The Father of Joy
Heaven shimmered under golden light, the eternal sky was painted in interwoven hues of dawn and dusk. A very gentle breeze carried the scent of celestial flora, mingling with the distant chime of harps and laughter of angels. For today was no ordinary day. Anticipation filled the air like the rising sun, for it was the day of the Grand Feast—a day where Heaven would celebrate in one of its sacred day’s: Meat Day.
At the heart of it all stood Adam.
The first man, the grand butcher and chef of Heaven's greatest banquet, worked tirelessly in the sprawling courtyard of his celestial home. Before him burned the sacred flame, its golden tongues licked the massive iron cauldron suspended above. Skewers were lined with marbled cuts of divine beasts crackled over open pits, their juices dripping onto hot coals, hissing in fragrant bursts of fat and spice. On glistening tables, hundreds of heavenly attendants scurried about, their robes flowing as they carried platters of slow-roasted Thunderbeast ribs, succulent Frost Sabre steaks, and the delicate wings of griffons, crisped to perfection.
Angelic beings, some resembling ethereal children, others appearing as humanoid figures with serene, glowing eyes, ferried the plates with precision. They soared through the air, weaving between the towering spires and waterfalls that adorned Heaven’s great halls, delivering Adam’s creations to every corner of the divine realm.
As he worked, Adam sang.
His deep, booming voice carried across the courtyard, a rich baritone filled with mirth and hunger. His cleaver rose and fell in rhythm, his hands moving with expert precision as he diced, chopped, and seared.
--
Around the flames, the cauldron glows,
With golden light, the banquet flows.
Lamb and fowl, their flavors blend,
A gift of grace that knows no end.
Beast and bird, both strong and fleet,
Brought to serve this grandest treat.
Phoenix roast and griffon steak,
A feast divine, for all to take!
Meat! Meat! Meat!
Carve, roast, serve and eat!
With heavenly spice,
Each bite’s paradise,
Oh, the meat! Meat! Meat!
All the meat ya can eat!
From rolling plains and rivers wide,
Nature’s bounty, Heaven’s pride.
Celestial herds, their flavors pure,
A feast of joy that shall endure!
Winged bulls, their ribs so sweet,
Lion’s marrow, the perfect meat.
With angel’s hand and holy flame,
Every dish a sacred name!
Meat! Meat! Meat!
Carve, roast, serve and eat!
With heavenly spice,
Each bite’s paradise,
Oh, the meat! Meat! Meat!
All the meat ya can eat!
No beast unworthy, none too grand,
For every dish is Heaven-planned.
Father’s blessing, flavor’s might,
A meal to burn as purest light!
Plates abound and goblets rise,
A banquet shining in the skies.
With hands that craft and hearts that cheer,
We feast as one, year by year!
Meat! Meat! Meat!
Carve, roast, serve and eat!
With heavenly spice,
Each bite’s paradise,
Oh, the meat! Meat! Meat!
All the meat ya can eat!
--
Laughter erupted from the gathered angels. Even the ever-stoic cherubim hummed in approval as the scent of divine roasts permeated the air. Adam grinned, wiping his hands on his apron as he surveyed his kingdom of meat and mirth. This was his domain, his place of joy. A far cry from the battlefields where he had once led Heaven’s forces in righteous fury. Here, his cleaver served not as a weapon but as an instrument of delight, bringing unity through flavor and festivity.
A few hours later, as he was overlooking the training of the Exorcists, the communicator in his demonic mask flared to life, with the Head Seraphim’s voice cutting through the stillness.
“Adam,” she said, her tone sharper than usual.
He turned, raising a brow at her unusual urgency. “Sera?”
"It’s Emily," she continued. "She doesn’t answer me. She won’t leave her room. She’s barely spoken since the trial."
Adam scoffed. "She’ll be fine. She’s just upset. A little time and—"
"No, Adam." Sera’s voice hardened. "She needs you. You must talk to her. Now."
His smirk faltered. Sera rarely sounded so… desperate.
With a sigh, Adam straightened. “Fine, I’ll talk to our daughter,” he muttered.
Adam exhaled sharply before summoning his power. A burst of radiant light enveloped him, and in an instant, he vanished from the training grounds. When he reappeared, he stood at the entrance of his home—their home.
The House of High Seraphim was a grand, ethereal structure nestled far away from Heaven’s endless expanse. Its towering marble spires gleamed under the ever-present celestial glow, its architecture was a fusion of classical beauty and divine craftsmanship. The walls were adorned with golden inlays, the grand archways were etched with sacred runes, etched by heaven greatest runesmiths across history. They hummed softly in harmony with the air itself. Stained glass windows reflected prismatic light across the polished floors, specifically designed so that the shifting hues managed to make the house seem breathing with life.
