Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

World: The Primordial Earth.

Location: Adam's Cabin Four Hours Away From Uruk, the First City

POV: Third-Person

OST: Sad Piano (Free Music) - "Stillstand" by @Myuu 🇺🇸

Nine hundred and thirty years had passed since Adam, the First Man, was driven from Eden, his feet sinking into the dust of long and painful exile.

The centuries of toil and grief had weighed upon him, and in the end, even Eve forsook him, carried away by the serpent’s whisper and by Lilith’s shadow. Yet Adam no longer mourned her leaving.

Her heart had long departed, her tongue was sharp with scorn, and her hands were idle when labor was needed. But what grieved him most was not her absence but the poison she poured between their sons, turning brother against brother until kindred blood cried out from the ground in pain and rage.

Not to mention, Adam knew Eve constantly went off to engage in sexual activities with the worthless serpent Lucifer and his Queen of Adultery, Lilith, instead of helping her family fight the monsters that live on Earth.

Truly, humanity's foundation had faltered—but perhaps not beyond repair. His hope lay with Seth, meek in body yet steadfast, and with Azura, fierce and loyal. They would be what he and Eve were not: a true beginning for mankind, a house built upon rock and trust, not upon sand and lies.

And now, as Adam lay upon his bed of reeds, breath shallow, bones heavy as stone. His children had come to bid farewell—all but one.

The First Son.

The First Bastard.

The First Murderer.

Adam thought for a moment that his son wouldn’t come to see him on the First Man’s deathbed.

But then, to Adam’s joy, from the doorway of his cabin, a figure appeared.

“Come in, boy,” Adam rasped, his voice worn to ash. “I cannot greet you from the bed.”

The man stepped forward into the dim light. Cain—the wanderer, the branded one, the son not of Adam’s loins but of his labor and care. The first to till cursed soil with him, and the first to bear the mark of blood of his brother.

Cain halted, shame and regret clinging to him like a cloak.

“You tarried long,” Adam said, lips curving faintly. “I wondered if you’d managed to turn a four-hour road from Uruk into a four-hundred-year wandering.”

Cain’s mouth twisted into a pained smile, yet his eyes brimmed with grief.

“Welcome home, son,” Adam whispered, stretching out a trembling hand. Cain crossed the room and sat at his side, his shoulders bowed as if beneath an unseen yoke.

“Why do you call me that?” Cain asked, voice breaking. “You know I am not your son.”

Adam sighed and, with surprising strength, flicked Cain’s brow as he had in days long past.

Much to Cain's secret joy.

“Who else raised you? Lilith? She cares only for her reflection. Eve? She only wanted to hurt me by using you. And Lucifer—he cannot keep the flame of a lamp, let alone the soul of a child.” Adam's hand rested on Cain’s shoulder, warm though frail. “It was I, boy, from your first cry to your first furrow in the earth. You are mine, and that will not change.”

Cain bowed his head, tears falling like rain upon dry ground. “But I slew Abel—your true son, the one the Lord loved.”

Adam’s gaze softened, sorrow tempered by compassion. With a trembling hand, he brushed away his son’s tears. “Yes, you struck him down. But I, too, failed—I trusted Eve to guard peace between you, and she sowed only strife. Her words lit the fire, but it was I who let it burn untended. His blood cries out, but it cries against us both.”

Cain’s body shook as he wept, but Adam gathered him close, pressing a kiss to his brow as he had in childhood.

“Listen to me,” Adam said softly. “You are mine not by blood, but by choice. And choice is heavier than blood.”

Cain clung to him, voice breaking. “I wish I were born of you. I wish I had a true mother. I wish we had been a whole and honest house, not a broken one.”

“I wish it also,” Adam murmured, his hand tracing slow circles upon his son’s back. “But what is shattered is not erased. Love remains, even among ruins, my son.”

Cain lifted his head, eyes red as clay. “Will I see you again, Father? In heaven—if I can ever find the way there?”

Adam chuckled faintly, a sound like wind through dry reeds. “What makes you think heaven waits for me?”

“Because,” Cain said, his voice trembling yet resolute, “you bore Eve’s bitterness, Lilith’s deceit, and Lucifer’s pride. You carried the weight of us all. If any man has earned rest, it is you.”

Adam laughed, the sound crumbling into coughs. Cain steadied him, laying him gently back upon the bedding.

“Perhaps, my boy,” Adam whispered. His eyes dimmed, yet peace settled upon his face. “But promise me this—become the best of yourself. Guard your brothers and sisters. Carry them when I am dust.”

“I promise,” Cain said, clutching his father’s hand as though to anchor him to the living.

Adam’s breath came thin, each one a fading ember. His hand trembled, then stilled, yet his voice lingered one last time.

“Cain… my son,” he whispered, “a man is not always bound by the blood that bore him, but by the love that claimed him. You are mine. Always.”

Cain pressed the hand to his brow, tears streaming as though to baptize the dust.

“Be the better man,” Adam murmured. “Carry your kindred. Carry the name of humanity forward. This is my last command.”

His eyes closed, a faint smile upon his lips. “Into dust I shall return, and into the mercy of the Almighty I go.”

The hand in Cain’s grasp grew still. Silence fell, heavy as judgment, until only Cain’s broken sobs filled the room—the first murderer cradling the First Man, grieving not as a wanderer, but as a son to his beloved father.

Chapter Text

World: The Void

POV: Third-Person

OST: Sunshine Soundtrack - John Murphy - Adagio In D Minor

The Father of Humanity had expected nothingness, but he somehow still felt.

It was as though he were sinking into a sea without depth, falling through quicksand that yielded but never swallowed. His body was weightless, yet bound; he could not stir a finger, not even a breath of his eyelids.

Then Adam heard something that should have been impossible.

Voices called his name—urgent, panicked, grieved—but they were not human voices. They rang with a clarity that was too bright, too pure, almost angelic.

But that cannot be, Adam thought. No angels stood near his deathbed. He had seen only his children, flesh and dust like him, not the Angelic Host.

Still, the voices echoed as he drifted downward, deeper into the unknown.

At last, in an effort that felt like wrestling with eternity itself, Adam halted his descent, and his eyes opened.

He stood in a vast emptiness—no sky, no earth, only a void without shape. Yet beneath his feet, he felt the sensation of ground, but when he looked down, there was nothing there.

Shock seized him. A moment ago, he had lain upon his bed, frail and fading. Now he stood renewed, his body restored to the vigor of his prime.

His hair was the same as it had been in his final years, tied back loosely at his shoulders, but his frame was larger, broader, and towering with strength. He had always been large among men, second only to the angels in stature—but now he found himself near the height of Lady Sera herself.

“Well… the matter is interesting,” Adam murmured, his voice ringing deep and clear, carrying the resonance of youth tempered with age.

