Ian might possess the Red Sun form.
But his level of "Red Hot" was clearly no match for the Red Hot Archregent of Heaven at this moment. With the exposure so blatant, how could Michael, possessing infinite wisdom, not guess who the wealthy patron was?
"Bang!"
He punched straight through the computer monitor. The live stream comments, which still showed the horrific words [Angel-daddy Wiggle Your Butt], were frozen on the screen the moment before Michael's fist made contact.
With an explosion.
The curved screen, worth thousands of dollars, shattered into a flurry of crystalline shards beneath his fist.
The flying glass fragments sliced his palm. However, despite the reality of him bleeding, Michael ignored it and immediately began smashing the equipment in the live stream room.
"Damn it! Damn him!" The expression on Michael's face transitioned within a minute from confusion to irritation, and finally to complete rage.
He lacked sufficient experience in mortal life, brazenly dismantling a powered-on computer host with his bare hands. Thus, before he could recover, the host short-circuited and began emitting a scorched smell.
A current then surged up his arm and through his entire body. Michael convulsed violently, letting out a slightly agonizing, sugar-mama-grief-inducing shriek.
"Aah aah aah aah!"
The Archangel experienced the pain of a mortal for the first time in two millennia—all his feathers flared out, and he fell to the floor with a "thud," like a peacock struck by lightning. He twitched all over, and smoke wafted from his hair. Yet, this wasn't the worst part. Michael found that another line of text had appeared before his blurry eyes.
[The computer is broken, but I can still see you, you know. See my divine power? Jealous? Well, too bad! Hahahaha!] The final section of characters even played a synthesized voice.
"Ugh aah aah—!"
This time, it wasn't a scream.
Michael's voice was full of humiliation, exactly like a groundhog roaring at thin air. The sound was incredibly drawn out and brimming with emotion, causing the factory ceiling to slightly tremble.
"Da da da~"
Urgent footsteps sounded outside the door.
A White Angel streaming next door heard the commotion and quickly rushed over to check on the Archangel Michael.
"Your Excellency, are you alright?" The streaming angel's hands were shaking as she saw Michael's pathetic state, and the selfie stick she was holding nearly dropped.
"Of course I'm fine! Why would anything be wrong with me?" Michael managed to prop himself up, a trace of electric-numbed drool still clinging to the corner of his mouth. Yet, he forced himself to maintain his dignified image.
"Just ran into a little trouble." He tried hard to make it look like he had just endured an explicit live stream rather than nearly being defeated by a broken machine created by humans.
Of course, despite his best efforts to conceal the truth, his face, which had turned from red to green, was still extremely pale. He clenched his jaw, nearly grinding his molars to dust.
The streaming angel nodded and didn't ask further. She aimed the camera on her selfie stick at herself: "I asked, and he says he's fine now."
She spoke to the audience in her live stream.
"Who are you talking to?" Michael was startled, and a terrible premonition rose within him. Usually, such hunches were prophetic. Now that he had lost his power, Michael wanted to pray that he had also lost his prophetic ability, but reality seemed determined to spite him.
It probably had a lot to do with how much Michael usually changed reality, creating a strong rivalry with reality no less intense than the one between him and the other angels.
"Uh... it's Lucifer. Lucifer is in my live stream right now." The streaming angel hesitated, afraid to lie, and responded woodenly.
At this moment.
Someone in the comments called them the [Chuunibyou Angel Group], but the streaming angel had no time to explain, as she saw the Archangel's face turn from green back to red again.
It was red-hot fury.
His ears and nostrils were practically smoking.
"What did you say?!"
Michael's head snapped up, his voice exploding like thunder!
"No! I didn't mean to contact him!" The angel quickly waved her hands. "He... he sneaked into my live stream, and then... he just kept sending me gifts."
"Fifty Fantasy Castles."
The streaming angel added seriously.
Her eyes were slightly averted.
Michael's face grew darker and darker.
"Do you want to move to Hell and become a Fallen Angel? You'd consort with the Devil for a bit of virtual currency?"
He shouted the accusation.
His tone was full of anger and disbelief.
"Of course not!" The angel hurriedly explained. "I am still devout to the Lord and to Heaven, but... you know how important points are to us."
