Baisha advanced with measured caution, each step a quiet vow against the unknown. The crystal door, through which she had passed, closed with a ponderous grace, stirring faint clouds of dust that shimmered briefly in the dim light before settling upon the polished floor. Beyond the threshold, the world transformed into a realm of twilight and mystery, where shadows wove tapestries of doubt and wonder. Her heart, though steady, quickened—not from fear, but from the weight of destiny that hung heavy in the air, as palpable as the mist that veiled her path.
The obsidian floor stretched endlessly before her, a mirror of night that reflected her every movement. With each step, delicate purple glyphs bloomed beneath her feet, their frost-like patterns pulsing with an ethereal glow, as if the ground itself acknowledged her presence with a silent hymn. She walked for three minutes, the crystalline echo of her footsteps the only sound in the vast silence, until she reached a chamber that seemed to pulse with ancient power—a sanctum hewn from the dreams of a forgotten age. The air was thick with reverence, a sacred stillness that caught her breath in her throat.
Above, inverted pillars of amethyst hung like celestial chandeliers, their facets scattering violet light across the chamber's walls. Black chains, sinuous as dragons, wove through the stone, entwining the crystals in a delicate dance of strength and elegance. At the heart of the room stood a four-sided pyramid of obsidian, its surface gleaming with an almost sentient intensity. Each face bore a distinct emblem: a trumpet, a sword, a cross, and a tree of life. Baisha's eyes lingered on the tree, where a single line of text was carved in mournful script: "I saw a star fall from heaven."
The words struck her like a quiet lament, a requiem for the angel who had slipped into eternal slumber. Her uncle's voice echoed in her memory—four angels, one forever lost. This symbol, then, was a monument to sacrifice, a guardian she could not call. Three remained, and from them, she must choose. But how? She had never seen these beings, never heard their voices. It was, she thought with a wry twist of her lips, akin to opening a blind box, the outcome surrendered to fate's caprice. Yet her uncle's warning lingered: not every angel would heed her call. This was no mere selection, but a mutual trial, a covenant forged in will and worth.
Baisha summoned her spirit companion, Little White Chirp, a vibrant creature that burst into being with a flutter of radiant wings. "Choose," she bade it, gesturing to the three remaining symbols. The bird hovered, its wings a blur of motion, before darting toward the sword with the precision of a falcon. It chirped twice, as if sealing its verdict, and Baisha's lips curved in approval. The sword, sharp and noble, had caught her own eye—its form spoke of valor and clarity, qualities that resonated with her soul. "Well chosen," she murmured, her bond with the creature a quiet anchor in this strange place.
Her fingers brushed the sword's carved outline, its surface cool and unyielding. Seconds passed—three, then ten—and nothing stirred. Baisha's brow furrowed, a spark of frustration kindling within her. "Is there some secret to this?" she muttered. Her uncle had offered no guidance, merely ushered her into Crystal Heaven and left her to navigate its mysteries. Typical.
Undaunted, Little White Chirp flitted to the pyramid, its tiny talons scrabbling at the sword emblem with fierce determination. "Chirp! Chirp!" it trilled, as if commanding the stone to yield. Baisha watched, her amusement tinged with curiosity, her hand resting thoughtfully on her chin. "What, must I recite some ancient verse?" she mused, half in jest, her voice a soft echo in the chamber's sanctity.
As if in answer, the pyramid awoke. The sword-carved face glowed with golden light, its radiance spilling like liquid fire. From the brilliance emerged a spectral figure, its upper form humanoid, its essence shimmering like a star caught in mist. It hovered, a wisp of divine will, and above its head, words formed in the air, solemn and commanding.
Baisha read them aloud, her voice steady despite the surreal weight of the moment: "For what purpose do you summon an angel?"
She faltered, the question catching her unprepared. Purpose? She had no rehearsed plea, no grand declaration. Clearing her throat, she ventured, "I… I'm not strong enough, and I need someone to protect me. Is that reason enough?"
As she spoke, Little White Chirp, ever inquisitive, darted toward the golden specter, circling it with fervent chirps. The spirit offered no reply, its form betraying neither acceptance nor refusal. Then, without warning, it dissolved into a cascade of glittering motes, like sand slipping through time's fingers, and was gone.