He drew a breath, steadied himself, and tried to walk. But his body betrayed him. His foot slipped as though upon ice, and he fell hard, sprawling face-first into nothing.

With a groan, he rolled onto his back, staring into the endless dark. “It seems I must learn to walk again,” he muttered, cheeks warming with a rare, almost boyish embarrassment.

Time passed—whether hours or moments, he could not tell. Slowly, painfully, he reclaimed mastery over his limbs. Step by halting step, Adam rose and pressed forward, eyes set upon the unseen horizon.

He didn’t know where the path would lead or what awaited him in the dark. But then, Adam reflected, he had never truly known where he was going—not even since he first walked out of Eden.

Timeskip: 80 Days

World: The Void

POV: Third-Person

Adam had wandered the void for eighty days.

He found nothing but silence—save for, now and then, a golden light flickering on the horizon. Each time he pursued it, it vanished, only to appear again, farther away.

The solitude gnawed at him, yet it also gave him space to reflect. No longer burdened with raising scores of children, no longer standing guard against monsters clawing at his family’s door, Adam’s mind turned inward.

He thought of Eve. Once, she was his darling Evening, his Lady of Love, and his little Rib. 

Initially, there had been sweetness, laughter, and promise—but then came the fruit, more bitter than gall. Adam still longed to know what she had seen, what she had felt, when her lips first touched it.

For a time after their exile, she had labored with him, but her spirit grew restless, and her wrath cowed even their children. At last, she abandoned them all, fleeing to the arms of Lucifer and Lilith.

If it had been but once—if she had fallen and repented—Adam could have forgiven her. But she surrendered herself again and again, until her temper grew cruel and her heart unmoored.

And when she left, even their children breathed a sigh of relief.

And still, Adam could not wholly despise her. She was bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh. Though she merited contempt, he could never untether his soul from hers.

But Lucifer and Lilith—those names stoked fire in his blood. He dreamed of rending them, of breaking their pride with tooth and nail, of drowning their laughter in screams. 

His lips pulled into a snarl, his mind drunk on visions of vengeance, until his body trembled with rage.

Then the void itself held its breath.

A voice like thunder broke the silence:

“Enough, my son. Be still.”

The fury drained from Adam’s eyes. He turned—and beheld a figure immense and unshakable. Clad in a well-tailored suit and crowned with a top hat, His face was smooth, featureless, save for a wise smile and four radiant eyes, each golden as the sun, crossed by eight streaks of blue.

Adam fell to his knees. 

He knew Him at once, as all beings in creation do.

The Alpha and The Omega.

The One Above All.

The Father of Heaven.

The Master of Creation.

The Golden King of Grace.

The Lord of Hosts.

The Almighty

God.

“What brings you here, Father? To… wherever this place is?” Adam asked.

The Lord chuckled, a sound that soothed even the void.  

“This place is the Deep Void, the bedrock of creation. And I am here to save you, Little A.”

At His word, two chairs appeared. He gestured for Adam to sit and pressed a goblet of wine into his hand.

Adam raised his eyes. “What took you so long, Father? I’ve searched for these past eighty days.”

“I was binding creation together,” the Lord replied, His tone light but weary, “after Lucifer, as ever, unraveled it. And I hunted an intruder who has breached this universe.”

The word "universe" puzzled Adam, but before he could speak, the Lord snapped His fingers. A third chair formed, and from a distance, the golden light approached, resolving into a man.

Adam’s breath caught—for the man was himself. Or nearly. A mirrored face, aged and scarred, with eyes that had seen millennia.

The stranger sat, his voice rasping like metal ground against stone. “Shall I tell him, or will you?

The Lord shook His head. “Better that I do it. You would break him.”

The Lord reached out and touched Adam’s brow. In an instant, knowledge poured into him—worlds, stars, and the word "universe," heavy with meaning.

Adam staggered. “That… was much. And you—who are you?” he asked the double.

“I am you,” the man answered. His voice was tense, weighed down by memory. “Or rather, I am another you. Athām El Assem—First and Last Emperor of the Imperium, Master of Mankind, the Anathema of Chaos.”

Adam blinked, dumbstruck, before glancing at the Lord.

“Don’t look at me,” the Lord said with a rueful smile. “Those titles are his, not mine.”

Adam sighed and turned back. “Why are you here, then?”

“The same as you,” Athām replied. “Because I am dead.”

Adam frowned. “Yes—but why follow me?”

Athām’s jaw clenched. “Because I saw another self, and I feared it was a trick of the Four. I shadowed you to be sure.”

Adam nodded slowly. “And now? What do we do?”

The Lord rose, cane in hand. His eyes blazed. “I will tell you, my little A’s. You died with regrets unhealed and vengeance unclaimed. So I shall merge you—two selves, one soul—and grant you the strength to set things right.”

Adam’s eyes widened. “Merge?”

Athām snarled, halo blazing behind him, eyes burning like suns. A sword of golden fire leaped into his grasp. “What do you mean by this, God?

The Lord’s cane struck the void. Thunder rolled. 

“Calm yourselves!”

At the Lord’s command, both were cast back into their seats, gasping.

The Lord turned first to Adam. “For you, my son, I do this to heal your soul, to free you of regret. I know you will choose rightly in the end.”

Adam frowns, looking away, remembering every injustice and sin committed against him and his children by Lucifer, Lilith, and Eve, knowing that as long as they continue to act without judgment, he would never know peace, nor would his beloved children.

Then to Athām. “For you, I grant release from the Golden Throne, oh King of Ages, that you may finally be a father, not a monster against even worse monsters.”

Athām flinched, unable to meet the Lord’s gaze, remembering the xenos and human civilizations he had shattered during the rush of the Great Crusade as well as his children dying or falling to Chaos during the Horus Heresy and the 10,000-year decline of his Imperium into a superstitious ruin.

“And together,” the Lord thundered, “you shall remind Lucifer that he is no king, only warden. And if he will not yield, you shall bend him to his duty by force.” His wrath shook the void, then softened. 

“Though he is my most wayward son, he remains my child.”

He looked upon them both with solemn eyes. “I need a champion, one who will hunt my enemies. Will you be that champion? Will you follow My will?”

The Lord stretched out His hands.

Silence. Then Adam rose first, placing his hand in the Lord’s.

Athām lingered, torn—but at last, with a shudder, he too placed his hand upon the Lord’s.

Light erupted from them, searing and holy. Their eyes and mouths blazed as one, their souls entwining, power spilling into the void like a river of fire.

The Lord watched, pride and sorrow mingling upon His face.

Chapter Text

Timeskip: 180 Years Later

World: The High Heavens

Location: The Pearly Gates of the Diamond Wall.

