Placing my hand on the pillar, I felt a line draw itself across my palm. A perfect, painless cut—surgical, reverent. It didn't hurt. It recognized. It begged not for suffering, but for essence. For ichor. For the truth inside the blood.

And in return… it sang.

A resonance filled the space between moments. Numbers stopped—paused in the exacting stillness of perfect math. Silence cracked open, and from it poured a chorus. A choir of angels, not of light or fire, but of equation and law. Their voices were not wind, nor music—they were theorem made song.

And my eyes… they saw.

Thousands of beings, radiant and faceless, crowned with shifting geometry and cloaked in living scripture, stood aligned in impossible formations—heralding me. Not in worship. Not in fear. But in recognition.

They sang in verse, and I felt their limericks brand my soul.

Each and every stanza, each and every verse. I was free from burden. Free from curse. I was granted power, set ablaze— Only to be awoken, in yet another haze.

Their voices wove into me. My thoughts blurred, scattered. Language became rhythm. Meaning became meter.

Limerick and rhyme, my thoughts scattered more. I was trapped between thousands of voices, thousands of one door. I was trapped in time, never able to make a move. Because I was trapped in this lie, unable to prove.

And then I understood: their song was a key and a lock. They weren't just showing me truth—they were composing me anew. With every beat, they rewrote the rules of what I was.

The angels' song, bore into my mind. The angels' song, showed me what to find. The angels sang, giving me grief. Because the time that the angels sang, was too brief.

The chorus dimmed.

Not in sadness. In completion.

And then, like a brand sealed by sound, the system finally spoke.

<You have adopted the [Angelic Stranger] Skill System.> <Your [Mask of the Mysterious Stranger] has been updated to [Mask of the Seraphim].> <Your aura has become slightly angelic in nature.> <Your aura has become heavily aspected in Star, Dimension, Nature, and Crystal mana.> <Your mana has become heavily aligned with the denizens of <ORDER>.>

The song of angels had ended.

But its echo—its data—was written into my bones.

And that… that was just the beginning.

***

"Oh. That's… not good," Ria muttered, clutching her chest as if trying to steady her own heart. Her voice was thin—half a whisper, half a shiver.

"No. No, it isn't," Barbatos said, grimly. Her posture had stiffened, her hands twitching as though they'd been shocked by divine static. "Even I felt that. And I'm not exactly known for my sensitivity."

"Yeah," Ranah nodded slowly, her brows drawn tight. "Agreed. Really not good. Especially for you, Barbatos. Is he… is he going to make a contract with angels next?"

"Likely," Yore replied before the thought could settle. His tone was pure iron—steady, unmoved, practical. He crossed his massive arms over his furred chest, exhaling through his nose like a tired beast. "Though the real question is—how many more contracts can the boy even sustain?"

Barbatos's lips curved into a grimace that might have been a smile. "Six more from below," she said. "Seven from above."

All eyes in the room turned to her at once.

"What?" she said, throwing up her hands with a hint of sarcasm. "Technically, I am a demon. Just because I sided with humanity during the Grand War of Apotheosis doesn't mean I'm not still classified as one. It just means I'm not being actively hunted by celestial enforcers. Big difference."

Yore sighed. "So you're telling me the upper limit for spiritual binding is real? I always thought that was theoretical."

"Oh, it's real," Barbatos replied dryly. "Painfully so."

"Fantastic," Temptation muttered, rolling his eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn't launch out of his skull. "So what now? He's going to start acquiring a choir of halo-polishing seraphs?"

"I hate those guys," he added with a sneer. "They never let me have any fun."

"Your definition of fun is bombing entire enemy cities off the map," Ranah shot back, arms folded, tone sharp. "There's a reason they keep their distance."

Temptation just shrugged, unapologetic. "Collateral damage is a matter of perspective."

Ria didn't speak. She was staring at the space where Alexander had been, her eyes distant and unreadable. Whatever was happening in him—she was feeling the echo. Her soul was tangled in it. And something deep inside her, something primal and ancient, was waking up in response.

