The night air was thick with lingering tension as Hugo, Roxanne, and Eliza rushed toward the source of the commotion, Satisiel walking calmly beside them. The vibrant glow of the Night Parade clashed starkly against the fading remnants of battle, casting an eerie contrast between celebration and conflict.

  By the time they arrived, Michello was already leaving, his unnerving grin still present as the other Cardinals led him away. Veritas stood unharmed, his divine radiance still flickering slightly from the aftermath of his confrontation. Nearby, Arthur and Emelia stood close together, their expressions unsettled.

  Hugo skidded to a halt, scanning the battlefield for any lingering threats. Seeing none, he exhaled sharply and crossed his arms.

  “What the hell just happened?” he demanded.

  Arthur turned to face them, his expression a mixture of relief and lingering unease.

  “Michello offered to kill both Veritas and Emelia’s murderer,” Arthur explained. “But midway through, his cultists showed up, talking about some emergency. He left before finishing the job.”

  Hugo shook his head, rubbing his temple. “You’re lucky,” he muttered. “Having to owe Michello a favor wouldn’t end well for you.”

  A voice broke through the conversation, calm yet laced with a subtle amusement.

  “Oh, Veritas,” Satisiel greeted, lifting a hand in a casual wave. “It’s been quite some time.”

  Veritas turned to him, his expression immediately souring, divine light flickering across his form as if his mere presence was enough to disrupt the air itself.

  “How annoying,” Veritas sighed, his violet eyes narrowing. His gaze then shifted to Arthur, his lips curling in disdain. “And I see my lesser half is with you as well.”

  Arthur clenched his fists, but before he could respond, Satisiel simply let out a small chuckle. His tone remained calm, yet sharp as a blade hidden beneath silk.

  “I understand you are compelled to always speak the truth under your Commandment,” Satisiel mused, “but it would do you well to remain silent. There’s a reason you have no friends among us Ten.”

  The words hit their mark. Veritas’s eye twitched ever so slightly, though his expression remained composed.

  With a smirk, he scoffed. “Why don’t you return to your paintings? Now that you’ve fallen from Nirvana, you won’t have to worry about accidentally dropping your works from the heavens and letting humans take credit for them.”

  His voice dripped with mockery as he added, “I must say, I’m torn on which of your lost masterpieces I like more—The Starry Night or Café Terrace at Night.”

  Satisiel’s smile did not falter, though a faint flicker of irritation crossed his otherwise serene expression.

  “Ah, yes. Our dear friend Cleansia found my art offensive to Nirvana’s purity and decided it was best to rid the heaven of such blasphemy.” He let out a wistful sigh. “Truly a pity.”

  His fingers twitched slightly, as if reminiscing about the pieces he had lost.

  Arthur, still on edge from Veritas’s comment, looked between the two angels. “Wait…” he hesitated. “You’re telling me Satisiel painted The Starry Night?!”

  Satisiel glanced at him, a soft, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Among others.”

  Hugo groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation. “We are not getting into an art history lesson right now.”

  Satisiel chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Yes, let’s not dwell on the past.” His piercing blue eyes darkened slightly, his smile thinning. “Though, I must say, I truly hope I don’t encounter Cleansia in this world. That man…” he let out a slow, tired sigh, “…is even worse than you, Veritas.”

  Veritas’s expression didn’t change, but there was an unmistakable flicker of irritation in his violet gaze. He turned his attention fully to Arthur, his smirk sharpening like a blade.

  “So, Arthur, did I hear that right?” he asked, his voice thick with amusement. “You’re the one who sent that rabid dog, Michello, after me?”

  Arthur met his gaze without hesitation, his jaw tightening. “I did. Care to explain why you’re spending your precious time with Emelia’s murderer?”

  Veritas let out a slow, deliberate chuckle, his wings twitching slightly as he tilted his head. “For fun.” He spread his arms out theatrically, as if presenting himself. “I plan to live your life far better than you ever could. And for some reason, the humans in your class adore that girl.” His lips curled in mock sympathy. “Shame she only had eyes for a wretch like you.”

  Arthur’s breath caught in his throat. “What… are you talking about?”

  Veritas’s grin widened, his voice turning almost sing-song in its cruelty. “Oh, dear Arthur. Your dearest Emelia? She died because of you.”

  Arthur’s body tensed. “That’s a lie.”

