The Gods have gathered in the Council of Valhalla and have decided that it's humanity's time to face judgement day. However one man, King Solomon, has a plan to save them.
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Round one of Ragnarok had just ended, the mightiest angel of all had been brought to the brink, and there was not a single soul in Heaven who thought nothing of it.
"Why, why does such bloodshed have to occur?" Tsukuyomi cried to himself as he began dreading the future even further.
"WHAT? The man who taught me all I know, my only possible equal, gone?!" Lamented an armoured man from within his waiting room, who began clawing at the scruff of beard on his jaw, knees touching the ground.
"Huh, I could've sworn Lucifer's light got dimmer there." Commented a slender, elegant figure standing next to him; who finished eating a pastry before immediately taking another from a humongous stack piled atop a service trolley.
Meanwhile, as the crowds began to cheer and the bells rang across the heavens to announce the Gods' victory, a strange thing was happening in Lucifer's mind. The Seraphim was the pinnacle of the divine, the unstoppable, the uncontested, able to slay billions and think nothing of it.
So why did the image of that king linger in his brain?
But no, he shouldn't allow this notion to set. The Lucifer whose victory was being celebrated shouldn't let a mere human stay within his memory, and he wouldn't either. Lucifer recollected himself, resting on his spear, and began to slowly drag himself to the other side of the mountain of rubble that was once the arena. The light dragged particles of dust into the limelight, languid, like falling feathers. The remaining slabs of debris shattered under his heel, red on white, boots stained and ruined.
Except for the small segment that they fought their final clash on, the arena had been completely decimated. Where there was once ground, a seemingly bottomless chasm lingered. The once-mighty remains of Caliburn teetered on the chasm's edge as the last of its magic trickled away in the form of sublime dust, swept away by soft zephyr into a picture of serenity. The blade had shattered away with the death of Arthur, but its hilt remained as an eternal reminder of humanity's first champion.
"Greetings my Lord." Metatron said jovially as Lucifer entered the catacombs, a stutter in his gait. "Your performance today was truly spectacular! I trust you will want Caliburn's hilt added to your exquisite collection?"
"No." The angel muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes shut. "Give it to the Wizard."
"But why on earth should a mere human possess the legacy of such a magnificent blade?" Metatron questioned. "You won the battle my lord, you deserve the spoi-" "WHAT ARE YOU DOING!!!" An overpoweringly loud voice asked incredulously to the pair. "Lord Lucifer! You are in no state to stay and have idle chit chat. Get to the Infirmary IMMEDIATELY!"
The voice belonged to a young God, the luminary of medicine, Asclepius. He was the finest doctor in heaven, and would not tolerate seeing his lord wasting away.
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"And Metatron, stop crowding around Lord Lucifer while he is in such a state. Your overbearing fawning will only make his condition worse!" His anger flared at the young angel, who shulked back from the scolding.