A low rumble shook the chamber. The sword-etched face sank inward, revealing a hidden passage to Baisha's left. Her pulse quickened, but she stepped forward, Little White Chirp fluttering ahead to scout the path. The corridor was unnervingly smooth, its surface polished to a perilous sheen. Baisha took a cautious step, then another—and promptly lost her balance. With a startled cry, she slid down the incline, the passage becoming a glassy chute. She flailed, half-laughing, half-cursing the mind that had crafted such a treacherous descent.
Thirty seconds later, she landed with a thud in a circular chamber, its walls gleaming with a metallic sheen that reflected light in ripples of silver and blue. The room was austere, its sole occupant a massive blue crystal coffin, standing like a silent guardian at its center.
Baisha rose, brushing dust from her clothes and wincing at the ache in her legs. She approached the coffin, curiosity outweighing caution. Within lay a figure, still as death, its posture one of serene repose: legs aligned, hands clasped over the abdomen, face tranquil as if sculpted from alabaster. The figure was young, with pale gold hair and features so flawless they seemed to defy mortal imperfection—a beauty restrained yet luminous, like a star veiled in dusk.
She stood motionless, uncertain whether to speak or withdraw. Then, the figure's eyes opened.
They were emerald, pure and piercing, with a subtle upward tilt that lent them a predatory grace. A fleeting shadow of menace flickered within, vanishing as swiftly as it came. The figure pushed open the coffin's lid with measured ease and rose, its gaze fixing upon Baisha. The face, now alive, was both vivid and serene, its eyes reflecting her image with an intensity that held no room for else.
Clad in a white uniform edged with gold, the figure knelt before her, one knee touching the ground, the fabric taut against its form. "Angel Uriel," it said, its voice low and slightly hoarse, yet resonant with a clarity that stirred the air, "pays homage to the royal bloodline. I will strive to fulfill your desires."
Baisha stood frozen, her thoughts a whirlwind. "Uriel?" she echoed, testing the name's weight. "Is that your true name, or a title?"
The figure rose, its movements fluid as water. "I am simply Uriel," it replied, its tone pure, unadorned by guile, as if the answer were a truth as old as the stars.
Baisha studied its face—noble, radiant, yet impenetrable. The realization settled upon her like a quiet tide: this was no human, but a biomechanical marvel, a relic of the Silver Age preserved by the immortality of its crafted form. Its expressions, though vivid, were a masterful artifice, a testament to a science that blurred the boundaries of flesh and machine.
"Very well, Uriel," she said, adopting a casual air. "Stand. Call me Baisha." She coughed, still adjusting to the angel's almost blinding presence. "So… are all angels like you?"
Uriel's gaze flickered with faint confusion, as if the question were unexpected. Baisha nearly clarified—Do all angels possess such unearthly beauty?—but thought better of it, redirecting her curiosity to the coffin. "I mean, do you all… rest in these?"
Uriel paused, then answered, "Each angel crafts their own place of slumber. I know not how the others arrange theirs." His tone carried a trace of self-awareness, as if he recognized the stark simplicity of his own—a lone coffin in a barren chamber.
Baisha waved a hand. "No matter. You'll be with me now. Youdu Star has palaces aplenty, and my own has rooms ready for you to claim. Tell me—or my steward—any preferences, and we'll have designers craft a space to your liking."
Uriel's expression softened with surprise. "You forget, Your Highness, that I am biomechanical."
Baisha tilted her head. "Don't you feel as humans do?"
"I do," Uriel said, peeling off a white glove to reveal a flawless hand. "Save for one sense: pain." He drew a dagger from his belt and, without hesitation, sliced his wrist. The blade parted his skin, revealing faint blue veins. Golden blood seeped forth, only to dissolve into transparency, the wound closing within moments. Through it all, Uriel's gaze remained steady, his eyes unblinking.
"You see," he continued, "though I resemble a human, I am wholly other. There's no need to trouble yourself with my comfort." He paused, noticing Baisha rubbing her eyes. "Is something amiss with your eyes?" he asked, concern threading his voice.