  “Oh, but it isn’t,” Veritas cooed. He took a slow step forward, savoring the moment. “She was killed because that psychopath—Maria—was disgustingly in love with you. A horrid little obsession that festered and grew, warping her mind until she could no longer stand the sight of Emelia beside you.” He let the words settle, drinking in Arthur’s reaction. “Of course, I merely… enhanced her feelings. Gave her a gentle push, if you will.” He shrugged. “Though, truth be told, even without my influence, Maria still would’ve killed her.”

  Arthur froze, his mind struggling to process what he had just heard. A silent tremor ran through his body, his hands clenching at his sides as his eyes widened in horror.

  The world around him felt distant, as if the weight of Veritas’s words had suddenly made the Night Parade’s warmth and celebration feel artificial, a cruel mockery of the truth that had just been laid bare.

  Veritas let out a low, pleased laugh. “Ah, that look on your face… I must say, it’s delightful—”

  His sentence was cut short as Satisiel, who had remained silent through the exchange, suddenly moved.

  His fist crashed into Veritas’s face, the sharp, satisfying crack of breaking cartilage splitting through the air as blood splattered against the ground.

  Veritas staggered back, clutching his now-bleeding nose, his wings twitching from the unexpected impact.

  The shock was palpable.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Even Arthur, still reeling from Veritas’s words, snapped back to reality as he processed what had just happened.

  Satisiel flexed his fingers, his face a mask of cold indifference, but his knuckles were stained red.

  “Since the dead can’t do it, allow me to assist,” he said simply, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. He glanced at the blood on his fist, exhaling softly. “We used your despair as an opportunity to live, but mocking the dead is disgusting, you bastard.”

  His piercing blue eyes lifted, locking onto Veritas with something akin to disdain—a rare expression from the normally tranquil angel.

  Satisiel slowly rotated his wrist, his gaze flickering toward the crimson smeared across his pale skin.

  “What a shame,” he murmured, almost to himself. “I typically don’t use red in my work. But I suppose I could… experiment.” He tilted his head, his voice carrying an unsettling curiosity. “A fresh canvas, a new life… perhaps I’ll find a use for it after all.”

  Satisiel twirled his paintbrush between his fingers, his serene expression never faltering as a faint glow radiated from the tip. The ethereal blue paint shimmered unnaturally, pulsing with quiet power.

  “I’m well aware of your healing capabilities, Veritas,” he mused, inspecting his brush as if this was nothing more than a casual artistic endeavor. “Which means you can manage a few more hits.”

  Veritas wiped the blood from his face, his violet eyes narrowing into a glare. “You bastard,” he spat, rolling his shoulders as his wings twitched with tension. “You wouldn’t dare—”

  “Apologize to the children,” Satisiel interrupted, his voice soft but carrying an unmistakable weight. His piercing blue gaze settled on Veritas, devoid of warmth. “Even if you have to lie—even if you have to cough up blood—say ‘sorry.’”

  Veritas’s lip curled into a snarl. “Go fuck your—”

  The words never finished.

  With a single, fluid stroke of his brush, Satisiel released a blade of pure blue paint. It sliced through the air with an unnatural speed, the sharp edge catching the glow of the Night Parade’s lights before—

  Veritas’s arm was severed at the shoulder.

  A spray of blood painted the ground as the detached limb tumbled, the fingers twitching instinctively before going still.

  Veritas screamed, his wings flaring as he staggered back, gripping the fresh wound. His body trembled, his breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts as a green aura surged around him, his divine healing already beginning to mend the damage.

  But Satisiel wasn’t finished.

  With calculated ease, he stepped forward and kicked Veritas to the ground, his movement as smooth as an artist perfecting his brushstrokes.

  Veritas hit the pavement hard, but before he could recover, Satisiel summoned a canvas in a flicker of white light, letting it hover in the air before pinning Veritas down beneath his heel.

  “Hold still.”

  Dipping his paintbrush into the pool of Veritas’s blood, Satisiel began to paint.

  Each stroke was precise, deliberate—as if he had all the time in the world. The intricate details of Veritas’s face took shape upon the canvas, each feature carefully rendered with an artist’s meticulous hand. He used black and white paint, blending it seamlessly with the fresh red to create depth, shadows, and highlights.

  The portrait was disturbingly lifelike.

  Veritas gritted his teeth, his body trembling from the pain, but his wings twitched as his regeneration kicked in, new flesh beginning to weave together at the site of his missing limb.

  It didn’t matter.