"Lucifer gave too much."
"It's not easy to get gifts like this, especially under such strict supervision. I can't even dress too revealingly, and asking for large donations is even harder."
"The humans in the comments were clearly saying they'd give me a lot of donations if I just showed them my breasts. I really don't know why this 'Live Stream Flagged for Obscenity' warning exists."
The female angel's tone was full of grievance. Her words clearly indicated that this group of angels, whose cognition differed greatly from humans, had already considered taking shortcuts on their very first day of work.
Alas, they were severely stopped.
"Even a Fallen Angel wouldn't say such shameless things!" Michael roared again. Before his voice faded, the streaming angel's phone vibrated once more.
The female angel subconsciously looked at the screen.
"Oh, he sent me fifty more Fantasy Castles. He asked me to remind you to be professional as a streamer. If you're not dead, hurry up, change the computer, and finish the dance you didn't finish for Young Master Lucifer."
"He knows you have the temper of a giant baby, but he says he chooses to forgive you." The streaming angel relayed the message in real time, and thus she received another fifty Fantasy Castles.
At this moment.
The streaming angel didn't know whether to be happy or not. She knew that the stomping Michael was right, but the Fallen Angel they usually scorned was giving too much.
"I'm just relaying his message, but... Your Excellency, you were actually dancing for him." The female angel wanted to suppress her guilt, so she chose to use Michael as an example.
At that remark.
Michael could take it no longer.
"I quit!!"
He violently tore off his Hawaiian shirt and stormed out, slamming the door. Left behind, the pitiful streaming angel silently cleaned up the mess and replaced the computer in the room.
Then.
She connected the internet cable and logged into Michael's account.
"Family, Michael quit. Can you follow me? My name is Aurelia, and I'm also part of the Heavenly Family! And my live stream has benefits Michael can't provide."
"What? You want to see an overbearing CEO? I can be an overbearing CEO too. If you give me more donations to help me restore my glory, I can even create a big phallus for myself, you know."
The female angel had learned how to be a seductive, attention-seeking "slut" in just half a day. Perhaps the title "Streaming Angel" truly fit her, as she was exceptionally gifted.
Outside the factory.
The setting sun stretched Michael's shadow long. He angrily kicked a soda can. The can arced in a perfect parabola in the air—then was disdainfully avoided by a passing stray cat.
The roar of the Hellcat's engine came from a distance. Michael looked up just in time to see Ian's devil car vanish around the street corner. To this day, he couldn't accept how a person who consorted with a devil could become the so-called Savior Angel. A feeling of abandoned grievance suddenly welled up. The Archangel raised his hand, aiming at the direction the car had sped off.
"Flip over!!!"
He channeled his residual divine power, and a cluster of dazzling golden light condensed in his palm—then, with a *poof* like flatulence, it merely produced a slight breeze that swirled a plastic bag on the roadside.
"Restored a bit, but not much."
Michael stood frozen on the spot.
A stray dog dared to bark at him.
His expression grew increasingly desolate.
"I need to leave this damnable place."
Michael stood outside the factory gate, glancing back at the bustling factory. His decision was made, and he began walking aimlessly along the road toward the city center.
The highway leading to the city proper snaked like a luminous snake under the setting sun.
Michael's footsteps were heavy, yet directionless. Metropolis in the evening was still noisy, with flashing neon lights, heavy traffic, and bustling crowds full of life.
"Stay away from me! Foul humans!" Michael moved through the crowd like a zombie, his eyes empty, but his heart surged with uncontrollable rage.
He was once the Archangel, the right wing of the Creator, the one who oversaw judgment and war. Now, he was banished to the mortal realm. This feeling of humiliation made him irritated by everyone he saw.
"Hey, kid, you alright?"
A voice came from his right.
Michael turned his head.
He saw an old man wrapped in a tattered blanket sitting in a sheltered spot next to an ATM. The old man's grizzled beard was stained with food residue, but his eyes were unusually clear, like two pieces of obsidian polished by time.
"You should worry about yourself,"
Michael could hear his own hoarse voice.
However.
He didn't miss the opportunity to mock the other party.
