there, frozen mid-yawn, was Luther.

Piern made a choking sound. "Oh no."

"Oh yes!" the goddess of beauty cooed, spinning in delight. "He's rugged, tragic, and has the perfect balance of dark circles and apathy. I can fix him."

Asmethan groaned into her hands. "Here we go again."

The goddess ignored her. "I mean, look at him! That careless arrogance! That disdain for perfection! It's raw art!"

"Raw stupidity," Piern muttered under his breath.

"Exactly!" she chirped. "A flawed masterpiece!"

Asmethan pinched the bridge of her nose. "You fell in love with a mortal last week. You cried for two days when he got married."

"That was different! He didn't have a talking sword!"

Piern whispered to himself, "I think I understand why the mortals drink."

Asmethan sighed, sitting upright. "Listen, Iris—"

"That's Lady Iris, Goddess of Beauty and Passion, to you," the goddess said, flipping her hair dramatically.

"Right. Lady Iris," Asmethan said through clenched teeth. "You can't just fall in love with every mortal who looks interesting."

"I can and I did!"

"You can't!"

"I did!"

Piern whispered, "Should I intervene?"

Asmethan shot him a look that could curdle milk. "Don't you dare."

He wisely stayed silent.

Down below, Luther sneezed violently in his sleep, muttering something about "annoying perfume."

The sword beside him groaned.

"Who's talking about you now?"

"Hopefully no one I owe money to," Luther mumbled.

Asmethan rubbed her temples. "Wonderful. He's allergic to goddesses."

"That makes him more appealing!" Iris beamed. "A man immune to charm! I must meet him!"

"Over my dead halo," Piern said flatly.

"Tempting offer," she teased.

Asmethan let out the slowest exhale in celestial history. "Why do I even bother managing the heavens?"

"Because you love chaos," Iris sang, skipping over to peer into the vision pool. "And he's pure chaos wrapped in a mortal shell. You can't deny it!"

Asmethan said nothing, her eyes fixed once more on the sleeping Luther. For just a moment, her smile softened.

"Maybe," she murmured. "But chaos always has a price."

And far below, Luther turned in his sleep—unaware that three divine beings were currently arguing over his existence.

The sword mumbled from beside him, "You're doomed, you know that?"

Luther yawned. "Story of my life."

He rolled over and went right back to snoring

—-

Just as, in the heavens above, Iris slammed her hands dramatically on Asmethan's table.

"I'm going down there," she declared.

Piern groaned. "Oh no, not again—"

"I'm going to make him fall in love with me!" she sang.

And before Asmethan could stop her—light exploded, scattering like fireworks through the clouds.

Asmethan sat back, hand covering her face. "...She's going to terrify him."

Piern muttered, "He deserves it."

The goddess's laughter echoed faintly as her light vanished into the mortal world.

Asmethan glanced once more at the sleeping Luther and sighed with a tiny, defeated smile.

"Good luck, mortal. You're going to need it."

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