OST: Adam Entrance ~ Record of Ragnarok Epic OST | Adam Theme

“Sera… you cannot keep doing this to yourself.”

Uriel, Guardian of the Gates, stood with wings folded and voice low, as if the still air might shatter at any louder word.

But Lady Seraphiel didn’t react to his words.

“It was not your fault,” he continued softly. “You cannot keep bleeding for what you could never prevent. Adam would not have wanted this.”

Sera’s shoulders trembled. Slowly, she turned her face to him—graceful as moonlight, fierce as a burning star. Her eyes, once serene as dawn, now blazed with the anguish of centuries.

“Adam was the closest thing I had to a son,” she hissed, tears brimming like molten gold. “And I failed him. I watched as those two harpies tore his life to pieces.”

Uriel’s gaze softened. With careful reverence, he stepped forward and drew her into his arms. She stiffened, then sagged against him like a crumbling statue.

“None but the Lord could have foreseen this,” he whispered into her hair, his voice scarcely more than breath.

“It’s not fair,” Sera breathed. Her voice cracked under the weight of ages, trembling with grief long denied.

“I know,” Uriel murmured, tightening his embrace.

And for a few moments, they stood together in a silent embrace.

Until the High Heavens suddenly screamed.

A sound like the rending of worlds split the air. The firmament itself cracked open, spilling a flood of golden light so pure it burned shadows from the walls.

In an instant, the thirteen Wall-Paladins materialized, their white cloaks flaring like banners in a storm. Wings spread wide, they raised their silver lances, swords, axes, and spears, forming an unbreakable circle around Uriel and Sera as they chanted the Litany of Sealing.

But the rift did not close.

The light grew brighter, hotter—no longer merely radiant, but furious, like the heart of a newborn star.

And through it strode a figure.

He was wrapped in armor of living gold, every plate etched with ancient sigils of creation. A cloak of white flame trailed behind him, and in his hand burned a sword wreathed in golden fire.

His eyes caught Sera like a blow to the chest—blazing gold, marked by seven intersecting lines of crimson light. They were eyes she had seen only once before, in the face of the Almighty Himself.

Her lips parted, the breath caught in her throat.

Only one other could bear such eyes.

The Son, who was made in the Lord’s own image.

The First and Last King of Eden.

The Father of Humanity.

“Adam…” Sera whispered, her voice breaking like shattered glass. Awe, disbelief, and joy warred in her expression.

The figure stopped, and for a heartbeat, the light around him softened.

“Yes, Mother,” Adam said. His voice was rich and deep, carrying both the weight of the world and the warmth of a son returned from exile.

Sera took one trembling step forward, tears falling unchecked. “You… you’re here… truly here,” she said, wild hope quivering in her eyes.

Adam’s gaze softened, golden fire dimming to a warm glow. He drew a breath and spoke.

Not in the tongue of angels.

Not in the language of men.

Not even in the hidden words of the Throne.

But in Enuncia, the language that Almighty shaped Creation with.

“I have returned.”

The words rippled through existence like the tolling of a primordial bell.

The High Heavens shuddered, silver towers ringing with celestial resonance.

 Earth shifted as if sleeping; the mountains groaned.

Even Hell itself quaked, its flames guttering under an ancient fear.

Sera fell to her knees. Her tears struck the marble floor like molten stars.

The thirteen Wall-Paladins lowered their lances, their heads bowed, trembling. Uriel himself sank to one knee, wings folding in reverence.

All creation felt it:

The Lord of Eden was alive.

The First Man had come home.

The Father of Humanity had returned.

Timeskip: 20 Minutes Later

World: The Primordial Earth

Location: Uruk, the First City

Terror gripped the people of Uruk—the First City—as the earth convulsed beneath their feet, the ground heaving with a force beyond mortal reckoning. Cries rang out across the stone streets as walls cracked and pillars moaned under the strain.

Then, to their mounting dread, the sky itself began to tremble—as if the firmament were caught in the same unseen upheaval.

“By the Almighty… what is happening?” A man gasped, his voice trembling as all eyes turned upward in fearful reverence.

And there, amidst the trembling vault of heaven, they watched in stunned silence as the air grew heavy with a power not of this world.

The shaking ceased as suddenly as it began. And in that stillness, a single golden comet ignited across the heavens—burning with a brilliance too pure, too wrathful, to be born of mere stars. 

It screamed through the firmament like a spear hurled by the divine, and with a sound like a thousand thunders, it struck the earth beyond the city walls, vanishing into the depths of the world.

Where it fell, the earth itself seemed to hold its breath.

Although no one dared to speak it aloud, every soul in Uruk felt it deep within their bones:

Something sacred had returned.

Chapter Text

Timeskip: 30 Minutes Later

World: Hell

Location: The Pride Ring

OST: Soul Spire | DOOM: Eternal | Mick Gordon - Metal Hell Gamerip Mix [Remastered]

All across the Pride Ring, every Sinner and Hellborn felt it—a wrenching disturbance deep within their damned souls, as if the judgment of the Almighty Himself had turned upon them.

Terror seized the ring. The streets emptied as the denizens of Hell fled into shelters, bunkers, and their own crumbling homes, cowering from a storm of holy wrath they could neither name nor withstand.

All save three.

Atop the obsidian spires of Lucifer’s palace stood the rulers of Hell:

Lucifer, the King of Hell; Lilith, the Queen of Adultery; and Eve, the Queen of Whores.

They gazed upon the firmament above the Pride Ring, their unease laid bare. The heavens over Hell roiled with golden lightning, storm clouds seething with sanctified essence. The sky itself trembled, quaking as though some titanic force tore through its bones.

Then came the silence.

And from that silence, a single crack split the firmament.

Through it stepped a towering figure clad in ornate golden armor, descending into Hell as though the abyss were his by birthright. Even at a distance of hundreds of kilometers, suspended high in the air, his eyes found theirs—and theirs discovered his.

Eyes of molten gold, crossed by seven intersecting lines of red.

A radiance none of the three could mistake.

Adam.

The First Man.

The First and Last Lord of Eden.

The Father of Humanity.

And he was wrath incarnate.

“Mongrel scum!” Adam’s voice thundered, shaking all of Hell to its foundations and rattling even the rulers’ immortal hearts. Then, in an instant, he surged forward, crossing the chasm between them in a golden streak, halting mere feet before them in the air.

Adam stood there, unsupported by wings, suspended solely by will.

Cold. 

Unbending. 

Imperial.

Lucifer recovered first, baring his teeth in a shark’s grin of pride.

“Well, well… It’s been a while, old boy. Nearly two centuries. Tell me—did you spend them weeping over your ex-wives?”

Lilith and Eve tittered behind him like jackals.

Adam said nothing. His gaze did not waver.