"Think hard about why you've fallen so low. Is it because of alcoholism? Gambling? Or just plain laziness?" As an Archangel, Michael believed he had witnessed the reasons for countless people's downfalls.
He expected the man to be angry at being struck at his weak point.
However.
The old man unexpectedly smiled, revealing several uneven yellow teeth.
"Maybe it's exploitation by politicians and capitalists, or maybe it's because God just watches humanity without doing anything. Of course, the biggest reason is probably that I screwed up my marriage."
He adjusted his seating posture, and the blanket slipped, revealing a dirty hat labeled "Vietnam Vet." "You don't look much different from me. Are you angry about your own misfortune or about the injustice in this world?"
The old man's words carried a slight philosophical tone.
Michael only felt a wave of irritation.
"Don't expect everything from God. You are sinful, which is why you've fallen to this state." Michael maintained his loyalty, and his words brought a soft laugh from the yellow-toothed old man.
"Then do you also think you are sinful?"
The old man suddenly asked.
This question hit Michael like a blow to the solar plexus.
He froze in place.
His expression changed several times in succession.
Michael remembered Ian's mocking comment, "Trade points for the answer," Lucifer's smug smile while sending gifts, and how he himself had been teased in the live stream comments.
And of course, the searing pain of the electric current that had shot through his body after smashing the computer was deeply etched in his memory... In that moment, he wasn't the Archangel, the Judge, or the being who created the universe.
He was just a failure.
He looked down at his hands.
Then he looked up at the setting sun.
His former glory was now only a mockery.
"It's none of your business." Michael finally chose a cold response, his voice barely audible. His mental state seemed somewhat depressed.
As he walked away quickly.
The Archangel heard the old man behind him rambling on.
"Son, anger is a mirror. It only ever reflects yourself."
The old man's voice carried a hint of a sigh.
The Archangel found the voice somewhat familiar, but he didn't dwell on it. He simply proceeded down the street in low spirits. The number of pedestrians on the sidewalk was growing.
"Humans are born carrying Original Sin."
Michael's gaze swept the street—the drunken man over there was sinful; the ragged homeless person in the corner was sinful; and the suited elite across the street was sinful on top of sinful.
"This filthy world!" Michael moved through the crowd, walking faster and faster, as if trying to escape something. But no matter where he went, all he saw was "sin."
The beggar lying on the street was there because of laziness, the child crying was because they weren't strong enough, the couple arguing was because they were both unfaithful, and the tired office workers were tired because they indulged in pleasure but were unwilling to put in the effort.
"Sloth is sin, greed is sin, weakness is sin. Humans, in reality, should all be sent to Hell." He repeated it like an incantation until he crashed into a wall of flesh.
"What did you say, white boy?"
A six-foot-tall man grabbed him by the collar. Michael smelled the mix of cheap cologne and sweat on the man, and saw his own distorted face reflected in the man's bloodshot eyes.
"I said you people are all—"
The latter half of his sentence turned into a grunt.
The world suddenly flipped and spun, and then darkness descended. By the time Michael realized he was being stuffed headfirst into a garbage can, the stench of rotten food and chemical cleaner had already filled his nostrils.
"How dare you disrespect me!" Plastic bottles and pizza boxes pressed against his cheeks. Some sharp object sliced his earlobe. He heard the Black man's loud laughter and receding footsteps.
"You deserve this!"
Someone shouted from afar. Michael struggled. The toppled garbage can rolled with him onto the sidewalk. When he finally crawled out, he found his work pants covered in sauce and coffee grounds. His right palm was unknowingly clutching a rusty screw—perhaps the last souvenir from the factory.
"Do you need help?" A voice came from nearby. Michael looked up to see a man in a camel coat sitting on a public bench, leisurely licking an ice cream cone. The man looked about six billion years old, his oily hair neatly combed, and the wedding ring on his left ring finger shone warmly under the streetlights.
Ice cream dripped onto the man's polished leather shoes.
He didn't wipe it off.
He simply continued to watch the filth-covered Michael with calm eyes.
Michael was watching him, too.
