Chap 39.2 (P1) : I, the Celestial Being Survived the Abyss but Lost to a K-Pop Song
(Prologue)
I have faced demons. I have faced judgment. I have faced the fall from the High Heavens.
Nothing could have prepared me for this.
Two days had passed since the hospital.
Two days of learning to use chopsticks without committing a war crime against tableware. Three days of not setting anything on fire, which I considered an impressive display of restraint. Three days of pretending to be Sera while secretly trying to figure out how to contact the
Celestial Tribunal without being tackled by medical professionals.
None of it was going well.
The sun had barely risen when Tangled Menace—Mina, I was trying very hard to remember her actual name—burst into my room like a small, noisy hurricane. She was wearing an oversized sweater that hung past her hips and pyjama pants covered in what appeared to be smiling avocados. Her hair had achieved new heights of chaos, sticking up in directions that defied physics.
"Sera!" she announced, grabbing my arm with both hands. "Wake up! Wake up now! This is an emergency!"
I had been in the middle of a very important dream involving a flock of messenger butterflies and a very apologetic Morvath Elir. The interruption was deeply unwelcome.
"Unhand me, you menace," I growled, trying to pull my arm back. "I was communing with celestial messengers."
"You were snoring with your mouth open," she corrected cheerfully. "I took a picture. Now get up. We're watching something."
"I do not wish to watch anything."
"Too bad." She yanked. Hard. "It's Demon Hunter. It came out on Netflix today and I've been waiting for this for MONTHS and you are going to watch it with me or I will tell Mum you called her a peasant again."
"I have not called her a peasant since—"
"The technicality doesn't matter. Get up."
I got up.
The living room had been transformed.
Mina had pulled the curtains closed, plunging the space into a dim, cave-like darkness that felt almost sacred. The large black rectangle on the wall—a "television," Dad had called it, though I still didn't understand why they didn't just call it a "moving picture box" like sensible beings—glowed with an ominous red title screen.
DEMON HUNTER.
The letters were dramatic. Sharp. Designed to look like they had been carved into flesh or stone or both.
Mina was bouncing on the couch like a small, over-caffeinated bird.
"Sit! Sit! Sit!" she chanted, patting the cushion beside her.
I sat.
Mum appeared in the doorway, a cup of tea in her hand. She was wearing her morning uniform—a bathrobe that had seen better decades and slippers that I now regarded with deep respect.
"What are you two doing?" she asked.
"Watching Demon Hunter," Mina said. "It's about—"
"I don't care what it's about." Mum took a sip of her tea. "Just don't burn the house down."
"I'm not the one who caused a mini explosion," Mina said sweetly.
Mum's eye twitched. She looked at me. Then back at Mina. Then she turned and walked away, muttering something about "ungrateful children" and "coffee."
Mina hit a button on a small black rectangle—a "remote," apparently—and the screen exploded into motion.
The show was... loud.
Very loud.
Explosions. Screaming. Dramatic music that seemed designed to make your heart beat faster whether you wanted it to or not. A woman with bright red hair and a leather jacket was running through what looked like an abandoned city, shooting things that I assumed were demons but which looked nothing like actual demons.
I frowned.
On screen, a demon lunged at the red-haired woman. It was a massive creature with too many teeth, glowing purple eyes, and skin that seemed to ripple like liquid shadow.
"THAT," I said, pointing at the screen, "is not a demon."
Mina, who had been leaning forward with her knees pulled to her chest and her eyes wide, slowly turned to look at me.
"What?"
"That creature." I gestured at the screen, where the red-haired woman was now engaged in a complicated fight sequence that involved a lot of spinning kicks. "That is not what demons look like."
Mina blinked. "It's a TV show, Sera."
"I am aware. But if they are going to depict denizens of the Abyssal Court, they should at least be accurate."
"Accurate to what?"
"To reality."
Mina stared at me for a long moment. Then a slow, dangerous smile spread across her face. The kind of smile that said she had just found something entertaining and was not going to let it go.
"Okay," she said, settling back into the couch. "Please. Enlighten me. What do real demons look like?"
I considered the question. It was, I supposed, a reasonable one. And since I had been banished to this mortal existence, I might as well use my vast celestial knowledge for something.
"First of all," I said, "they do not have glowing eyes. That is a fabrication of mortal storytellers who have never actually encountered a demon. Demons have eyes that are entirely black, like voids, except when they are angry, at which point they turn white."
"White?"
"Like fresh snow. It is quite unsettling."
Mina's smile widened. "Okay. What else?"
"They do not have teeth like that." I pointed at the screen, where the demon had just roared, revealing rows of jagged, oversized fangs. "Demons have human-like teeth. Perfectly normal teeth. That is what makes them frightening. They look almost human until you notice the things that are wrong."