Lucifer’s grin faltered, then curled into a snarl. How dare this broken relic ignore him?

But before his fury could ignite, Lilith’s hand slid onto his shoulder. She offered a silken smile, voice dripping honey and venom.

“Don’t trouble yourself, my love,” Lilith cooed. “This pitiful speck couldn’t keep a single woman faithful, nor shield his true firstborn, nor even hold his so-called Eden. He is nothing. You, my radiant Bringer of Light, are everything.”

She cast Adam a vicious grin, expecting him to flinch.

Adam did not. Her words rolled off him like water over stone.

Lilith’s eye twitched, fury coiling in her chest. Few beings in Creation could so utterly dismiss her.

And then Eve stepped forward, voice lilting with cruel amusement.

“Pay him no mind,” Eve said. “This little cuck followed me everywhere for centuries, knowing full well I was being properly satisfied by better men. And I was the one who left him. Imagine that.” She kissed Lucifer’s cheek, eyes glittering, hoping to provoke Adam into a jealous rage.

Adam said nothing.

And somehow, despite the spite in her words, Eve felt the sting.

For all her hypocrisy, she could not abide how easily he denied her the satisfaction of his anger. She had always been possessive of him—her Adam—and the thought that he might have ceased to care for her at all was intolerable.

He was hers. She was born for him. She would make him need her forever, bind him as her cuckolded king, because no matter how far they drifted, she had been forged from his flesh, blood, bone, and soul.

And that bond could never be severed.

Silence lingered between them, heavy as the weight of eternity.

Lucifer’s laughter had died. 

Lilith’s venom soured on her tongue.

Even Eve stood motionless, her pride warring with a creeping dread.

Then Adam moved.

His gaze flicked to Lucifer—measured, cold—and something inside the King of Hell snapped.

Lucifer roared, the sound primal and furious, as his body erupted into his full demonic form. Obsidian horns curled from his skull, wings of shadow flared, and his claws gleamed with killing intent as he hurtled forward in a blur of black fire.

His fist struck like a meteor—aimed to cave in Adam’s chest and scatter his soul to ash.

It never connected.

A golden shield shimmered into being at the moment of impact, catching the blow with effortless grace. The air split with the force—yet the shield did not crack. It did not even ripple. Instead, to Lucifer’s dawning horror, it drank in his fury: the kinetic force, the demonic fire, and the seething magic—all swallowed whole.

Adam leaned close, towering over him, and whispered a word in Enuncia, the first language of Creation.

“Aegis Full Counter.”

Light flared like the birth of a million suns.

The stolen energy roared back into existence—magnified, sharpened, and hurled straight into Lucifer’s chest.

The King of Hell was hurled backward through his mansion as it disintegrated in an expanding wave of golden annihilation. Eve and Lilith were flung like leaves in a storm, spinning through the air before crashing to the scorched earth.

The shockwave faded. Silence reclaimed the ruins.

Lilith scrambled to Lucifer’s side, shaking his limp body, while Eve rose warily, muscles tensed. Then came the voice—cold, quiet, yet steeped in divine fury.

“How pathetic.”

They turned.

Adam strode through the settling dust, golden armor unmarred, a flaming sword of sanctified light in his right hand and an eagle’s taloned gauntlet blazing on his left.

“Is this what I lost to?” he murmured, contempt dripping from every word. “A pathetic serpent?”

Wonder and disgust mingled on his face as he studied them, lips curling into a snarl.

Lilith’s breath caught. Eve’s claws trembled.

“Is this about avenging your wounded pride, Adam?” Lilith spat, forcing her voice into a snarl even as her eyes betrayed her fear.

“That’s… pretty pathetic, don’t you think?” Eve added, her tone strained, her body quivering beneath the waterfall of power radiating from him.

Adam only stared.

Then he spoke another word of Enuncia.

“The Chains of Heaven Bind Thee.”

Golden links burst from the air, coiling like serpents.

Lucifer and Lilith were bound in an instant—Lucifer anchored to the ground, Lilith slammed down and pinned.

Only Eve remained standing.

Her throat tightened. Still, she forced the words out.

“You… you couldn’t let me be happy—”

“Fall,” Adam said.

The single syllable cracked reality.

The ground beneath them gave way, the floor of the Pride Ring crumbling like paper, and the three rulers plummeted into the Wrath Ring below.

Eve tumbled through the debris, disoriented, and through the whirling dust she saw him—Adam—descending after them, circling like a golden predator scenting blood.

Her rage flared. She twisted midair, demonic energy spiraling down her arm into her clawed fingertips. With a scream, she launched a five-finger slash of crackling darkness.

Adam’s eyes blazed with the Lord’s Blessing, dissecting and replicating the attack even as it formed.

He struck back with his taloned left hand, speaking another word of Enuncia.

“Champion’s Golden Cleaver.”

Their slashes met midair—demonic black and holy gold colliding.

For a heartbeat, they held.

Then the golden cleaver devoured the darkness, surging forward in five searing arcs. Eve barely twisted aside as the attack tore past, nearly severing her arm and carving a five-kilometer trench into the Wrath Ring below.

Bleeding, gasping, she reeled—only for a blur to smash into her ribs.

Lilith, still chained, was being swung like a living flail. Adam gripped the golden chain linking them and whipped her into Eve with the force of a thunderbolt.

Milliseconds later, Lucifer’s limp form slammed down atop Eve’s skull, driving her into the fractured ground. Adam landed lightly, talons scraping the stone, standing above the crater like a descending sun.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then rubble exploded outward as Eve erupted from it, shrieking in fury.

She lunged—haymaker, jab, another, another—hundreds of blows per second, each shrouded in hellfire.

Adam moved like still water.

Not one strike touched him.

Her frustration boiled over. She roared, channeling every shred of demonic power into her right leg, and hurled a sideways kick with the strength to shatter mountains.

It met the same shield that had felled Lucifer.

Adam leaned close as the impact rang through the world and whispered, toneless and cold:

“Aegis Full Counter.”

The shield flared.

Eve’s own power recoiled against her, multiplied a hundredfold, and the Queen of Whores became a blazing comet as she screamed across the Wrath Ring, smashing through dozens of mountains before cratering an open plain. 

The impact gouged a wound a kilometer wide and a kilometer deep into Hell itself.

As the smoke thinned, Eve stirred, coughing blood, her body almost breaking.

How… how is he this strong…?

Then light filled her vision.

A flash of gold descended before her, and Adam landed in resplendent radiance, eyes cold as death as they locked on hers.

Hatred burned in his gaze.

And he took a single step forward.

Adam descended toward her, each step sending ripples of golden light across the shattered plain.