"Gabriel." The former Archregent of Heaven was a mess, standing on the street corner, his soaked hair dripping with sewage. His gaze was fixed on the man sitting on the public bench.
His brother looked up and offered a gentle smile.
"Good evening, Brother."
Gabriel adjusted his clothing. Michael strode over and slumped onto the bench. The splashed sewage landed on Gabriel's shiny leather shoes.
"You stink."
Gabriel wrinkled his nose and snapped his fingers. A soft white light flashed. The filth on Michael instantly disappeared, and even his clothes returned to their original pristine white.
This scene.
Caught Michael off guard. His pupils dilated.
"Why do you still have divine power?!"
He grabbed Gabriel's wrist, his voice filled with incredulous shock.
"Perhaps because I'm always very obedient?"
Gabriel chuckled and leaned down to wipe his shoes with a wet wipe.
"Good, this is excellent. You can send me back to Heaven." Michael's voice was full of urgent excitement, almost pleading. "Immediately. Right now."
He didn't want to stay in the mortal world for another moment.
However.
"Oh, oh, oh. The help I mentioned isn't this kind of help. I can, however, give you a free ride back to that factory." Gabriel heard this and immediately waved his hands wildly to distance himself. There was no such thing as a "plastic brother" here. He knew the Cherubim Angel was even more ruthless than he was, having directly sealed the gates of Heaven.
"I want to go back to Heaven!"
Michael's roar startled the crows in the trees.
A crow defecated on his head.
Fortunately, Gabriel intervened in time, saving the Archregent of Heaven from being smeared with feces.
"I won't disobey our Father for your sake." This was the only help Gabriel could offer. He wouldn't dare help Michael return to Heaven, not if he had ten thousand times the courage.
Michael's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Then go send Lucifer back to Hell." His tone was firm, a compromise. However, this seemingly normal request made Gabriel's eyes widen.
He was dumbfounded.
"Me? Me fight Lucifer?"
He pointed to his nose.
It was as if he had heard an unbelievable joke.
"Are you sick? Or are you running a severe fever? Humans hallucinate when they have a fever." Gabriel reached out to touch Michael's forehead.
But Michael quickly dodged him.
"If you won't help me, I'll find Father myself and clear up the misunderstanding... When that happens, I'll settle the score with you." Michael's personality was still as nasty and aggressive as ever.
Seeing him about to leave, Gabriel was helpless.
"Maybe it's not a misunderstanding at all." Gabriel didn't take Michael's threat to heart. Most angels in Heaven were threatened by Michael more than 366 times a year.
His sudden remark made Michael stop.
"What do you mean?"
The Archangel King turned back, staring at his brother with golden eyes.
Gabriel stood up and dusted off his clothes where there was no dust. "Go back and screw in bolts. I'm just a mischievous sprite now, and I don't want to get involved."
He didn't reveal any useful information.
"Have you been in contact with Father?"
Michael pressed relentlessly, his eyes filled with accusation.
Gabriel responded with a non sequitur, saying, "You underestimate the mortal world. It's very dangerous here. If you're not careful, it won't just be dancing for Lucifer."
He was trying to warn his elder brother.
"How do you know what I streamed?"
The elder brother was only concerned with Gabriel's source of information.
"..."
Gabriel's expression visibly stiffened. His tone carried a hint of guilt. "I'm an Archangel, and I haven't lost my glory. Of course, I know everything."
The scent of trying too hard to cover up was strong in those words. Michael had lost his glory, but he hadn't lost his mind, so he immediately sensed something was wrong.
"Was that you who told me to take off my pants in the comments earlier!!!" Michael grabbed Gabriel by the collar, but failed to lift him up.
"I'm worried about you, Brother!"
"Look at this dangerous mortal world."
Gabriel gave a forced laugh.
He raised his hand and conjured a floating television in the air.
The screen lit up.
The image showed a man in clown makeup force-feeding motor oil to Amenadiel, mumbling things like, "Fully synthetic motor oil. I love taking care of my steed."
Amenadiel was motionless, gulping the oil with a vacant stare, clearly under mental control. He had even transformed several jet engines onto his own wings.
"..."
Michael knew Amenadiel was suffering, but he hadn't realized he was *this* miserable.
