Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

The wind here used to be clear, carrying a warm and sacred current.

But now, as it scrapes against Castio's face, it feels like it's mixed with shards of glass, cold and stinging.

He stood before the broken steps of the Seventh Temple.

The steps, once forged from light and clouds, are now dim and mottled, with charred cracks and dried golden bloodstains—the blood of angels—visible along their edges.

The towering temple gate was crooked, one of its hinges was broken, and the originally exquisite and intricate 'Divine Eye' relief on the gate had been smashed in half by some kind of violence, leaving only an empty eye socket staring blankly at the sky.

The sky is no longer the tranquil blue and golden intertwined of memories.

It presented a morbid, layered color, with some dark currents in the distance that he could not identify, carrying an air of decay.

The air was filled with a thin but persistent smell of burnt carbon, and an even more subtle scent of pain lingering from a wounded soul.

This place doesn't feel like paradise; it's more like a ruin that has just experienced a brutal internal conflict.

“Lord Castio.” A voice sounded behind him, respectful, but with an undisguised weariness.

Castio turned around and saw Hannah, a low-ranking record angel who had once served under him. She was gentle and skilled at deciphering legal texts rather than fighting.

At this moment, Hannah's wings were dull and lifeless, and there was even a clear mark on her left wing that had been broken and barely reattached, secured with a bandage made of light.

His face was pale from prolonged stress and lack of rest.

“Hannah.” Castio nodded, his gaze sweeping over Hannah’s injured wing. “How many more are there?”

Hannah lowered her head, her voice even softer: "There are fewer than three hundred who can be confirmed as still loyal to our side, and... and still alive."

"Most of them are imprisoned by Uriel in the Silent Corridor, where they are bound by legal chains and cannot be approached. Some... have disappeared; they may be scattered among the mortal realm, or perhaps..."

He didn't finish speaking.

Castio felt a heavy weight of guilt weigh on his heart.

It's always like this.

Because of him, because of his past wrong choices, he proclaimed himself God and became entangled with Leviathan, ultimately causing his power to spiral out of control, plunging the angels who trusted and followed him into despair once again.

In purgatory, Dean and Sam shed their blood for themselves; back in heaven, their followers are plunged into danger for them.

"Where is Uriel now?" Castio asked calmly, but Hana could hear the suppressed anxiety in his voice.

“In the ‘Supreme Court,’ he declared it the new center of power.” Hannah smiled wryly. “He gathered most of Raphael’s old followers around him, as well as a previously neutral fence-sitter.”

"He claims to purify Heaven and restore order, but everyone can see that he just wants to become the new agent of God."

"What about Michael's old followers?"

“It has split apart. One part has submitted to Uriel, another part still resists in some areas but is leaderless and fights on its own, and yet another part… has completely fallen and roams the fringes, attacking anything that comes near, including us.”

Hannah looked up, her eyes pleading: "Casdio, we need you. We need you to step forward and rally those who can still fight. Uriel's power is growing. He's trying to activate 'Apocalypse Prelude,' which is a... deterrent purge. If he succeeds, the brothers in the Silent Corridor will truly be beyond saving."

Apocalypse Rehearsal.

Castio knew what it was, drawing upon a portion of Heaven's destructive energy reserves to 'format' a specific area.

Uriel is insane to think he can use it to eliminate opponents or force everyone to submit.

Time was of the essence, but he could feel the last vestiges of his power flickering like a candle in the wind. Faced with Uriel, who had consolidated Raphael's legacy and was now at the height of his power, what could he do?
Lead these three hundred wounded followers into battle?

That would be tantamount to suicide and would also ruin their last chance of survival.

Just as he was being gnawed at by helplessness and self-blame, Hannah hesitated for a moment before speaking again: "My lord... there is another person who has returned. Perhaps... he can offer some help."

"Who?"

Metatron.

The name startled Castio.

Metatron, God's scribe, is one of the oldest and most mysterious angels in Heaven, said to serve God directly and record all truth.

But shortly after God disappeared, he too vanished.

Rumor has it that because he knew too many taboos, Michael considered him a threat and hunted him down, forcing him to flee Heaven.

"He's back? Which side is he on?" Castio asked.

Metatron's position is crucial; the knowledge and potential secrets he possesses are enough to influence the balance.

“He doesn’t belong to any existing faction.” Hannah shook her head slightly. “But he has publicly condemned Uriel’s misuse of the idea of ​​‘premonition of the apocalypse,’ considering it blasphemous to God’s creation. He’s on our side for now… and he wants to see you.”

Castio paused for a moment, then said, "Lead the way."

They passed through more halls and corridors, occasionally catching glimpses of other angels, but they were all in a hurry, their eyes wary, and there was a cold distance between them.

The harmony of heaven has long been shattered, leaving only suspicion and survival.

Metatron is in a relatively well-preserved small side hall.

This place seems to be an old library or archive, with scrolls and crystals piled haphazardly on tall shelves, many of them covered in dust.

He stood with his back to the doorway in front of a narrow stained-glass window. Several pieces of the windowpane were broken, but the remaining glass still filtered the chaotic light from the outside world into a hazy patch of color, which fell on his pale wings and simple robe.

Hearing footsteps, he turned around.

Metatron doesn't look as imposing or mysterious as legend has it.

He was more like an old scholar, weathered by time and immersed in ancient texts, with a gaunt face and deep eyes, but with a weariness that came from long-term scrutiny of secrets.

The moment you look at him, it's like looking at an old man with a story to tell.

His aura subsided, and Castio could barely sense any outward fluctuations of power, which only made him more cautious.

“Castio,” Metatron spoke first, his voice gentle, “you’ve returned, carrying the scent of war and… a heavy burden.”

“Metatron.” Castio stopped a few steps away from him. “Hannah said you might be able to help us.”

“Help?” Metatron tilted his head slightly, his gaze seemingly able to pierce through Castio’s calm surface and see the guilt and anxiety churning deep within him. “When you use the word ‘help,’ you need to clarify your goal first.”

What are your goals?
Defeat Uriel?
Rescuing the prisoners?

Or... restore some semblance of peace to Heaven?

Castio met his gaze: "All of this, Uriel's actions will drag Heaven into deeper chaos and atrocities; he must be stopped." (End of Chapter)