The sky was molten gold above the clouds—burning with glory, alive with light—but below, the ocean raged. A storm churned the waters with unnatural fury, the clouds beneath the Divine Armory boiling in hues of emerald and deep cobalt. The air cracked with pressure, as if the veil between realms were stretching thin.

Seven winged figures cut through the sky, descending from the heavens like streaks of living fire. They were Seraphim—warriors born of light and flame. Their arrival was swift, purposeful. They landed in unison on one of the immense platforms extending from the Divine Armory, the force of their descent made their arrival known throughout.

Inside, the council chamber was filled with conversation and a heavy tension.

The doors—two stories tall and inscribed with forgotten tongues—swung open with a thunderous groan.

The council of Elohim turned as one.

Leading the Seraphim, Mikha'el marched forward, his countenance fierce and unyielding. His armor shimmered with celestial energy. Without hesitation, he stepped into the center of the chamber, where the Ben-Ha-Elohim stood among the gathered thrones.

"Why did you stop us?" Mikha'el demanded, his voice raw with pain and indignation.

Yair was the first to move, stepping between Mikha'el and the Lord. He drew his blade in a flash of silver fire.

"How dare you," Yair growled. "I will cast you from this place for such insolence!"

But a calm voice broke through the rising tension.

"I have given no such command," said Ben-Ha-Elohim, his tone gentle but firm.

He turned his gaze upon Mikha'el—clear, knowing, endless.

"Know your place... and be at peace."

Mikha'el dropped his eyes, his fury momentarily cooled by the weight of the words spoken. His shoulders rested, and he bowed his head.

"Forgive me, Lord," he said. "Open my eyes that I may see what You see. They humiliated You... they undressed You and drove nails into Your hands and feet. They murdered You."

His fists clenched. His teeth bared.

"My host had blades in hand. We were ready to end them all. We would've sent them screaming to the pits of Sheol!"

"I know," the Lord said softly. He stepped forward and placed a hand on Mikha'el's shoulder. "And no other Elohim carries your zeal."

Mikha'el's voice cracked.

"Then why? Why did you stop us?"

The Ben-Ha-Elohim smiled, not with mockery but with love and something far more potent than vengeance.

"Because I will save them," He said, with a spark of direct certainty in His eye. "I will save them all."

A flutter of wings interrupted the moment. One of the small winged creatures hovered near Yair and whispered in his ear.

Yair nodded, then turned to the Lord.

"My Lord," he said, "we've arrived."

The walls of the chamber became translucent, and through them, the storm could be seen swirling below. The entire armory now hovered above the sea—suspended between heaven and the abyss.

The Lord and Mikha'el stepped out of the main chamber and walked to the edge of the nearest platform. Thunder rumbled from the deep. Clouds spun below the armory in a massive vortex, the center slowly revealing the ocean's surface.

Yeshua looked over the edge of the platform and placed his hand on his chest, "Hello, old friend," he said to the moving waters below. "My Dag-Gadol, show me the path to Sheol."

The clouds and water obeyed.

They began to peel away, revealing spiraling waters beneath. A maelstrom opened at the sea's heart, dark and deep.

Yair approached from behind, carrying a heavy book in one hand and a leather bandolier in the other. Behind him, winged Fae carried a large, sealed chest.

"My Lord," Yair said, lowering his eyes. "Your effects."

He offered the bandolier. Then gestured to the chest, which the Fae placed gently on the platform floor.

Yair opened it and stepped back.

Mikha'el turned as the Lord removed His robe.

With measured reverence, the Beni-Ha-Elohim stepped forward, fastening the bandolier across His chest. He looked down into the open chest and smiled.

"You've kept them in perfect condition, Yair," He said with warmth, as he put his robes back on.

He reached in to the chest with His right hand and drew a long, white and gold handle that seemed to shimmer even with the sun now behind the clouds. With His left, he lifted a sword fit for a king—its edge crackling with divine energy.

"The Blade of Elysium..." Mikha'el whispered, awestruck. "Surely nothing in that pit understands the authority that blade carries?"

Yeshua turned the blade in His hand, admiring its craftsmanship.

"Truly I say to you," He replied, "it is not the blade that carries the authority... but the one who wields it."

Mikha'el stepped closer to see the other weapon, "And a weapon of the Divine Flame? Why, Yeshua, I don't recall you having... interactions... with the Nephilim and their offspring."

Yeshua slipped both weapons into the rings on the back of the bandolier with fluid ease.

"I have wrestled with descendants of Adam and cast Elohim into the Abyss," He said. "The Nephilim and their kin recognized my authority faster than the other two."

He turned back to Yair.

"My Lord," Yair said, bowing his head once more and holding up the book, "The Book of Life."

Yeshua took it in both hands, the gold panels of its cover were perfectly clean and beautifully crafted.

"Well done, Yair," He said. "You have been an exceptional steward—and key-warden of this armory." Yeshua nodded with genuine affection, then turned to Mikha'el. "Take your host back to the armory over Jerusalem. Camp above the tomb of Joseph—where my disciples laid my broken body to rest. On the morning of the third day, descend to the tomb and remove the stone that covers the entrance."

Mikha'el bowed deeply, "May it be, as You have spoken." Without another word, he turned and strode back toward the gates, the host of Seraphim now joining him.

Yeshua stepped to the very edge of the platform, wind and stormlight whipping around Him. He looked down into the spiraling storm, into the waters that raged, and into the path that led to the realm of the dead.

Then—he stepped off.

And as Yeshua fell, the words of the prophet echoed through his mind:

"I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me." Isaiah 6:8