"Nothing," Baisha muttered, faintly embarrassed. "I just… haven't blinked since you woke. And you haven't either, yet you're fine. Proof, I suppose, that biomechanical angels surpass human limits."
Uriel seemed momentarily at a loss, her candor catching him unawares. "Rest your eyes," he said gently. "Avoid rubbing them. Shall I assist?"
Baisha snorted. "What, you carry eye drops in that uniform?"
Uriel offered no reply. Instead, he moved with startling grace, lifting her into his arms. Before she could protest, a radiant light enveloped them. Baisha squinted, her vision clearing to reveal a marvel: behind Uriel, vast silver wings unfurled, their span filling the chamber. They curled protectively around her, their feathers gleaming like forged steel.
"I will bear you from this place," Uriel declared, his voice resolute.
Baisha, still grappling with the wings, managed, "But aren't we underground?"
"There is a passage to the surface," Uriel replied, a faint pride in his tone. "I forged it when last I left Crystal Heaven."
Baisha's eyes widened. "Forged? What does—"
Her words were swallowed by a rush of wind as Uriel surged upward, his wings propelling them through the passage with breathtaking speed. The air roared, but Uriel's embrace shielded her, and she instinctively summoned her mental energy to guard against the gale. The sensation was exhilarating, a echo of the freedom she'd known during her awakening with Cecil Ronin, soaring as a bird through boundless skies.
Time blurred, and the wind fell silent. Uriel's voice broke the stillness: "Your Highness, you may open your eyes."
Baisha lowered her hands, blinking against the dawn's pale light. They hovered above the palace complex, its spires and domes bathed in morning's serene glow. The grandeur of Youdu Star, usually vibrant, seemed almost solemn in the half-light, a realm poised between dreams and waking.
Uriel's emerald eyes searched hers. "Where is your palace? Shall I summon a physician?"
Baisha rolled her eyes. "It's just dry eyes, not a crisis."
"My apologies," Uriel said earnestly. "You spoke of your weakness—"
"When did I say I was weak?" Baisha cut in, indignant.
"When you summoned me," Uriel replied, unruffled. "You sought protection."
Baisha groaned, gripping his shoulder. "I meant my skills are lacking, not my health!"
Uriel frowned slightly. "But your spirit companion…"
Baisha patted his arm. "Ever heard of genetic mutations?"
Uriel fell silent, his expression yielding. He offered a formal apology, then, at Baisha's direction, descended to the lawn before her palace. His wings vanished as he set her down, leaving no trace of their splendor. Baisha glanced at his shoulders, wondering at the secrets woven into his biomechanical frame—relics of an age she could scarcely fathom.
As she took a few steps, a realization struck. "Oh no, my uncle's still at Crystal Heaven's gate!"
She opened a comm link to Cecil Ronin, who answered instantly, his expression a blend of surprise and suspicion. "How are you contacting me? Crystal Heaven has no signal."
Baisha grinned sheepishly, showing the palace grounds behind her. "I'm back, Uncle. No need to wait."
Cecil's face flickered with disbelief, then hardened. "How did you escape?"
"Uriel brought me," Baisha said, beckoning the angel to join her. "Look, Uncle, I found my guardian! You promised mechs—"
"Hold," Cecil interrupted, his voice cold. "What did you say his name was?"
"Uriel," Baisha repeated, puzzled.
The emperor, standing before the crystal door, fell silent, his thoughts a tempest. Of all the angels—Michael, Gabriel, even the improbable Uriel—why him? The one never summoned, a shadow in the empire's annals. Uriel's power was certain, but his nature was a cipher.
Baisha, heedless of his turmoil, continued. "Oh, and Uncle? Uriel said he carved a passage out of Crystal Heaven last time he went to the front. It's still open. Should you… check it with him?"
Cecil's expression froze. "A passage," he echoed, his voice taut. Memory stirred: Crystal Heaven's unique materials, irreplicable, had been patched with makeshift repairs. Now, it seemed, the breach endured.
"I'll see to it," he said, his tone clipped. He ended the call, already bracing for the chaos Uriel's return would unleash.