The grand hall shimmered with an ethereal glow, neither harsh nor dim, as if the air itself pulsed with divine presence. Towering white and gold chairs lined the sides of an enormous celestial table, each uniquely crafted to reflect the rank of its occupant—some imposing, others refined, their intricate details subtly speaking of power and purpose.

At the rightmost end, Metatron, the Voice of God, presided with absolute authority, his seat etched with symbols too ancient to comprehend. On the opposite end, Gabriel sat with effortless regality, his chair emanating quiet power. Michael, ever the warrior, sat beside him, her throne sharp-edged and unyielding, built for battle. One by one, the other archangels followed, their places forming a structured yet surreal arrangement.

The table was a masterpiece, its surface gleaming like polished marble yet impossibly smooth. Golden candlesticks stood tall, their eternal flames burning without flicker, untouched by time. A feast lay before them—ambrosial food, fruits impossibly ripe, goblets brimming with shimmering nectar. Yet the room was not filled with idle chatter. Conversations were measured, deliberate. Here, silence spoke as loudly as words.

This was no mere banquet—it was a council of celestial authority, convened to discuss a singular, unthinkable failure: the destruction of the Apocalypse itself.

Across the table, the demons sat in stark contrast to their surroundings, their black clothing and gothic/punk styles clashing with the ethereal radiance. The juxtaposition was almost comical—Hell’s defiance seated within Heaven’s splendor—yet the gravity of the discussion left no room for laughter.