A GOD'S WAY OF JUDGEMENT

The celestial realm was a place unlike any other, a sanctuary of light and purity where citizens were handpicked from the souls of mortals, chosen not by status or wealth, but by their character and usefulness to the realm. This meticulous selection process had caused the celestial city to progress rapidly into an unparalleled hub of knowledge, wisdom, and innovation. The idea of such an extraordinary city had been the brainchild of Ronan, whose insight and compassion had earned him the admiration of the realm's people. His brilliance knew no bounds, and it was his visionary approach that allowed the celestial realm to grow stronger. Even hell, which had once been a constant threat to the celestial realm, was restructured under Ronan's guidance, rendering the devastating war in the fourth cycle all but meaningless.

From an early age, Ronan had been loved and nurtured by his parents—Cyrus and Elara—whose affection knew no bounds. They had created a world for him filled with warmth and care, wrapping him in the safety of their love. Their home was a place where joy bloomed like flowers in the springtime, every corner brimming with laughter and life. He remembered the sweet scent of the gardens where his parents would sit with him and his sister, Liviya Arcanveil, his twin who shared his immortal blood. The two were inseparable, more than just siblings. They were explorers, adventurers who roamed the celestial forests, climbed its golden mountains, and dove into its crystal-clear lakes.

In his parents' stories, Ronan found not only entertainment but the seeds of his own future. Cyrus would tell of battles long past, where courage defined victory, while Elara wove tales of kindness and empathy, always reminding them that true strength lay in the heart. These moments were etched into Ronan's memory, treasured moments of a childhood that had shaped him into the man he was today. Liviya, with her sharp wit and mischievous smile, had always been by his side, challenging him, laughing with him, their bond stronger than any storm that life could throw at them.

The celestial realm had always looked up to their family as an ideal, a beacon of unity and love. In every public gathering, the smiles shared between the four of them were a reminder that power did not corrupt those who ruled with compassion. Cyrus and Elara had instilled in their children the virtues of loyalty, honesty, and the unbreakable bond of family. For Ronan, their teachings were more than just lessons—they were the foundation upon which he would one day lead the celestial realm.

As Ronan approached the gates of the celestial realm that day, it was not just the weight of his achievements that pressed on his heart, but the joy of returning to his family after twenty long years. The streets were alive with energy, the cheers of the celestial citizens ringing in the air, a celebration of his victorious return. His name echoed from every corner as children waved banners, and adults bowed in reverence. The joy was palpable, a wave of warmth that washed over him as he made his way through the crowd, his eyes searching for the faces that mattered most.

And there she was—Liviya. She stood at the edge of the grand plaza, her arms crossed, an amused smile playing on her lips as she watched her brother approach. The years had been kind to her, and despite the passage of time, she still carried that same spark of mischief that Ronan had always adored. Without hesitation, he made his way to her, his heart swelling with joy at the sight of his twin.

"I missed you, sister! When was the last time we met?" Ronan's voice was thick with emotion, though he tried to keep it light.

"Twenty years, idiot! And it looks like you've got another chance to flex in front of my sister-in-law," she teased, her tone playful as she nudged him with her elbow.

Ronan chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I guess you'll have to call me 'His Majesty' now," he quipped, flashing her a smirk.

"As if I will call you that," she shot back, her laughter infectious, her eyes sparkling with joy.

Their banter felt like a bomb, easing the weariness that had settled in his bones after years of being away. But the real moment of fulfillment came when Ronan moved to embrace his father. Cyrus, strong and proud, stood waiting for his son, his eyes shining with pride. The weight of the years melted away as Ronan stepped into his father's arms, feeling the comfort of that embrace, a reassurance that he had finally come home.

"Father, I did it! I did it!" Ronan's voice was a mix of excitement and relief, his heart pounding with the thrill of accomplishment.

Cyrus chuckled, ruffling his son's hair. "Alright, I know you did it. Now stop being a kid—"

But the sentence hung unfinished in the air. In that instant, the warmth that had filled Ronan's heart was ripped away, replaced by a cold, creeping dread. A shadow passed over the sun, casting the world in a muted, eerie light. Time seemed to slow as a chill swept through the plaza, unnoticed by the crowd still cheering. Ronan's senses sharpened, his instincts flaring, warning him of the darkness that had suddenly descended upon this moment of joy.

He pulled away from his father, his eyes widening in horror. There, standing before him, was a sight that twisted his soul—a sword, bloodied and cruel, was lodged in his father's chest. The vibrant, regal robes Cyrus wore were stained with deep red, and the light in his eyes was fading fast. The scent of blood, metallic and sharp, filled the air, clashing with the sweet fragrance of the flowers that surrounded them. It was a cruel irony, this beauty mixed with death.

Ronan's breath hitched as his eyes dropped to his own chest. A gaping wound stared back at him, dark blood pouring from it, the warmth of life quickly leaving his body. The world around him became a blur, the cheers of the crowd now distant, as if they came from another world entirely. The joyful celebration had been shattered, replaced by chaos and horror.

Then came the final blow—the sword, once lodged in both his and his father's chests, was yanked free with a vicious pull. The figure holding it was none other than Draven Ashcroft, his uncle, a man Ronan had trusted with his life. A man he had loved as family.

As panic set in, Ronan turned, his eyes searching for his mother. What he saw ripped what little remained of his heart to shreds. Elara, his beloved mother, lay lifeless on the ground, her light snuffed out, her body still and cold. "Mother!" he screamed, his voice raw with agony. His mind raced as he frantically searched for Liviya. Where was she? Had she met the same fate? His heart clenched with terror as his eyes darted around, but she was nowhere to be found.

Behind him, he could hear the desperate voices of his companions—Celia and Dante—rushing toward him. Their faces were twisted in horror, disbelief etched into every feature as they tried to make sense of the nightmare unfolding before them.

"Ronan!" Celia's voice broke through the haze of pain and confusion. "What happened?"

But Ronan could not answer. His hearing had faded, replaced by a deep, haunting silence. The world around him blurred into indistinct shapes, as if reality itself was slipping away. He could no longer feel the warmth of his father's embrace, only the cold, gnawing emptiness of betrayal. His eyes met Draven's, and in that moment, the weight of the betrayal crashed down upon him like a tidal wave. "Why?" he whispered, his voice barely audible, each syllable heavy with despair. His knees buckled, and the ground rose to meet him as he fell, the last traces of light slipping from his vision.

As darkness claimed him, Ronan's heart was consumed by a single, burning question: why had this happened?