The roof, a lattice of woven light, allowed beams of sunlight to cascade over the courtyard, illuminating the pristine marble pathways. Every corner of the house bore reminders of the life he had built with Sera, and now, the life they had made with Emily.
But it was the garden that Adam adored more than anything else. Surrounding the house in every direction was an expansive paradise of flourishing flora, growing not in rigid rows but in an organic symphony of colors and scents. Mighty and ancient Ivory trees with crystalline leaves shimmered like captured stars, their branches cradling nests of celestial doves that cooed in soft melodies. Enchanted flowers bloomed in endless variety—roses were woven with strands of silver light, lilies glowed with the colors of the shifting sky, and golden lotuses that floated gently above the still pools of shimmering water.
Among the verdant expanse, heavenly beasts roamed freely. Celestial phoenixes soared overhead in lazy spirals. Luminescent deer with spiraling horns were trotting between the foliage, their coats reflected the garden’s radiance. Winged lions basked beneath the golden canopies.
Adam enjoyed watching the work of the angelic attendants, how they, tended to the sacred flora. Cherub’s fluttered through the air, their small, glowing forms leaving faint trails of golden dust in their wake as they assisted the larger, winged figures who tilled the soil and nourished the roots with divine energy.
As Adam got closer, many of the Angels stopped their work and bowed their heads in reverence as Adam passed. However, his attention was drawn to a familiar presence standing near the grand entrance.
A massive figure blocked his path, it’s golden scales shimmering like polished metal under heaven’s light. Towering over him was a divine Tyrannosaurus rex.
"Longus Dens," was the name given to the creature by the denizen’s of Heaven, though Adam had always known him by another name: Fang.
Fang, the same mighty beast Adam had known in Eden, now stood as the guardian of his home and the sacred garden that surrounded it.
Adam approached, tilting his head up to meet the gaze of his old friend. "Fang," he greeted, a small smile creeping onto his face despite the unrest in his heart. "Still keeping watch?"
Fang let out a low, resonant growl, one that carried neither menace nor.
"The Lord of Eden returns home," the beast rumbled. "And yet your heart seems to be heavy."
Adam exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "You always were observant."
Fang shifted slightly, his golden claws scraping gently against the marble pathway. "If you seek your daughter, then she has not left her room since her arrived."
Adam stiffened, glancing toward the home.
"Has she spoken to anyone?"
Fang shook his massive head. "No one."
Adam sighed, placing a hand against the warm scales of Fang's forearm, the way he had done in the past when they had stood side by side in Eden.
Then Adam proceeded to stepping past his old companion. He ascended the steps of his home, pushing open the grand doors. The golden light of Heaven followed him inside, but for the first time in a long while, he felt like a stranger in his own house.
And beyond the silent halls, he knew this conversation with his daughter was going to be difficult.
--
Adam’s footsteps echoed against the polished marble floors, his presence casted a long shadow along the gilded walls. The home he had built with Sera, once a place of warmth and light, now felt hollow. The murals of their triumphs—painted skies depicting his first steps into Eden, the birth of Emily, and moments of harmony, now felt like distant memories.
And behind one of these walls, his daughter sat in silence.
He approached the door of her room, raising his hand to knock. But before he could, Emily’s voice cut through the stillness.
"Go away."
Adam closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "Emily, please. Let’s calm down and…"
"No," she said, her voice sharp and trembling. "I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to see you."
Adam rested his forehead against the door for a moment, his fingers curled into a fist before relaxing. "…Emily, I know you're hurting, but shutting yourself away won’t do you any good."
A soft, bitter laugh escaped from behind the door. "You don’t get it, do you?" She sniffled, her voice thick with emotion.
"I don't understand you. I don’t understand why you do this. Why you go down there every single year and kill." Her voice cracked. "Why you kill innocent souls in Hell."
Adam flinched. The word innocent made his stomach twirl.
"They are not innocent," he said, his tone more agressive than he intended.
"How do you know that?" Emily snapped. "Have you ever even talked to them? Have you ever stopped, for even a second, to ask if they deserved to die?"
Adam tried the door handle, but it was locked. He sighed and placed his palm against the wooden surface. "There are no innocents in hell, Emily, only those with various degrees of guilt. I don’t expect you to understand…"
"Then explain it to me!" she shouted. "Explain why you do this! Why you enjoy it!"
Adam clenched his jaw. "Enjoy?"
