The next few days passed like a dream he couldn't quite wake from.
Outwardly, nothing had changed. His home remained the same. His children still laughed in the mornings. His wife still welcomed him with warm food and a warmer smile. The world spun as it always had.
But inside him, something had shifted.
That night on the rooftop—the throne, the flood of voices, the acceptance—it hadn't been just a dream. It had been a moment of synchronization. The part of him he kept buried had finally opened one eye, and the hunger within no longer whispered from the corners. It walked beside him now.
Quiet. Patient.
And watching.
He tried not to let it show.
He played with his son in the garden, tossing small pebbles with measured strength, careful not to accidentally launch them into orbit. His daughter sat on his shoulders during walks through the market. He even smiled more, spoke more, laughed when he could.
But every now and then, something would test the cracks in his calm.
A drunk merchant shouting at his wife over a minor price change. A group of older cultivators mocking a young, low-stage boy outside the academy. Or a street performer being beaten by bored noble brats while others looked away.
He never interfered.
But it took everything not to.
Because the voice in his head—the hunger—always leaned close during those moments and said the same thing:
"Just one. No one would know. No one would miss them. Just one soul..."
It had a warmth to it, that voice. A softness, like a mother urging her child to eat.
He clenched his fists in his pockets and walked away every time.
But the tension built, layer upon layer, with each moment ignored.
Even a volcano takes time to erupt.
On the fourth day, something strange happened.
The shadows—his 3000 loyal phantoms—began to whisper.
Not all of them. Just a few. But enough to notice.
He sat beneath the tree in the courtyard when it hit him—a sharp, cold breeze that shouldn't have existed in the lower world's spring warmth. It cut through the air and curled around his spine like a hand dragging its fingers across skin.
He frowned.
Then, a whisper.
"She's searching..."
His eyes narrowed. "Who?"
Silence.
Then again, but from a different voice, overlapping.
"The fallen flame... she stirs."
He stood slowly, eyes scanning the distant hills.
Only one being fit that name.
The Red Angel.
He had met her once.
In another life, another war.
A seraph of heaven turned rogue after falling in love with a mortal. Her love had been torn apart by her kin, and in return, she had torn heaven's gates open with her bare hands.
They called her a traitor. A heretic.
He had simply called her interesting.
Their paths had crossed during his rampage across the upper realm. She hadn't tried to stop him. In fact, she had only watched—from afar—eyes like molten gold, wings scorched to ash.
She never moved against him.
Until the day she did.
And it had nearly cost him his soul.
The Red Angel was not a foe to take lightly. And if she was awake again...
No. It wasn't coincidence.
She had sensed his awakening.
They always did.
He gathered his thoughts, sent a pulse of shadow through the threads that bound his army to him.
In moments, three silhouettes knelt before him—manifestations of his generals.
Tall, featureless, yet powerful enough to erase small continents if given permission.
He spoke calmly. "Send ten thousand eyes into the sky. Watch for wings of fire. If she crosses into this realm, I want to know before her shadow hits the ground."
They bowed and vanished, scattering like smoke in the wind.
Later that night, he sat with his wife by the fire.
She brushed his hair out of his eyes, smiling gently. "You seem distant."
He met her gaze, touched her hand. "Just thinking too much."
"About the children?"
"In part."
Her eyes didn't blink. She always saw through the lies. But she didn't press.
Instead, she leaned against him, resting her head on his chest. "Whatever storm is coming... you'll protect them."
He nodded.
Because there was no other option.
The next morning, news arrived.
Not by courier. Not by paper.
But by sky.
A pillar of red light erupted from the northern cliffs, tearing through clouds and turning the blue sky into shades of blood and amber.
The birds stopped singing.
The earth trembled slightly beneath his feet.
People stepped out of their homes, shielding their eyes, wondering if some great celestial being had descended.
Only he knew the truth.
The Red Angel had entered the realm.
And she had done it loudly on purpose.
"She wants you to come to her," the hunger whispered.
"She wants to see how much of you has truly returned."
He turned to look at the horizon, wind tossing his hair.
He couldn't ignore it now.
That evening, he met his wife in the garden.
She was trimming the roses, her favorite. The scent was sharp in the air.
"I need to leave for a few days," he said softly.
She didn't look up. "I figured."
"I'll leave watchers behind. Shadows. They'll keep the children safe."
Still, she didn't meet his eyes. "Do what you have to."
He stepped forward, gently wrapping his arms around her from behind. Her breath caught, but she didn't pull away.
"I don't want to be that person again," he murmured. "But some parts of me… I don't know if I can fight forever."
She finally turned to face him, brushing her fingers along his cheek.
"I never asked you to fight it," she whispered. "I just asked you to come home."
He left at midnight.
No grand farewell. No dramatic flight.
He simply stepped into the shadows—and vanished.
His destination was clear.
The northern cliffs.
Where a Red Angel waited atop the ruins of a forgotten palace, where heaven once tried to build a gate to the lower world—and failed.
It took him less than an hour to arrive.
She was already there.
She hadn't changed.
Wings like burning banners, trailing ash. Hair like threads of flame. Eyes like the core of a star.
She stood on the broken balcony, looking out over the world, arms folded behind her back.
"I was wondering how long you'd take," she said without turning.
He stepped onto the stone beside her. "You didn't exactly knock softly."
She smiled, faintly. "You were never the type to respond to whispers."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then she turned to him, gaze piercing. "You've awakened."
He didn't deny it.
"Not fully," he said.
"But enough," she replied. "Enough for the realms to feel it. You shook the balance when you killed that priest's soul."
He raised a brow. "That was nothing."
"To you," she said. "To heaven? A catastrophe."
He looked away. "So what now? You came to stop me?"
"No," she said quietly. "I came to ask what side you're on this time."
He met her eyes.
And for a long moment, the world was still.
Then he said, "I'm not on any side."
"Liar."
"I'm serious. I've chosen something else."
"What?"
He smiled, bitterly. "Peace."
She laughed—sharp and full of fire. "Peace? You? The man who devoured gods and broke the moon?"
He didn't respond.
She stepped closer, voice lowering. "Then why are your shadows moving again? Why are the seals crumbling? Why is the hunger growing louder?"
He looked away.
Because he didn't know.
Or maybe... he did.
And didn't want to admit it.
She softened. "You're changing, aren't you? Merging."
He nodded once. "I've stopped running from it."
She placed a hand on his chest. "Then you'll never be normal again."
"I never was."
Silence.
Then she sighed and stepped back.
"I won't stop you," she said. "But if the realms move… if heaven or the upper world declares war again…"
He met her eyes.
"I'll end it," he said. "This time, for good."
She nodded.
Then vanished in a gust of flame, leaving behind the scent of ash and roses.
He stood alone on the cliffs.
The world below was quiet.
But in his chest, the hunger stirred.
And for once… it didn't scare him.