The sky above Golgotha was dark, heavy with the silence that only follows death. The wind held its breath. Clouds churned like mourning spirits.

At the foot of the cross, a Roman soldier stood motionless, his helmet under one arm, his eyes fixed on the lifeless body of Yeshua. Blood streaked the wood behind Him, and His final breath had long since escaped. Yet something lingered—something eternal.

Tears traced clean paths down the soldier's dust-covered cheeks.

"Truly," he whispered, voice cracking with awe and fear, "this man was the Son of God."

He turned to walk away, his steps slow, heavy. As the others moved in solemn silence around him, he whispered once more—this time only to himself.

"…What have we done?"

Far away, beyond the veils of time and the bounds of earth, a towering structure stood silhouetted against a twilight sky not of this world. It was ancient, celestial—the Divine Armory.

Within its central chamber—a vast circular garden carved of living stone and starlight—a lone figure moved with deliberate grace. He was tall, robed in shadowed fabric that whispered across the ground like smoke. In his hand, he carried a massive key, forged not of iron but something older, heavier—divine and golden.

Around him, strange, luminous creatures flitted and hovered: some no larger than his hand, others gliding along the floor as if dancing to unheard music.

The hooded figure approached the center of the chamber, where rings of gilded gold encircled a single slot carved into the floor. Without hesitation, he inserted the key into the slot at the heart of the smallest circle and turned it with a low click that echoed like thunder in the bones.

He stepped back.

With a great hiss, a cylinder rose from the ground, steam and cryo-fog billowing from its base. Lights pulsed along its seams. Then the front split into three seamless panels and slid open, releasing a rush of freezing mist.

From the fog, a form emerged.

A man—his body still shimmering with condensation and cryo-residue—lurched forward and dropped to one knee, his hand striking the ground. The impact echoed through the chamber. The very air seemed to pause.

The hooded figure raised a hand, commanding the creatures with gentle authority. "Bring the cleansing waters, little ones—and a robe to cover him."

The creatures responded immediately. Some fluttered to the kneeling man, peering at him with curiosity and reverence. Others retrieved pitchers of crystal water, pouring it over his armored skin, washing away the frost. A few carefully carried a white robe and draped it across his shoulders.

The man rose.

He moved with a grace both regal and terrible, shoulders squared, gaze piercing. The creatures scurried back, their task complete.

The hooded figure fell to his knees, pressing his face to the floor, voice trembling with worship.

"Behold," he cried, "Ben-Ha-Elohim—He who holds the stars in his hand!"

The man who had risen from the crypt stepped forward. His hand extended, steady and kind.

"Yair," he said. "Rise."

The hooded figure—Yair—looked up, eyes filled with wonder. He took the hand offered to him and stood.

"Inform Mikha'el of my arrival," the man said. "There is work to be done."

Yair removed his hood, revealing a face lined with age and reverence.

"Yes, my Lord… of course." He hesitated. "But—what happens now?"

The man—Ben-Ha-Elohim—looked toward the horizon beyond the chamber walls. His voice was calm, but laced with purpose.

"I died, Yair," he said. "Take me to the Gates of Sheol."