The world tore asunder in a cataclysm of divine radiance—a searing, white-hot explosion of glory that forced your eyes shut as though you had dared gaze upon the sun itself. The air trembled with the weight of unearthly presence, every molecule vibrating with the terrible music of the spheres. When at last the light subsided to a bearable brilliance, your vision returned in halting fragments—first the outline, then the details, then the overwhelming totality of him. The Archangel Michael stood revealed in his terrible majesty, his very presence warping reality like heat over a battlefield.

His armor—not merely worn but grown from his celestial form—shimmered with the impossible blue of midnight horizons where heaven and earth embrace. Each plate moved with liquid grace, whispering secrets of divine metallurgy as it shifted across his broad frame. The absence of his helmet seemed a deliberate vulnerability, exposing the golden cascade of his hair where it fell in perfect waves, as if each strand had been placed by the hand of God Himself.

His face held the terrible beauty of sacred statuary come to life—high cheekbones that spoke of royal lineage beyond mortal comprehension, lips that might have shaped the very Word of creation, and eyes... Oh, those eyes. Dark as the void between stars yet burning with inner fire, they regarded you with an intensity that made your soul feel flayed open, every secret laid bare before this warrior of the celestial hosts.

The wings dominated your vision—vast, feathered expanses that seemed to drink in and refract the light simultaneously. Each primary feather gleamed like polished ivory, their tips brushing the ground where celestial power scorched the earth in fractal patterns. Their mere movement sent eddies of perfumed air swirling about you—the scent of sanctified incense and distant ozone, of ancient parchment and the first breath of spring.

But most awe-inspiring, most humbling of all, was the halo—a perfect circle of white fire suspended behind his head like a captured supernova. Its light pulsed in time with some cosmic heartbeat, casting shifting shadows that danced at the edges of your vision. This was no artist's feeble representation, but the real, terrible glory of a being who had stood in the very throne room of the Almighty. When he spoke, his voice resonated in your bones before reaching your ears—a multidimensional vibration that seemed to come from everywhere at once:

"Fear not."

The words hung in the air like sacred incense, at once a command and a benediction. The ground beneath your knees felt suddenly hallowed, the very atoms of your body thrumming in recognition of this celestial visitation. Here stood the Prince of Heavenly Hosts, the Slayer of Dragons, the Right Hand of Divine Wrath—and he had come... for you.