Eve lay crumpled before him, her breath ragged, black blood dripping from cracked, ashen skin. One red eye was swollen shut, and her jaw hung crookedly from the earlier counterstrike.

A great iron halo of molten gold hovered behind Adam’s head, casting his face in deep shadow—save for his eyes, blazing sunlight cut by seven intersecting lines of crimson.

His voice was cold steel as it fell upon her.

“Well then, Queen of Whores… Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

The words were not shouted, but they crashed through the Wrath Ring like thunder.

Eve’s remaining eye twitched with hate. She dragged her broken body upright, lips curling into something between a sneer and a snarl.

“How… dare you… You bastard,” she rasped, her voice slurred through a dislocated jaw.

Yet even now, a crooked, demonic smile twisted her lips as she felt the flicker of familiar souls drawing closer.

Her children.

A spark of spite glittered in her eye.

“How do you think they’ll feel,” she hissed, “when they see what you’ve done to their mother?”

Adam gave no reply—only a faint lift of one brow—disdain incarnate.

Then his voice thundered, commanding the foundations of Hell itself.

“Children. Come forth.”

The Wrath Ring trembled. One by one, drawn as if by divine gravity, the children of Adam and Eve emerged from the shadows and fire—faces uncertain, caught between their radiant father and their ruined mother.

For a long heartbeat, no one spoke.

Then a single figure stepped between them—cautious, trembling.

Aclima. 

Twin sister of Abel.

“Father… what are you doing?” She asked softly, as if fearing he might smite her next.

Adam saw her fear and softened his power as he began to remove his Aspect of War.

The golden titan dissolved before her eyes.

The blazing armor faded, the iron halo dimmed, and Adam stood now as a man of modest height in plain monk’s robes, radiating warmth. His eyes softened with fathomless love.

“Do not be afraid, my daughter,” he said gently. His voice was honey to the soul. “I would never harm you. Or any of my family.”

Aclima’s breath caught. Hope flickered across her face.

And in her eyes, and the eyes of her siblings, Adam saw the same desperate yearning—Please… let him be here for us…

“I am not here only for vengeance,” Adam said softly, the Father Aspect flowing through every syllable.

A wet, broken laugh cut through his words.

Eve. Coughing blood, eyes wild.

“You say you would never hurt your family—” she choked, lips curling into a sneer—“then what about the last minute of beating me?”

Adam turned his gaze upon her. Cold. Merciless. He gave a short, disgusted laugh.

“Did your mind atrophy from the sheer amount of demon cock, whore?” His words were razors.

“I said I would never harm my family. You… are no longer my family.”

The statement struck harder than any blade.

Eve flinched. Pain wracked her body—and something unfamiliar stirred beneath it.

Regret.

Before she could speak, her jaw locked shut. Adam’s voice slithered like frost.

“Be silent, wretch. I have family matters to attend to.”

He exhaled slowly, and when he spoke again, his tone was warm as summer rain.

“My beloved children… cheated out of paradise.”

From the cracked soil, a golden marble arch surged upward like the rebirth of Eden.

Within it flowed a veil of gold and sapphire light, cascading like a waterfall, radiating peace, hope, and the scent of holiness.

“Step through this arch,” Adam said, walking to the far side and spreading his arms in welcome.

“And your sins shall be forgiven. You will ascend to the High Heavens above.” 

No one moved. Fear and longing warred in their eyes.

At last, Seth stepped forward. “Father… is this truly possible? You said only the Lord God Himself can forgive and allow one into the High Heavens.

Adam smiled—soft, reassuring, infinite. “True. But so can His champion.”

Silence.

Then Azura, ever fearless, surged forward without hesitation.

She crossed the arch like a shooting star.

And on the other side, she stood whole—her skin no longer pale, her eyes now golden with life, great golden wings unfurling from her back. Tears streamed down her face as she ran into her father’s arms, sobbing against his shoulder.

One by one, they followed her. Sons and daughters shedding their demon shells for angelic forms, weeping with joy as Adam embraced each of them, whispering love into their ears.

All but one.

Far on a jagged mountaintop, one figure lingered.

Adam’s voice echoed across the Wrath Ring, soft yet unchallengeable.

“My son. Come to me.”

A long pause. Then Cain descended from the crags, hesitant, eyes downcast.

“Father… I’m sorry. I… I can’t go. Not if Abel is there. I’m not worthy.”

Adam raised his hand gently to halt his words.

“I am not the one who must convince you, my boy,” he said, voice heavy with sorrow and love.

And from the High Heavens above, light broke through Hell.

An angel descended—pure, radiant, unmistakable.

Abel.

He landed before the arch, eyes meeting Cain’s. The murderer and the slain stood face-to-face.

Abel’s voice was calm and flat. “Is there something you wish to say to me, Cain?”

Cain froze. Then tears spilled down his face as he collapsed to the ground, sobbing for forgiveness.

Abel watched him for a long, silent moment.

Then his expression softened.

“I do not know if I can forgive you,” Abel said quietly. Cain flinched—then stilled as Abel continued.

“But I want to try.”

Shock rippled through the onlookers. —all but Adam.

“I have seen your suffering, Cain. I have seen you repent. I have seen you change,” Abel said, tears gleaming in his golden eyes. “I understand now what was done to you… The lies, the poison whispered to ruin our family. It does not erase your sin—it was still your choice. But I understand. And I no longer wish to hold hatred in my heart.”

Abel stopped at the arch’s edge, holding out his hand.

“Take my hand, brother. Let us heal. Let us find redemption in the glow of paradise, with our father… and with our God.”

Cain’s sobs shook his body. Slowly, trembling, he rose—and ran.

He passed through the arch, and on the other side stood not a demon, but an angel.

Cain wept as he embraced his younger brother, and Abel held him just as tightly.

And all of Adam’s children wept with joy at the reunion and reconciliation.

Even Eve wept—but with silent despair, for none of them looked at her.

At the height of their joy, Adam raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

A great golden portal bloomed above them, opening to the endless radiance of the High Heavens.

“My beloved children,” Adam said, his voice ringing with pride and love, “Go, and live free and joyful in paradise. I will join you shortly.”

One by one, they ascended into the light—without a single glance at the weeping creature who had once been their mother.

Eve cried silently, her hands clawing at the empty air, begging them not to leave her.

No one heard.

No one looked back.

And at last, Eve was alone.

As the last glimmer of golden light from the heavenly portal faded and Adam’s beloved children vanished beyond its radiant veil, the gentle smile of the Father bled from his face.

The warmth that had once shone through him like sunlight through stained glass hardened into the cold luster of ancient gold, and the air itself seemed to tighten as his presence changed.

The Benevolent Father was gone.

And in his place stood the Imperious King of Ages.

Adam turned, his golden eyes like molten suns behind seven intersecting crimson lines, burning down upon Eve with the weight of eternity itself.