"You were laughing when you killed them. I’ve seen it. The way you smile, the way you relish in it!" Emily’s voice wavered, filled with disbelief. "That’s not… that’s not the father I know."
Adam ran a hand down his face, feeling fatigue settle into his bones. "Emily… I do what I must. The Exterminations…"
"The Exterminations are murder!"
"… are necessary," Adam said, his voice growing tight. "The sinners…"
"You don't even know them!" Emily’s didn’t let him finish. "You don’t know their stories, their pain! You don’t care! The sinners deserve a second chance!" Emily’s words came fast, desperate. "They are human souls! Just like those that are in heaven! They deserve a chance to come here! A chance to see Heaven, to enjoy its bliss, to be happy!"
Adam was silent for a long moment.
Then, he exhaled slowly and shook his head. "No, Emily. No they don’t."
"Why?"
"Because they had that chance," Adam said, his voice firm. "And they threw it away."
Emily sniffled. "That’s not fair."
Adam’s expression darkened. "Fair?" He exhaled sharply. "Do you think it was fair when they abandoned their humanity for pride? When they murdered for greed? When they let wrath consume them, or lust twist them, or gluttony devour them? When they wasted their lives in envy and sloth? They sinned, Emily. They sinned because they chose to sin."
Emily’s breath hitched. "You don’t know that. Some of them…"
"Some of them what?" Adam challenged. "Made mistakes? Seek redemption? If they truly wished to be saved, they would have repented in life. They would have changed, become better back then. Not in death. Not when they landed in Gehenna. Now the door is closed, and it’s too late for them."
Emily was quiet. Adam could hear her breathing on the other side of the door, could feel the weight of her sadness pressing against him.
Emily’s breath was shaky, her words heavy with sorrow. "Maybe…" she whispered, "maybe if they knew they could improve, if they knew they could be better, to change—then maybe they could ascend to Heaven."
Adam closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. His fingers tightened against the fabric of his tunic as he leaned his head back against the door.
"Emily," he said, voice low, "there is no doubt in my mind that sinners would want to leave Hell." He let the words settle, their weight pressing against the silence. "They have tried to leave. They have succeeded before."
Emily didn’t respond, but he could hear the shift in her breathing, the way she was listening.
"They have invaded Earth, they have stormed the gates of Heaven," Adam continued. "But they didn’t do it because they wanted to be better. They didn’t seek redemption, or peace, or change."
His grip tightened into a fist against his knee.
"They did it because they didn’t want to suffer the consequences of their actions. Or worse—because they sought to grow more powerful by taking more souls outside of Hell." His voice darkened. "That is the nature of a sinner, Emily. Each of them craves power above all else. Each of them hungers to become something greater, not in virtue, but in dominion."
He let his words settle for a moment, then spoke again.
"They don’t want to be saved. They want to rule."
Emily shifted on the other side of the door. "That’s not true for all of them," she muttered.
"No?" Adam’s gaze turned distant. "Then tell me, Emily, why is it that so many of them rise to power? Why is it that they all seek to become overlords?" He shook his head. "No, why is it that they all seek to become Archfiends."
Emily stiffened.
Adam's voice was quieter now, but no less firm. "Many already have."
He let his head tilt slightly, his eyes staring up at the gilded ceiling. "Do you know the names of Apophis? Surtur? Typhon? Orochi?"
Emily didn’t answer. But he knew she had heard those names before.
"You do," he said softly. "Because humanity remembers them even to this day. They were not just myths, Emily. They were once sinners. Sinners who clawed their way through Hell’s ranks until they became something more. They became Archfiends, rulers of damnation, monsters whose very names left scars on the world."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, a whisper.
"And what if…what if they could change?"
Adam closed his eyes, sighing.
"They won’t."
…
Adam tried again to open the door, but she must have pressed herself against it. "Emily, please, open the door. Let me see you."
"No." Her breath hitched. "I don’t want to see you right now."
Silence fell between them.
Adam let out a slow breath before sliding down the doorframe, sitting on the cold floor. The golden glow from the windows barely reached this part of the hall, leaving them in a dim hush. A moment later, he heard her do the same, sitting with her back against the other side of the door, separated by inches of wood but miles of understanding.
For a long time, neither spoke.
The silence between them lingered, a chasm neither could cross. Their words had clashed like steel on steel, both refusing to bend, both unwilling to yield.
And then, Adam broke the silence.
"Emily, let me tell you a story." His voice was calm, distant, as if he were looking at something far beyond the golden walls of their home. "A story about a farmer who once gave a second chance to those who didn’t earn it."
On the other side of the wall, Emily didn’t answer. But she didn’t tell him to stop, either.