"I'm not as stupid as him."
After a long pause.
Michael finally swallowed and commented.
"Amenadiel has always been stupid." Gabriel first nodded in agreement, then continued with deeper meaning, "But how can you be sure Father won't arrange similar... refinement for you?"
They were discussing the omniscient and omnipotent God.
Anything was indeed possible.
"What exactly does Father want from us... This isn't just refinement, it's a catastrophe." Michael's eyes were fixed on the vacant-eyed Amenadiel on the screen.
His Adam's apple bobbed again.
Silence spread between the two.
The sound of 'biubiubiu'—the everyday noise of Metropolis—came from a distance.
It was a gang shootout.
It seemed they were fighting over organs, male and female prostitutes smuggled in from overseas.
"Bruh, this shipment is ours. Do you know how much a pretty boy sells for on the dark web? Much more expensive than selling parts!" The sounds of the gang fighting reached Michael's ears.
He touched his own smooth skin.
Another few seconds of silence.
"Take me back... I haven't completed my live stream hours for today." As the Archangel of Battle, Michael understood the weighing of pros and cons, so he ultimately chose to concede.
"A wise choice, my brother." Gabriel smiled, putting his hand on Michael's shoulder. A white light flashed. On the bench, only a briefcase and half an ice cream cone remained.
A passing stray cat hopped onto the bench, trying to eat nature's offering.
"Dong~ dong~ dong~ dong~ dong~"
The cat was immediately startled by the sudden ringing of a cell phone—Gabriel reappeared, picked up the briefcase, and answered his phone.
"I did it. You can't come looking for me anymore... I just want to be left alone." The caller ID on Gabriel's phone screen showed Lucifer.
He didn't see it.
In the distance.
The homeless old man's eyes reflected his image.
"Sigh~"
A sigh echoed on the street.
The old man turned away, choosing not to see what bothered him, and looked at the road, where a driverless Hellcat sped past. The boy inside was also talking on his half-broken phone.
"Okay, okay, I'll be there in a minute... I'm not driving illegally, and I'm certainly not speeding." Ian reached out and moved the Hellcat's speedometer needle from 220 to 30.
Although the Hellcat's speed remained unchanged, Ian could now act righteously. By the time he hung up the phone with Detective Beckett, the Hellcat had stopped below the Emerald Lake apartment building.
The flashing red and blue lights of the police cars were particularly glaring in the twilight. Several residents were gathered in the lobby, whispering to each other.
"This is truly a result I didn't anticipate." Ian rushed up the stairs. On the fifth-floor corridor, he found Kate Beckett with her arms crossed.
"Honestly, I advise you not to go in. The scene inside is truly horrifying." The detective's face wasn't good, pale as if she had been exposed to something truly disgusting.
"As a journalist's son, I want to be a journalist myself someday, so this is just a necessary path for me. Trust me, no matter how bloody the scene, it won't affect my mind. But not finding the truth really makes me uncomfortable—please, I need to know the truth. I need the answers."
Ian leveraged Detective Kate Beckett's weakness.
She found herself sympathizing with Ian's words, reminded of her own mother, a journalist who was unexpectedly murdered. After a moment of hesitation, the female detective led Ian through the door.
In the living room, a woman in a nightgown was curled up sobbing on the sofa. The female forensic scientist was gently patting her back. Ian's gaze swept over the bruises on the woman's neck.
"Ms. Misha?"
Ian recognized the woman as Ms. Misha from his school, the student counselor who had once worried about his psychological problems and whom he had then taught a lot about sex and relationships.
"Ian? Ian Kent?" The woman suddenly looked up when she heard someone call her name. Her tear-filled eyes met Ian's. She seemed to not understand why Ian was there.
"I'm a crime consultant, a detective like Sherlock Holmes." Ian immediately explained his identity, but his spontaneous claim was interrupted by Detective Kate.
"He was just the person who discovered the first crime scene."
Detective Kate Beckett corrected Ian's statement.
"Then I am a witness who is also a detective like Sherlock Holmes." Ian always managed to steer the topic back to where he wanted it. After speaking, he immediately shifted the subject.