***

I awoke in my bed, drenched in sweat. Every fiber of my body felt like it had been set aflame—raw, electric, and trembling with something far beyond pain.

"A dream?" I croaked aloud, hoping for the lie.

Barbra shook her head slowly, her expression a mixture of concern and weariness. "No," she said softly. "Not a dream. A vision. One you've apparently been living out—piece by piece—for some time now."

She reached into her coat and retrieved a small, tarnished iron key. With a precise turn, she unlocked the metal cuffs binding me to the frame of the bed—shackles I hadn't even noticed until they clicked open.

"We'd tell you how long you were unconscious, but first… there are things I need to know," she continued, folding the key into her palm with practiced care. Her eyes, sharp and unflinching, searched mine for something deeper than words. "One in particular. Alexander… Yore. Yore is alive?"

"I… I guess?" I said, still dazed. The memory stung, fresh as a burn. "Big guy. Giant lion. Bad attitude. Threw me into some kind of runic torture chamber to force my system to awaken. Didn't seem too concerned about the damage it'd do to me."

Stolen story; please report.

Barbra exhaled through her nose, a sound between a scoff and a sigh. "Yes… that would be Yore," she said, her voice distant. "So. He did survive. After all this time. Hiding from me for centuries…"

There was a pause. Long, thoughtful. Her hands gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles pale.

"That's both… heartbreaking and warming," she whispered. "Bittersweet melancholy, I suppose."

I raised an eyebrow. "History?"

She nodded slowly. "You could say that. A long one. Complicated, like all things tied to war and love."

But her gaze sharpened again, pulling her back to the present. "Ultimately, this isn't about him. It's about you. What did you see, Alexander? I need to know. You were thrashing, burning with mana one second and freezing with miasma the next. You were bleeding runes."

I tried to find the words. I really did. But how do you describe something you no longer understood, even as you remembered it?

"I saw equations," I said slowly. "Formulas. Rows and rows of impossible math. They weren't just abstract—they were me. My body. My soul. My future. Every potential, every failure, every cost. It was like watching my existence being itemized."

Barbra's face tightened, but she didn't interrupt.

"And then… there was the pillar," I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. "Black. An Ebony. With hints of ivory. It rose in my vision as if summoned by the math. It asked me for something. Blood. My blood."

I held up my palm. The faintest scar remained. A line too clean, too intentional.

"I gave it willingly. And then… I heard them."

Barbra stiffened.

"A choir," I said. "Thousands of voices in perfect harmony. Not speaking to me—but singing me. Heralding something I can't describe. A title, maybe. A name. A path. They called me a Candidate for the Seraphim."

Her eyes went wide. Her jaw tightened in disbelief.

"You were called?" she breathed, her voice cracking at the edge.

I nodded. "I didn't ask for it. But I didn't resist it either."

Barbra stood up abruptly, pushing the chair back with a scrape of wood on stone. Her fingers ran through her hair as she paced once, twice, as if trying to shake off the weight of the revelation.

"That… That's not just rare," she muttered. "That's dangerous. That explains the flare. The resonance. Your aura is practically humming with celestial signatures now. Do you have any idea what that means?"

I didn't answer.

Because I had no idea.

Barbra turned back to me, her expression darkened with a seriousness I'd rarely seen from her—even in the thickest fog of war. This wasn't fear. It wasn't awe. It was something colder, deeper: wariness, laced with heartbreak.

"Alexander," she said slowly, deliberately, the word was a scalpel and she wasn't sure which incision might draw blood. "Being called by the Seraphim is not an honor. Not in the way people like to believe."

"But they sang to me," I murmured, my voice distant. "They welcomed me—heralded me. Like… like I was something meant for them."

"That's exactly what they do," Barbra snapped. "They make it feel divine. Like your soul was woven for their choir. But it's not a gift—it's a claim. Do you understand that? They sang because they think you belong to them now."