"What things?"
"The way they move. The way they don't blink. The way their shadows sometimes go the wrong direction." I paused. "Also, they smell like burnt cinnamon."
"Burnt cinnamon?"
"It is a very specific scent. Unpleasant but not entirely without merit. Like a bakery that has caught fire."
Mina made a sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. She was biting her lip, clearly trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
"And the ones in the show?" she asked.
"They are ridiculous. Overgrown. Cartoonish. No self-respecting demon would be caught dead looking like that. They have standards."
"Demons have standards."
"Of course they do. They are fallen celestials, not monsters." I sniffed. "This is cultural appropriation."
Mina lost the battle. She laughed, a sharp, delighted sound that echoed off the walls.
"Oh my God," she gasped. "Oh my God, Sera. Tell me more. Tell me everything."
I squinted at her. "You are mocking me."
"I am absolutely not mocking you. I am educating myself. This is important cultural knowledge."
"You are definitely mocking me."
"I am RESPECTFULLY learning about demon etiquette from an expert."
On screen, the red-haired woman had just stabbed the demon through the chest with a glowing sword. The demon exploded into purple smoke.
"That," I said flatly, "is not what happens when demons die. They do not explode. They simply stop existing. Like a candle being snuffed out. There is no drama. No spectacle. Just... absence."
"Boring," Mina declared.
"Reality is often boring."
"Well, reality is stupid. I like the explosions."
She was grinning at me now with an expression I was beginning to recognize. It was the same expression she had worn in the hospital waiting room. The same expression she had worn at the restaurant. The expression of someone who had found a button and intended to keep pressing it.
"You're doing this on purpose," I said.
"Doing what?"
"You are asking me questions specifically so I will say things that you find amusing."
"I have no idea what you're talking about."
"You are an agent of chaos."
"I prefer 'enthusiast of entertainment.'"
The show continued.
The red-haired woman—her name was apparently "Rina" and she was, according to Mina, "the coolest character ever written"—was now in a nightclub. Or perhaps it was a demon lair. It was hard to tell. The lighting was purple and there was a lot of bass.
"This is inaccurate as well," I said.
Mina didn't even look at me. "What is it now?"
"Nightclubs. They do not look like this in the Abyssal Court."
Mina's head turned. Slowly. Like a predator who had just heard something interesting.
"Hold on," she said. "Hold on. Are you telling me that demons have nightclubs?"
"Of course they have nightclubs. Where else would they conduct their recruitment?"
"Recruitment?"
"For souls." I said it like it was obvious. "You don't just sign a contract over tea. There is a process. An atmosphere. A certain... ambience."
Mina had stopped watching the show entirely. She was facing me now, her legs crossed, her chin propped on her hand, her eyes gleaming.
"Describe it," she said. "Describe the demon nightclub."
"Why?"
"Because I need to know."
I studied her face. She looked sincere. She also looked like she was about five seconds away from drawing this in her notebook. I decided, perhaps foolishly, to answer.
"The music is slower than mortal nightclubs. More rhythmic. It gets inside your head. You don't dance so much as... undulate."
"Undulate."
"Yes. Like kelp in a current. But with more intentionality."
Mina's pencil had appeared from somewhere. She was writing in her notebook. Fast.
"The lighting is low," I continued, "but not dark. Everything is shades of amber and rust. The floors are not sticky. That is a mortal invention. In the Abyssal Court, the floors are polished obsidian. You can see your reflection in them. It is meant to make you confront yourself."
"That's... actually kind of deep."
"Demons are surprisingly philosophical. When they are not trying to corrupt your immortal soul."
"And what do they serve? At the bar?"
I paused. "What?"
"Drinks. Food. What do demons consume in their fancy nightclubs?"
"That is..." I paused again. "That is none of your business."
"Oh my God, now I have to know."
"No."
"Sera."
"No."
"IS IT BLOOD? Do they drink blood?"
"It is NOT blood. That is a vampire thing. Demons are not vampires. Vampires are territorial and whiny and they have terrible fashion sense."
"So what do they drink?"
I was quiet for a moment. Then, very reluctantly, I said, "Ambrosia mocktails."
Mina's pencil stopped.
"...What?"
"They are mocktails. Non-alcoholic. Demons take their sobriety very seriously."
Mina's face went through several fascinating transformations. Confusion. Disbelief. Dawning horror. And then, finally, the kind of unhinged joy that preceded disaster.
"DEMONS HAVE MOCKTAILS?" she shrieked.
"Lower your voice."
"DEMONS. HAVE. MOCKTAILS."
"I will smite you."
"You can't even make a fireball!"
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