“Well, my dear Eve,” he began, his voice like iron striking marble, mocking and utterly devoid of mercy, “do you have anything to say?”

With a snap of his fingers, the spell that had bound her tongue and body unraveled—and the dam broke.

“How dare you steal my children from me!” Eve roared, staggering upright, her voice crackling with hatred as black blood streamed from her cracked lips.

“I cannot steal what was never yours in the first place, Eve.” Adam’s reply was as cold as glacial stone.

Eve’s face contorted with fury, her claws trembling.

“What was never mine? They came from me, you bastard!”

Adam’s composure cracked, and his voice rose like thunder, shaking the firmament.

“Yes, they came from your womb—and that is all. Tell me, Eve. In all these centuries, name a single time you helped them with anything beyond birthing them… and even that, only grudgingly.”

He drew a slow, weary breath, the weight of old disappointments heavier than war.

“Even in the earliest days after our expulsion from Eden—when you at least tried to be my wife and their mother—they came to me for guidance before they ever came to you.”

“The girls came to me for help with their cycles.” Eve flinched, stammering.

Adam let out a sharp, contemptuous snort.

“Oh yes, the youngest girls… who came to me afterward and never went to you again. Stellar parenting, Eve.”

Her gaze dropped. Shame—raw and unfamiliar—quaked in her chest like a trapped bird. But her pride clawed back.

“You don’t understand a mother’s bond,” she said desperately.

“Bond?” Adam snarled, teeth bared. “The only bond you had was with me—and that bond poisoned us both.”

Eve sank to her knees, whispering, “But I swear… I loved them.”

“You didn’t love them. You saw them as extensions of yourself… as chains to keep me here, so you would never be alone.” Adam’s voice dropped, heavy with sorrow.

Eve trembled, on the brink of collapsing into herself.

“Why do you think,” Adam continued, cold judgment sheathing every word, “that they left without a single backward glance or goodbye for you?”

“They… they came with me to Hell,” Eve choked out, a final desperate spark of denial.

Adam’s expression curdled into wrath.

“Came with you? That implies a choice. You dragged them here in chains of your making.”

The last illusion shattered. Eve broke, falling forward, wracked with sobs.

Adam’s fury surged. He blurred forward, fist drawn back, voice booming in Enuncia.

“True God’s Right First!”

His punch struck like the hammer of creation. The impact crushed her cheek, nearly collapsing her skull, and hurled her screaming through the Wrath Ring and down into the Lust Ring below.

She hit with apocalyptic force, carving a vast crater.

Adam descended after her, landing at its rim, golden eyes blazing down.

“I should kill you,” he said flatly. “By every right, I should. But I am not heartless… unlike you.”

“I will give you a chance at redemption—though you do not deserve it.” His tone softened just enough to cut deeper.

Hope flickered in Eve’s crimson eye.

“But do not think for a second it will be easy, my once-beloved Evening… my failure of a wife, of a mother, of a lover, of a human.” Adam crushed it with a cruel smile.

He stepped closer, shadows of sorrow haunting his wrathful face.

At the pit’s edge, he stared down at her broken form—and froze.

Their old telepathic bond stirred.

And through it came not venom… but regret.

Raw, searing, all-consuming sorrow.

Adam scoffed and sent only suspicion in return.

And to his astonishment… she accepted it.

Accepted it and apologized, truly—no excuses, no pride—just the broken confession of one who had destroyed everything she touched.

Adam’s traitorous heart trembled.

Adam exhaled. “So… finally facing the consequences has awakened remorse at last.”

A mirthless laugh escaped him. “Who says punishment doesn’t work?”

Then, speaking Enuncia, his voice cut through the hellfire air.

“Sanctify.”

Golden chains of burning light erupted from the earth, binding her to the crater floor in a crucifixion of agony.

Boiling holy water surged up, filling the crater, swarming with tiny golden fish that endlessly tore at her flesh—never enough to kill, only to torment.

A dome of shimmering wards sealed over the crater, unbreakable.

“You will endure this torment for ten millennia,” Adam pronounced, his voice a death knell. “Then you will be reborn mortal. Live righteously, and you may ascend to the High Heavens and reclaim your memories, purified. Fail… and you will return here, to suffer twice as long.”

Eve’s silent horror flickered against a glimmer of resolve.

Adam turned away.

“Remember, Eve—this was your choice. You could have asked for help. But you didn’t. And every choice has consequences.”

He sighed—sad, final—and snapped his fingers.

The golden chains binding Lucifer unraveled with a sound like snapping stars.

For a single, trembling heartbeat, the world was silent.

Before the whole ring, if not all of Hell, was filled with dread.

The air within the Lust Ring quivered with a dread unlike any before. Then, as if some primal wound within the pit itself had been torn open, Lucifer roared—a sound of ancient pride, wounded and unrestrained fury. His form blurred into a storm of fists, striking thousands of times in an instant. 

Even the keenest gaze of an Archangel could not follow the blows. 

Yet Adam, radiant and unmoved, evaded each strike with effortless precision, his face marked not with strain, but with quiet disdain.

“Why will you not stand still, you wretched thing of clay?” Lucifer howled.

And Adam, hearing the serpent’s demand, halted. The next blow struck his cheek—a full-strength punch forged in fury—yet his head did not so much as turn.

Then Adam spoke a single word in Enuncia.

“Halt.”

At that command, Lucifer froze, his limbs locked as though the hand of Heaven itself had seized him. 

A blaze of golden light erupted around Adam as his form shifted into the Aspect of War: a towering figure, fifteen feet high, clad in resplendent, ornate armor, and in his right hand burned a sword of living flame, its form shifting until it mirrored the golden blade of Lady Michael. 

The sight alone made the youngest Archangel, watching from afar, tremble in remembered awe.

He recalled the fury that had cast him down. Now he could only quake in place as Adam brought the burning blade to his right cheek, marking it with fire, then to his left, searing him again with divine heat.

The sword flared once more and transformed into a spear—a weapon not unlike Rhongomyniad, the holy lance of Lady Michael. 

At its appearance, terror seized Lucifer, for he remembered the day that very shape had pinned him before the assembly of Heaven. Adam drove the spear through both of Lucifer’s feet, then through the base of his spine, nearly severing it. With a wet, rending sound, he withdrew the lance.

The weapon vanished, and Adam raised his hand. Two fingers extended, glowing with holy light, and he uttered another word:

“True God’s Right First.”

His strike landed square upon Lucifer’s chest. Bones shuddered, organs liquefied, and the serpent crashed to the ground in a ruin of flesh. Adam turned him over and, without hesitation, tore away wing after wing—six in total—ripping his tail last. 