Adam leaned his head back against the door, staring at nothing as he let the words flow.
"Long ago, there was a simple farm boy, and he grew up on his farm with his father. The father told him what to do, how to care for the livestock, how to tend to the garden. He taught him what he should and should not do. And when the boy grew older, his father found him a wife.
"The farm boy who grew into a farmer was happy. He was content. And he loved his wife dearly."
He paused, his voice growing quieter.
"I don’t know if she loved him in return."
Emily shifted slightly.
"But I know she wasn’t content. She wanted more. More than the garden. More than what she had."
Adam exhaled through his nose.
"To make things worse, the farmer had a best friend. He wasn’t a farmer himself—he came from wealth, from privilege. But that didn’t stop them from being close. And yet, the farmer’s wife… she saw what his friend had. What he could do that she could not."
Emily was still silent, but Adam knew she was listening.
"So they would meet." His voice was edged with something unreadable. "At first, it was innocent. Friendly visits. But then they grew more frequent, and the farmer and his wife grew distant. Until one day, the farmer woke up to find his bed empty."
A long breath.
"She had left him. For his best friend."
Emily inhaled sharply, but still said nothing.
"The farmer wept," Adam continued, "but he had family. He had other friends. In time, he remarried, and this time, he was even happier. He and his new wife found joy, and as the years passed, they became wealthy."
His voice darkened.
"And then… his old wife and his old friend returned."
The weight of those words settled in the silence.
"They had gotten into trouble with forces beyond their understanding, and they sought his help. The farmer’s friends, his family, even his wife, all told him to turn them away. They warned him, pleaded with him. But the farmer didn’t listen. He was blinded by the past, by the happiness he once shared with them. And so…"
A pause.
"He let them in."
A tremor ran through his voice.
"That was a mistake."
The silence stretched, heavy as stone.
"They destroyed his garden. They burned his home. They let the cattle lose, and the beasts outside devoured them all. The farmer and his wife? They lost everything. They were forced to live in the wilderness, reduced to beggars. Their children… they grew sick. Many died. Some turned to crime. One became a murderer. Some of their daughters… they were forced into brothels just to survive."
Emily let out a shaky breath, barely audible.
"And in the end," Adam murmured, "they all died. The farmer buried each and every one of them. His friends. His children. His wife."
His voice was barely above a whisper.
"Because he had given a second chance to those who had not earned it."
The golden light of Heaven flickered through the cracks in the door. But neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
Adam closed his eyes.
"That, Emily," he said softly, "is the price of misplaced mercy."
Emily said nothing for a while. The weight of her father’s words settled in the quiet space between them, the flickering golden light casting long shadows across the walls.
Then, softly, she asked:
"What happened to the farmer later?"
Adam exhaled slowly, as if the answer had been sitting on his tongue, waiting for her to ask.
"The farmer lived on." His voice was steady but distant. "He tried to survive, and he did. He learned new skills. He later on migrated, found himself a new life, a new purpose. He took a job where his talents were put to use, where he was needed."
Emily remained silent, listening intently.
"Years passed, and one day, he met another woman."
There was something softer in Adam’s voice now, something warm.
"She was different. A woman of great power and wealth, the head of a vast and influential firm. I don’t know what she saw in him… but somehow, despite everything, she fell for him. And after years of meetings, of small moments, of trust built brick by brick… they married."
Emily tilted her head against the door, a small frown tugging at her lips. "And then what?"
Adam closed his eyes. "She gifted him a daughter." His voice was barely above a whisper. "A beautiful, kind, and loving daughter."
Emily’s breath caught in her throat.
"And when the farmer held her in his arms for the first time, he made a vow to himself. That he would do everything in his power to protect her. To protect them—his daughter, his new wife, his home. He swore to never give mercy to those who didn’t deserve it. Ever again."
Adam let out a slow breath before continuing. "And so, the farmer became a soldier. Then a general. He protected his nation, his home, and its people. Ever since. No matter the cost."
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then, the door creaked.
Emily stood there, eyes glassy, face flushed with emotion. She took a step forward, and before Adam could say anything, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest.
Adam’s breath hitched. His arms and wings came around her, holding her close.
"I love you, Dad," Emily whispered.
Adam pressed his lips against her forehead, holding her as tightly as he could. "I love you too, my little star."
For the first time since the argument had begun, there was peace.
After a long moment, Adam leaned back slightly, brushing a few strands of periwinkle hair from her face. "By the way," he murmured, his tone lighter, "did you prepare a gift for Sera? Her birthday is next week."
Emily blinked. Then, her eyes widened. "Oh no."
Adam chuckled. "I figured."