"Ms. Misha, why are you here? Are you in a relationship with Dr. Hannibal? I knew Dr. Hannibal, like me, always preferred twenty-two-year-old girls."
"Not too big and not too small. Just right everywhere." Ian was actually quite curious about the answer to this question. His extremely high IQ told him that Ms. Misha wouldn't be crying here for no reason.
"A detective? Ha?"
Detective Kate shook her head exasperatedly.
Ms. Misha also quickly composed herself.
"No, Hannibal is my brother. Someone murdered my brother and almost killed me! He said he would let me live only if I agreed to cooperate with his torture!"
Her emotions began to crumble again.
"Will Graham."
Ian narrowed his eyes and uttered a name.
"It's him! Yes! It's him! I recognize his eyes! He can't fool me!" Ms. Misha's voice was highly agitated, filled with hysterical hatred.
"????????"
Detective Kate's expression instantly became blank.
"Wait, you know the killer? You just got here, right? How do you already know who the killer is?!" She scrutinized Ian with an unbelievable, suspicious look.
"If the deceased is my psychologist, the killer would naturally be Will Graham... Honestly, I'm a detective, but even someone as clever as me is slightly surprised right now."
Ian spoke in a way that Kate couldn't logically follow, and he was the first to walk toward the bedroom that the police had cordoned off. Hannibal Lecter's body was hanging from the ceiling chandelier by his own intestines.
He, too, had been crafted into a "work of art." His chest cavity was split open, his ribs folded outward into a wing shape. The empty space where his heart had been was filled with an open copy of *The Art of Cooking*.
The most bizarre detail was his expression. It had been stitched with needle and thread into a joyful smile, as if he were enjoying this feast of death. The whole scene made him look like a carefully arranged marionette.
"The killer was very meticulous, much more so than the previous piece. He loved Dr. Hannibal very much, but Dr. Hannibal betrayed him, or at least the killer believes Dr. Hannibal betrayed him." Ian's fingertips brushed across the dried blood on the door frame. He suddenly noticed Hannibal's dangling finger, which seemed to be pointing to a spot on the floor.
He rushed over, taking two steps at a time, and used his fingernail to pry open the floor seam.
"What are you doing?! That's tampering with evidence!"
Kate Beckett's voice nearly blew off the roof.
"I'm solving the case."
Ian replied without turning his head.
"I called you here not to do our job for us, but because I hoped you wouldn't text me every minute." Detective Kate tried to stop Ian but found that Ian had already pried open the floorboard.
"That's my tech assistant doing that. It has nothing to do with me." Ian pulled a map from beneath the floorboard. This map was clearly the clue Hannibal had left for the police in the end.
It marked the location of a cabin by a lake.
"I think..." Ian had just lifted the map when he suddenly froze.
"Beep—beep—beep"
A faint electronic sound came from the direction of the kitchen.
Ian's pupils contracted. He quickly ran into the kitchen—sure enough, a C4 bomb was lying in the microwave, counting down. The display showed 00:07, ticking down to 00:06.
"Don't touch any equipment on the scene! I'll call the bomb squad!" Kate's hand was just reaching for her holster when she saw Ian pull the bomb out with his bare hands, charge to the French window, smash through it, and leap out.
"Ian!!"
When the female detective rushed to the window, she only saw fragments of glass sparkling in the setting sun. Twenty stories high in the air, there was no sign of the person. She looked around, but her limited eyesight prevented her from seeing anything.
There was no explosion.
No crash from a fall.
A moment later, the detective, whose spine felt cold as if she'd seen a ghost, only heard the sound of a burp. Then, two small hands grabbed onto the windowsill.
"Where's the bomb?"
The detective stared at the boy in front of her.
"What bomb? Detective Beckett, are you confused from working overtime? I was just hanging out here to get some fresh air. People who love fresh air understand me."
Ian, who had climbed back into the kitchen, attempted to manipulate the female detective, but the crumbs on the corner of his mouth were far too conspicuous. Even if the detective wanted to pretend she didn't see them, it was somewhat difficult.
Ordinary Citizen Ian? No!
The Expert in Self-Deception? Yes!
***
Read 30 Chapters early on P-atreon.com/Redestro666