Then he gripped Lucifer’s jaw in his flaming, clawed gauntlet and wrenched away the horns and manhood in one brutal motion. Lucifer’s scream split the air, raw and inhuman, until Adam’s fist crushed his jaw and silenced it.

For two days and nights, Adam did not relent. He beat Lucifer into pulp, restored his broken form, and struck him down again, over and over, until the third dawn rose upon Hell. 

Then, at last, Adam ceased. He stood over the shattered body of the former King of Hell, his gaze like a furnace of divine wrath.

“This is only the beginning,” Adam declared.

He reached into Lucifer’s essence and seized his soul. With the precision of divine craft and the cruelty of just retribution, he tore it apart, reshaped it, and re-forged it anew. 

The screams that followed were not merely of flesh, but of the soul itself being bent into a different form.

When the work was finished, Lucifer’s body had been remade into that of a pale, silver-haired demoness: smaller, fragile, a mockery of her former majesty. Adam regarded her with cold amusement.

“You should have chosen better,” he said. “Strange, you almost look improved this way.”

Then his expression hardened. He knelt close, his breath hot against her ear, and in Enuncia he pronounced six binding decrees—seals that none but God or Adam could ever undo:

“The first: You shall guard the Pride Ring and allow no sinner to cross its borders.”

“The second: You shall obey every treaty signed by Sera, by Michael, by the Lord God, and by me. Should any be broken—even by your own hand—you shall die.”

“The third: Never again shall you take to the skies. Your wings are forever beyond your reach, and you shall crawl like the worm you are.”

“The fourth: The great powers you once held are stripped away. You are no longer Archangel, but Warden of Hell—diminished, yet bound to serve.”

“The fifth: You shall slay any Archfiend that dares rise again. Should you fail, Heaven itself shall destroy them—and torment you without end.”

“The sixth: You shall feel the sins of all mankind. Every wound, every grief, every sorrow and agony they inflict upon each other shall echo through your soul for all time.”

The seals entered her essence like brands of fire, binding themselves into her very being. Her scream, no longer of pride but of horror, echoed through the rings of Hell.

And when the light dimmed, Adam stood over her, not as a man of flesh, but as judgment incarnate.

As the echoes of Lucifer’s screams faded into a vast and terrible silence. Hell itself seemed to hold its breath. Golden light lingered in the air like the dying glow of a storm, illuminating the broken serpent’s new form. In that stillness, Adam stood as the unchallenged sovereign, his armor gleaming like the sun at dawn, his gaze steady and unyielding.

Then, he felt them before he saw them—the familiar weight of power approaching. He turned, and through the ashen air came the Seven, the monarchs of the Infernal Rings, the children born of Lilith’s defiance and his own blood.

At their head strode Satan, the Sin of Wrath, his skeletal frame wreathed in living fire. His black trench coat whipped like a banner in an unseen wind, and the embers in his hollow sockets flared as he halted before Adam. 

“Father,” he rumbled, his gravel-thick voice edged with both worry and battle-hunger, “what shall come of us now?”

Adam’s expression softened. “Fear not, my son. I shall not raise my hand against you or your siblings. Your loyalty is not in question.”

Before Satan could speak again, a languid yawn drifted through the still air. Belphegor, Sin of Sloth, leaned lazily against a column of basalt, her long magenta hair trailing like smoke. Her pale, half-lidded gaze swept over the devastation. 

“This will be… troublesome,” she sighed. “Cleaning up after your quarrel, Father, is going to be a wretched amount of work.”

Mammon’s voice, sharp and bright as a coin striking stone, cut through her lethargy. 

“Work? The only thing you’ll do is watch while the rest of us bleed and sweat,” he barked, his jester’s cap jangling as his four hands tightened around his golden cane. His round frame shifted with restless energy, his grin more mocking than amused.

Before their bickering could spiral, Beelzebub stepped forward—tall and foxlike, wings and antennae catching the golden glow. Her voice carried a strange mix of lightness and command. 

“Enough. Squabbling here only shows weakness,” she said, her tail swishing like a blade through water.

But Mammon and Belphegor turned their ire on her instead, jeering in perfect unison. “Peacekeeper, begone,” they sneered. 

Beelzebub bristled, fur standing on end, her voice growing sharp as she snapped, “Ingrates!”

Adam exhaled through his nose, the faintest echo of amusement beneath his authority. With a single sharp whistle, he commanded their attention. Instantly, their quarrels stilled.

“My children,” Adam said, his voice resonant and steady, “playtime ends now. There is work to be done.” The Seven straightened as he continued. 

“Lucifer’s arrogance shall not be permitted to rise again. I will bind her here in the Pride Ring, and it will fall to you to keep her in check. Together, you will act as her council—and her chains.”

Asmodeus, the Sin of Lust, strode forward next. His towering frame and plume of feathers cast long shadows across the scorched earth. His many eyes gleamed with unease. 

“Father,” he said, his deep voice tinged with doubt, “how can we stand against her? Even now, she is stronger than any one of us.”

Adam turned to him and laid a hand upon his shoulder. His golden radiance softened into the warmth of a father’s presence. “Be not afraid, my son. I will grant you the strength you require to fulfill this charge.”

Leviathan approached quietly then, her great form towering like a living storm. Her violet eyes flickered with shame. “Do you truly trust us so deeply?” she asked, voice lowered. “You know what we are.”

Adam regarded her and the rest of his children with grave affection. “

Yes,” he said. “For when the darkness rose and the primordial beasts sought to unmake creation, it was you who stood beside me. You who fought. You who endured. The sins of the parents are not the sins of the child. My trust is yours, as it has always been.”

The Seven lowered their heads, the weight of his words settling upon them like a mantle. Then Adam stepped back, lifting his right hand. His voice shifted, resonating with the divine authority of Enuncia.

“I Empower Thee.”

Light burst from his palm like the dawn breaking over a black sea. The Sins gasped as new strength coursed through them, their powers flaring bright as stars before settling into a steady, potent glow. Satan grinned with fierce delight, while even Belphegor’s half-lidded eyes flickered with rare alertness.

Adam raised his hand again to still their questions. “My time grows short. Lilith yet remains to face her judgment. We will speak again soon, my children. Until then—watch, guard, and remember who you are.”

With a final nod, Adam’s form shimmered. In a flash of golden light, he vanished and returned to the Wrath Ring—where Lilith awaited her fate in chains. 

His fatherly warmth fell away like a mantle at dusk, and in its place rose the cold, imperious gaze of the King of Ages once more.

Adam emerged in a blaze of golden light, returning to the Wrath Ring where Lilith still lay bound. The warmth of fatherhood fell away from him like a discarded cloak. His countenance hardened; the air grew heavy, and even Hell itself seemed to recoil beneath the weight of his presence.