The room went still. Her voice echoed like a stone dropped into a silent lake. I flinched, not because she shouted—but because I knew she was right. Somewhere deep, in the marrow of my soul, I felt that claim pressing in like a brand waiting to be heated.

I sat up straighter in bed, even though my body still felt like it had been set on fire and dipped in ice. A sick weight settled in my chest. "Claimed…? Wait—what are they really? I thought angels were aligned with Order."

"They are," Barbra said, her voice cooling into something sharper. "But Order isn't the same as Good. Never make that mistake again."

She paused, then sat beside me, elbows on her knees, fingers steepled as if praying. But Barbra probably wasn't the praying kind. This was something heavier. Bracing herself, maybe. Or mourning.

"The Seraphim are old, Alexander. Old in a way that makes history books look like scribbles in the sand. They existed long before the Church tried to define them. Long before any of the Orders wrapped them in halos and gold leaf. They don't see mortals as allies or children. They see us as—"

"Tools?" I offered.

She hesitated, then nodded. "Not even that. Templates. Vessels. They don't just want your loyalty. They want your pattern. Your mana. Your thoughts. Your potential. They want to distill you into something 'perfect.' Something theirs."

I stared at her. The words sounded too large to be real—but I could still hear the song. Could still feel it under my skin. It hadn't left me. It hadn't stopped.

"So… possession?"

"Assimilation," she corrected softly. "You'll still look like you. You might even sound like you. But everything that deviates from their ideal? Burned away. Pruned like a garden. Until what's left is… angelic. By their definition."

Something sank in my chest. Like a stone dropped in oil.

"So what now? What do I do?" I asked, my voice smaller than I liked.

Barbra didn't answer right away. She looked at me with something like pity. And pride. And dread.

"First?" she said. "You survive. Then? You choose. That song you heard—it wasn't a coronation. It was an invitation. You're being recruited, Alexander. Not just welcomed. If you accept, they will come. And when they come, it won't be as patrons. It'll be as architects."

I felt the world tilt.

"And if I don't accept?" I whispered.

She exhaled sharply. "Then they'll test you. Over and over. They'll send proxies. Heralds. Dreams. Nightmares. Not to destroy you—but to measure you. To see if you'll bend… or break. And if you break? They'll rebuild you. The right way."

The room grew heavier, as though gravity had shifted its allegiance.

"They're from ORDER, Alexander. Which means they don't rage. They correct. Mercilessly."

My mind spun with fragments: the glowing pillar, the painless bloodletting, the symphony of voices singing in limerick and verse. The beautiful, blinding lie that made me feel holy for a second.

I clenched my fists. "I didn't ask for this."

"No one does," she replied. "The question isn't whether you asked. The question is whether you'll let them write your story for you."

There was silence for a moment. The type that isn't empty, but pregnant—with consequence, with knowing, with the sound of fate clicking into place.

Barbra stood again, brushing her coat down, her posture soldier-straight. "I'll gather the others. You're going to need guidance, and protection. Because make no mistake, Alexander—whether you say yes or no, this marks you. You're a player on a board none of us can even see. And the Seraphim don't play fair."

I nodded slowly. The fire in my veins hadn't cooled, but now I knew its name.

Not madness.

Not divine inspiration.

Not power.

Pressure.

"Barbra," I said quietly.

She turned at the door.

"If I accept them," I asked, "do I lose you?"

She blinked, startled—then smiled, small and sad. "If you choose them?" she said. "Maybe. But if they take you?"

Her voice dropped.

"Then I'll burn down the heavens to get you back."

And with that, she left.

The song echoed again in my skull. Not louder—but clearer. It was no longer just beauty. It was instruction. A calculus of divinity. An equation that would rewrite me from the inside out, unless I solved it before it solved me.

I was no longer just Alexander Duarte.

I was a candidate.

Marked.

Measured.

And now—I had to decide if I would answer the call.

Or if I would rewrite the choir.

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