Amael stood there in front of Lisandra.

His silver hair whipped in the force of the shockwave, strands glinting like molten light in the glow of Metatron's aura.

In his hands was his blade—a silver sword, raised high, its edge locked perfectly against Metatron's massive weapon. He had parried the impossible. Cancelled the guardian's attack entirely.

The pond rippled behind them.

Lisandra could only stare at his back.

"You destroyed my camp, Metatron," Amael said as his silver eyes lifted to meet those blinding golden ones.

The guardian's eyes glowed brighter, unreadable, before its blade rose again for another swing.

Amael's brow creased.

"Get away," he ordered Lisandra without looking back.

But no answer came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her stagger, her vision swimming before her knees buckled.

"Damn it" Amael groaned. In one smooth motion, he caught her against him and leapt away just as—

-BOOOOM!

The ground where they had been standing erupted into ruin.

Amael's silver right eye flickered faintly, the pupil narrowing, and suddenly the world slowed around him. The flow of time bent, each movement of Metatron's titanic blade rendered in perfect clarity. His eye traced the path of destruction, calculating, sharpening, until—

A flash.

He struck.

His sword, infused with raw Divinity, slammed against the precise point.

-CRACK!

The guardian's massive sword split apart, shards of divine metal scattering through the air as the broken tip spun off and crashed into the forest.

Amael didn't hesitate.

Channeling in his Falkrona Core bloodline, his body surged with impossible speed, wings of force carrying him across the skies. He flew Lisandra to safety, placing her gently inside a small hut hidden deep within layers of secret wards.

For a moment, he lingered, looking down at her unconscious form. Then without another thought, he turned, kicked off the ground, and soared back into the chaos.

"You're out of control, Metatron," he called out.

The guardian didn't answer. Its wings spread wide, radiating golden fire, before it launched itself forward, blade gleaming with murderous intent.

Amael met its charge head-on, his silver sword flashing as their weapons collided again.

-BOOOOOOM!

The impact tore through the earth, shockwaves uprooting entire swathes of forest. Hundreds of trees lifted like twigs, flung aside as if they weighed nothing. Stones shattered, the ground split, and the world itself seemed to recoil at their clash.

Amael grimaced as he leapt back.

'This won't do. Not here. Not like this.'

The fight between beings of their level was barely within the restrictions. He was a Demigod of Blood and he wielded Divinity—one misstep, one indulgence of power, and the consequences would ripple across the world. And worse: mortals were too close. If he wasn't careful, their fight would wipe out every living soul within miles.

"Metatron!" He shouted again, hoping for even a flicker of recognition.

But the guardian's eyes were blank. It didn't recognize Nihil's blood that flowed in him. Didn't care.

"Why the hell am I the one dealing with this!?" Amael snapped, glaring up at the heavens. "Michael! You're the one who gave Metatron to Celesta—get your ass here!"

Silence.

Of course, Michael wasn't coming. Even if he'd heard, he'd probably just sit back, watch, and smile. Entertainment—that's all it would be to him.

Amael clicked his tongue once more, then shot forward again, intercepting the guardian mid-strike. Their clash lit up the skies, the sound of steel and divinity echoing like thunder.

The battle raged on, tearing through half the forest. Blades howled through the air, cutting through earth and sky alike. Every strike was a catastrophe, every clash a disaster given shape. Amael forced the fight higher and higher, dragging Metatron into the sky where mortals couldn't be caught in the storm of their power.

Minutes bled into half an hour.

Finally, they broke apart.

Metatron stood with its massive frame scarred—deep cuts slashed across its body, golden ichor leaking as parts of its head armor were cleaved away.

Amael faced it from across the battlefield, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temple. Blood stained his clothes, wounds carved across his body. But as his left eye glowed, a silver light wrapped around him. Slowly the wounds closed, knitting back together as if refusing to let him fall.

