I sat hunched over my carved wooden desk, vigorously absorbing the inked words and detailed illustrations of the book before me.

Stacks of books of all ages and colours—from ancient and tattered to crisp and new, in shades of dusty brown to polished purple—covered the table. Their contents discussed topics from the history of Caelumen and our pursuit to eliminate hellish beings to numerous military combat techniques and battle strategies, and even the theology we exercise.

The particular book I was engrossed in was filled with vivid descriptions of demons, their otherworldly biology, and the intricate details of their extraordinary abilities. It revealed not only the demons’ strengths but also exposed their vulnerabilities, sending a shiver down my spine as I delved deeper into their world.

My left hand deftly flipped through the pages, running a finger over each word. Each sentence. Each image. My right orchestrated a miniature display using my powers. With careful precision perfected from a thousand tries, I expertly shaped the bright yellow light pulsing from my fingertips into two distinct figures, which stood directly in front of my book.

One was an angel soldier in a prideful stance. Her long, flowing hair—blonde, I imagined—blew in an unseen wind. She also wielded a great shield and sword, whose blade stood as tall as she.

The other was a demon, which stood cowardly, shaking like a leaf caught in a gale.

It was unarmed.

Waving my fingers with fluidity and calculation in equal measure, and without looking up, I commanded the soldier to charge the wretched heathen with unrelenting vigour. She slashed and stabbed its sensitive parts and dodged its pathetic attacks, all with smooth, unnerving grace.

As my eyes travelled further down the page, the soldier’s movements became quicker. More fluid. More aggressive. Her onslaught also became more ruthless. More unforgiving. And with intent to kill.

It took little time to bring the sinner to its knees.

At that exact moment, I had reached the most crucial sentence on the page: the demon’s vulnerability.

I made the soldier approach the creature with deliberate, gloating slowness, dragging her sword along the table’s surface. She raised it, bringing its tip under the demon’s chin. I could vividly picture the look on the heathen’s face—pure, unfiltered terror—as it bears witness to its doom.

My finger reached the period marking the conclusion of the sentence. With one last motion, the soldier plunged the blade right into the demon’s liver. I made sure it was buried deep.

She yanked it out—the liver following suit—and the sinner’s lifeless body promptly disintegrated.

A smug, satisfied grin steadily materialized on my lips as the angel held her sword aloft in victory, unabashedly displaying the liver—her prize.

Praise be to Our Benevolent Father.