  Satisiel wordlessly lifted his brush again, another blade of blue paint flashing before—

  His arm was cleaved off once more.

  Another sharp cry of pain tore from Veritas’s throat as his severed limb hit the pavement for the second time. His healing tried to counteract the damage again, and yet, again, Satisiel repeated the process.

  For every time Veritas healed, Satisiel simply cut him down again—over and over and over.

  The scene was a brutal display of control, the Angel of Contentment reducing the Angel of Truth to nothing more than a tool for his art.

  Minutes passed.

  Veritas’s shallow breaths filled the silence. His body trembled, sweat and blood soaking the pavement beneath him. His divine healing had slowed, exhaustion beginning to take hold.

  And then—finally—Satisiel stopped.

  He lifted his paintbrush one last time, stepping back to admire his work.

  The painting was complete.

  It was a perfectly rendered portrait of Veritas, drawn entirely in his own blood. The details were intricate, the shading immaculate. The use of black and white mixed with red gave the painting an eerie, almost hauntingly beautiful depth.

  Satisiel sighed, tilting his head slightly as he observed his work. “Not bad,” he murmured, sounding almost pleased.

  Then, without another word, he removed his foot from Veritas’s chest and let the canvas fall to the ground beside him.

  Satisiel flicked his wrist, letting the last drops of Veritas’s blood drip from his brush before he casually tucked it back into his apron. He turned away, his expression serene, untouched by the violence that had just transpired.

  “Keep it,” he murmured, his voice devoid of warmth, but carrying a quiet finality. “It’s yours, after all.”

  The blood-painted canvas lay at Veritas’s feet, a perfect portrait of his own suffering, a reminder crafted by an angel who wielded artistry like a weapon.

  Satisiel sighed, rubbing at the crimson stains on his apron, though the action was more out of habit than any real concern. “I must apologize for that display. I rarely lose my temper.” He exhaled softly, as if shaking off the lingering remnants of irritation. “But even I have my limits.”

  Veritas staggered slightly as he pushed himself up, his breathing ragged. His regeneration was slowing, the repeated onslaught having drained him more than he cared to admit. His arm had finally reformed, but his wings vanished, a sign that he had used far more of his energy than he had anticipated.

  Satisiel didn’t spare him another glance. “Unless you have any further business with them, please leave.”

  The words carried no hostility, no malice—just cold dismissal.

  Veritas wiped the lingering blood from his face, his eyes narrowing as he stared at Satisiel with seething disdain. “Why?” he demanded, his voice hoarse but still dripping with arrogance. “Why are you siding with them? Why care about these worthless wretches? The same pathetic creatures who threw away their own lives so easily? The same ones we had to fight tooth and nail to keep?”

  Satisiel’s footsteps faltered slightly before he turned just enough to meet Veritas’s gaze. His expression remained calm, unreadable, but there was something sharp in his eyes—something that made the air grow colder.

  “It is not your duty to decide what a life is worth.”

  His voice was soft, yet it cut deeper than any blade.

  “To call them worthless only reveals your ignorance.” Satisiel’s lips curled into something resembling amusement, but there was no joy in it. “You speak like one who believes himself above them. And yet… that demon who killed our lord? He spoke the same way.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  Then—

  “Don’t you dare compare me to that bastard.”

  Veritas’s voice was venomous, his entire body rigid with fury. His violet eyes burned with something unhinged, something raw. “I am nothing like that filthy, worthless scum—Superbia!”

  Satisiel’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, his amusement deepened.

  “Then stop acting like him.”

  The words landed with the weight of a hammer.

  Veritas stiffened.

  Satisiel tilted his head slightly, as if regarding him with new curiosity. “Stop looking down on humanity like they are insects beneath your feet. Instead, try looking at their beauty.”

  Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, the weight of the conversation lingering like an aftertaste of something bitter.

  Veritas stood frozen for a moment, his hands clenched into trembling fists. His jaw tightened, his lips parting slightly as if to argue—only to snap shut again.

  The rage boiled inside him, but there was nothing to lash out at.

  Because Satisiel had already won.

  “Bastard,” Veritas muttered under his breath, his voice laced with frustration, before finally turning on his heel and vanishing into the night.

  Arthur’s group remained standing amidst the aftermath, the echoes of the confrontation settling into the air like lingering embers.

  Then, as if the world itself exhaled, the distant sound of laughter and music from the Night Parade slowly crept back into focus.

  The tension melted away, and for the first time that evening—they were free to enjoy the festival.