Metatron raised its weapon again—but then, as if something inside finally gave out, its head dipped. With an inhuman groan, the giant fell, crashing into the earth with a force that shook the land and carved a crater into the forest.

Amael descended carefully, silver eyes narrowing as he looked at the unmoving guardian.

Then, after a long silence, he looked up into the empty sky. His voice was cold. "Take care of it."

He knew someone would have noticed Metatron's awakening. Someone would come. That was enough.

Amael didn't waste another second. He turned his back, his figure vanishing into the trees as he returned to his hut, to Lisandra.

Lisandra lay motionless on his bed, her breath shallow and her skin pale.

"Lisandra Arvatra," Amael muttered under his breath.

He'd heard about her before—even back on Falkrona Island, whispers of her name alongside Alphonse's. But he had never paid them much mind. His father had trained his gaze beyond the petty scale of the mortal world, forcing him to see how small, fragile, and insignificant this place really was.

Mortal affairs rarely earned his attention.

And yet… here she was.

Amael hesitated, hand hovering above her, unsure if he should even touch her. But hesitation was a luxury he didn't have. Her body needed treatment—quickly. Fragments of her broken armor had embedded themselves into her flesh, jagged edges still pressed against her skin.

He let out a quiet sigh, rolling his shoulders. "Fine."

It took him nearly ten painstaking minutes to remove the armor, piece by piece. Some shards clung stubbornly, lodged deep into her skin. Every time he pulled one free, blood welled up anew. His silver eye glowed faintly, scanning, calculating, making sure he didn't cause more harm. When the last shard fell to the floor with a dull sound, he finally allowed himself a moment to exhale.

Channeling the power of his left eye, Amael coaxed her wounds to close. Silver light shimmered across her body, sealing cuts, knitting torn flesh, easing broken bones. Her breathing steadied. Color slowly returned to her face.

But even his power had its limits.

Her left eye… was gone.

Amael sat there for a long moment bandaging the injury as carefully as he could. He healed what tissue he could, sealed the bleeding, wrapped the wound in layers of clean cloth—but the eye itself was beyond even him. He couldn't bring it back.

He swept his gaze down her figure. Beneath the shattered armor, she still wore a tunic skirt, though it was tattered, stained with dried blood and dirt. She needed a full washing—her whole body carried the grime of battle. But Amael stopped himself. He wasn't about to do that.

He ran a hand through his hair, scowling at himself. "I'm a man… a virgin man at that. My virginity belongs to Ephera in fact," he muttered under his breath.

Also…

Belle's voice echoed in his memory, clear as day: Always take care of women. Respect them. Never cross that line.

Not that he had the intention. He was too aware of how it would look. So he simply turned away from the thought and let the silence of the hut settle again.

A flutter of wings broke it.

A falcon swooped in through the wards, perching gracefully on Amael's arm. Its feathers shimmered in the light, and it tilted its head as it chirped a message only he understood.

Amael smiled faintly. "Bring her here," he said softly. With a beat of its wings, the falcon vanished into the sky.

Ten minutes later, the door slammed open.

"L…Lisandra!!" Alphonse barged inside. Her eyes locked on her wounded companion, then flicked to Amael—and in an instant, her hand went for her sword.

"Calm down," Amael said, raising a hand.

Alphonse froze, narrowing her eyes, looked at the scene. Her breathing slowed as she processed what she was seeing—Lisandra alive, resting, no harm done.

"She's resting," Amael said, nodding toward the bed. "There's water in the bucket. Wash the blood and dirt off her, and give her proper clothes if you have them."

He didn't wait for her reply. Turning on his heel, he left the hut, leaving the two of them alone.

Outside, the air felt cleaner. He stretched his arms, inhaling deeply, savoring the crisp scent of the forest. For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like to live here forever, peacefully, with Ephera. A quiet, eternal life in the woods. But reality always clawed its way back—he doubted such peace would ever be his. Not anytime soon.