Lilith knelt in her chains, eyes narrowed, lips curled in venomous defiance. Adam approached, each step echoing like a hammer striking judgment upon stone.

“Well then,” he said, his voice low, cold, and edged with mockery, “how the tables have turned. How does it feel to be chained and helpless, Lilith?”

Her response was a hiss of hatred. “Oh, please, you miserable cuck,” she spat. “You act as if you didn’t enjoy it. You’re a man—your body betrayed you.”

Adam’s eye twitched, old wounds clawing their way to the surface. Lilith saw it and smiled—a cruel, triumphant curve of her lips. 

“Poor Adam,” she cooed with poisonous sweetness. “How many centuries has it been, and you still haven’t gotten over it?”

Adam’s body twitched, causing Lilith to let out an unpleasant smirk.

“Your body responded,” she continued, her voice dripping malice. “So don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it.”

Before another word could slither from her mouth, a radiant flash seared the air. Adam stood in his Aspect of War, towering and terrible, golden armor blazing with holy fire. His roar shook the Ring. 

“I did not enjoy that violation,” he thundered. “You took Eve’s shape to deceive me. You tricked me.”

Lilith’s eyes glittered with mockery. “How dare you, mud-born,” she sneered. “This is my realm. I am its queen—”

She got no further. Adam’s right hand clamped over her mouth with a force that made the air itself groan. His voice cut through her like a blade. “Queen? Do you think the hordes of Hell will ever respect you again, after the ruin I brought upon you three? You are a hollow pretender, Lilith.”

Beneath his wrath, for the first time, a flicker of unease crept into her eyes.

Memories clawed at Adam’s mind—the months of unrelenting violation, the darkness, the moment Eve’s hands pulled him from the abyss. 

His fury sharpened into something focused, deliberate. 

He seized her by the throat and hurled her to the ground. Fire erupted along his left gauntlet as he pointed over her womb and spoke in the language of creation.

“No matter your desire,” he intoned, “your womb shall never hold a child again.”

The curse ignited like a brand, marking her flesh with a stylized sigil of his name—an eternal seal of barrenness. Lilith screamed, thrashing in her chains as the mark burned into her essence.

Adam’s gaze was merciless. “You boasted of freedom and will,” he said, his tone turning cruel, “then feel the full weight of your choices.”

His voice rose, thunder rolling through the Wrath Ring as he spoke again in Enuncia.

“I strip you of your free will. You shall act only at the command of others. Your mind will remain your own, trapped within, watching everything you have lost.”

The curse fell upon her like divine chains. Her eyes glazed over; her body went still. What remained of Lilith—the cunning, venomous queen—was now a hollow vessel bound to obey.

Adam exhaled slowly, the flames along his armor dimming. His towering warlike form faded, replaced by the solemn figure of the Father. He looked down at Lilith—not with pity, but with the cold satisfaction of justice executed.

“See,” he murmured, his voice like distant thunder, “how it feels to be stripped of what you once stole from me.”

He raised his gaze to the heavens and sent a silent thought to Asmodeus, commanding him to keep Lilith alive until the new Lucifer awoke, and to inform her of what had transpired. 

A single pulse of assent returned over the psychic bond.

Adam gave a final look to the broken figure at his feet, then turned toward the heavens. Golden light enveloped him, and he ascended from Hell, returning to the High Heavens above.

Chapter Text

Time Skip: 5 Minutes Later

POV: Third-Person

World: The High Heavens

Location: The Elysium Fields

OST: New Home

The golden light of Adam’s ascent split the firmament of Hell, tearing through shadow and flame. In a single, resplendent flash, he passed beyond the void and entered the boundless radiance of the High Heavens. 

The air there was weightless and pure; choirs unseen sang in distant harmonies, and the streets of crystal gold shimmered beneath the eternal light of the Most High.

In the great hall of the Heavenly Citadel, Seraphiel paced, her wings drawn close, her face clouded with worry. Gabriel, her twin and ever the messenger, stood beside her with calm patience. 

“Peace, sister,” he said softly. “You have seen Adam’s might. He does not fall so easily—and the Lord is with him.”

“I know,” Sera replied, her voice trembling like the hush before dawn. “But after so long… after all the ages we spent without him, my heart will not rest until I see him with my own eyes.”

“Be not afraid, Grandmother,” came Abel’s voice. The first son stood nearby, radiant and whole, his presence a quiet reassurance. “Our father is strong.”

And as if summoned by those words, a great portal of light unfurled in the center of the hall, spilling divine brilliance across the marble floor. 

From its heart stepped Adam, whole and resplendent. The marks of wrath and battle still clung to him like faint embers, but his face was calm, his steps sure. His gaze found Sera’s, and a soft smile spread across his lips.

“As Abel said, Mother,” Adam declared warmly, his voice rolling through the hall like a gentle tide. “I am strong, nor am I so easily vanquished.”

Sera did not hesitate. She crossed the hall and embraced him, clutching her son to her chest. For a heartbeat, the eternal heavens felt small—like a home restored. Adam held her gently, allowing her tears to fall against his shoulder. 

Then he turned and drew Gabriel into an embrace as well.

“Thank you,” Adam said, his voice deep with gratitude. “For standing by her, brother.”

Gabriel chuckled softly. “She is my twin. I would not have her fall apart without me,” he said, earning a light swat from Sera and a ripple of laughter from Adam—a laughter rich and genuine, rolling through the hall like distant thunder softened by rain.

And then Adam felt a small tug at his leg. 

Adam looked down to see Harper, his youngest daughter, staring up at him with wide, pleading eyes. Her voice was soft, almost trembling. “Daddy… You’re not going to leave again, are you?”

The grandeur of the High Heavens itself seemed to quiet around them.

Adam knelt, gathering her into his arms as the golden light reflected in her eyes, and he pressed a kiss to her forehead. 

“No, my little harp,” he said, his voice as gentle as it had been fierce in the depths below. “I’m not leaving any of you again.”

She giggled against his neck, her small arms tightening around him, and in that moment, the King of Ages was simply a father again.

Adam rose, Harper cradled against his chest, and turned to his family, and his voice carried through the hall, both commanding and joyous. “Come,” he called, “let us return home. Tonight, we celebrate.”

Together, they walked through the radiant avenues of the Golden Crystal City. 

Laughter and light followed them, echoing among the celestial towers. And as Adam looked upon his gathered family—those redeemed, those steadfast, those returned—his heart finally knew stillness.

At long last, paradise was not just a memory. It was home once more.

And so, beneath Heaven’s eternal light, the First Man walked once more among his kin—no longer as a wanderer of wrath, but as a father returned. The echoes of war faded into the hush of paradise, where joy and judgment stood side by side, awaiting the dawn of a new age.