Several minutes later, Alphonse emerged. Her eyes had softened, though her wariness hadn't vanished entirely.

"Thank you… for taking care of her," she said, walking toward him.

Amael didn't waste time on pleasantries. "Who activated Metatron?" He asked.

Alphonse lowered her gaze, guilt flickering across her face. "The Church."

"Of course…" Amael's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "Those fanatics of Eden are everywhere. Like rot."

Alphonse's eyes sharpened suddenly. "Who are you… and what happened to Metatron?"

"I already told you who I am," Amael replied, his tone dismissive. "As for the second… I don't know. Now, once she's able to stand, take her and leave."

"Why did you help her," Alphonse asked in return, "if you don't want to get involved with anyone to begin with?"

Amael gave her a sidelong glance. "Because I wanted to."

Before Alphonse could respond, the faint creak of a door broke the silence.

Lisandra appeared in the doorway, dressed in a clean white tunic that hung loose against her slender frame. She walked forward, her steps unsteady, her body swaying as though the ground beneath her shifted.

"Lisandra…" Alphonse's voice softened, her eyes widening as they fixed on her companion's face. The bandages over Lisandra's left eye were in her sigh. The eye itself was gone—closed forever.

"It's not your fault," Lisandra whispered before Alphonse could speak further. Her voice carried no accusation, but it didn't wash away the guilt twisting in Alphonse's chest. She reached Lisandra just in time to catch her as she nearly stumbled.

"Thanks…" Lisandra murmured faintly, leaning against her. "And thank you…" She said to Amael."

"Thank me by leaving this place quickly."

Lisandra's gaze shifted toward him, her single visible eye narrowing. "Why did you save me?" She asked.

Amael grumbled.

'Always with the questions…'

He didn't need them lingering here. He needed them gone. But how to drive them away quickly without resorting to force?

Then he remembered something his mother had once told him, in that matter-of-fact way of hers: Women aren't drawn to creeps. They're frightened of them. Keep that in mind, Amael.

'Fine. If that's what it takes.'

As a mama-boy Amael took action.

He stepped closer to Lisandra, his silver eyes locked onto hers.

"I fell in love with you at first sight," he said.

Both Lisandra and Alphonse froze, their bodies stiffening.

Amael leaned slightly forward, lowering his voice, adding the finishing blow. "That moment I saw you naked in my pond."

Lisandra's face erupted crimson. Her hand flew up in outrage, trembling between fury and embarrassment. "Y–You… you pervert!!"

Her fist lashed out instinctively, but Amael had already leaned back, slipping past her strike with ease. He didn't even bother replying, simply turning and walking back into his hut, his expression perfectly calm.

Behind him, he could hear the muffled sound of Lisandra's furious muttering and Alphonse's hurried attempts to calm her down. Their voices carried a mix of indignation and disbelief, but before long, their footsteps retreated.

And then silence.

Amael allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. "Now, they're gone."

He had no idea, of course, that his little improvisation had done the opposite of what he intended. Rather than scaring them away for good, he had planted a complication that would only worsen his situation later. Blissfully unaware of that, he stretched his arms and turned his thoughts elsewhere.

"Right," he mumbled to himself, a genuine smile touching his lips for the first time that day. "It's time to see Vysindra."

With that, he stepped out of the hut. Mana surged through him as he leapt into the skies, the forest shrinking beneath his soaring form. His destination lay far beyond—the untamed lands ruled by Dragons.

Vysindra.

One of the very few Amael could truly call a friend.

While the rest of the world cowered in fear of the dragon's cursed, destructive purple flames, Amael never had. He had stood beside Vysindra, even helped him wrestle control over the unruly fire—a fire whispered to be tied to the ancient Sin of Wrath itself.

Nihil had warned him time and again, ordering him to stay away. To cut ties. To let the dragon fend for himself.

But Amael never listened. And he had no intention of starting now.

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