For I am no ordinary watcher. I am Angel Krish, and I witnessed the truth of his pain. I saw what they did.
And I cannot—will not—let this be the end.

The wind grew colder.
The kind that slices through bone, not skin.

As the crowd turned to leave, satisfied with their duty done, something stopped them in their tracks.

A mirror.
Not grand. Not glowing.
Just a fractured thing—iron-framed, smoky glass, lying where the boy’s heart once beat.

No one placed it there.
No one remembered bringing it.

Yet there it stood, heavy with meaning. Ofc I had placed it there to show them the reality of what they had done. The butcher's son came forward with the thought to unfold the mystery of the item that would change their futures now.

But before the fingers touched the frame, the mirror shivered

And then showed him

Not who he was, but what he had done

It played his laughter It played his laughter, cruel and childish, as he threw stones at the boy’s window. It showed his father, proud of the lesson he’d passed down. It showed the look of fear in the demon child’s eyes—not of death, but of being known.

They didn’t just hurt him.
They destroyed him.

When the villagers labelled him a demon, they permitted themselves.
Permission to torture. To desecrate. To violate.
It started with words—cruel, cutting, inescapable.
But words weren't enough for them.

One night, under a sky veiled in stormclouds, they dragged him to the edge of the woods.
No trial, no mercy. Just hate.
Four grown boys, emboldened by the silence of the village elders, tore the clothes from his frail body.
They tied his arms to the dead tree — the same one behind the chapel where offerings were once made.

There, under the hollow moon, they forced themselves onto him.

Not once. Not twice.
One after another, they used his small, trembling body like it was a vessel made for punishment.
His cries echoed through the trees, swallowed by the wind.
His throat bled from screaming.
His skin tore.
His soul shattered.

He passed out from pain, from blood loss.
But they weren’t done.
They branded him with hot iron scraps from the forge—symbols meant to “purify” him.
They urinated on him.
Spat on him.
And when they were finally bored, they left him there, bleeding, barely breathing, not even a person in their eyes—just some cursed creature.

And still the village stayed silent.
The priest called it “a ritual of cleansing.”
The mayor turned his eyes away.
The mothers whispered that he must have deserved it.

But I was watching.

I, Angel Krish, saw it all.
From the moment his chains were fastened to that tree to the second the last footstep of his abusers disappeared into the distance.

I descended not in light, but in silence.

I found him broken. Cold. Silent.
His innocence stripped from him by monsters who called themselves men.

I touched his forehead.
Even in near death, he whispered, “Was I evil?”

No.
You were light in a world that feared truth.
You were love in a world addicted to cruelty.
You were a child.

And what they did was not purification—it was damnation.

So I rose. Wings wide. Wrath ignited.
The sins they buried would surface.
The pain they caused would echo.
And through the Sinister Gift, they would witness not just what they did—
But they would feel it.

One by one, they would face every scream, every wound, every humiliation they put upon him—
Until the mirror shattered.

Until justice was no longer a word...
But a reckoning.

That night, the sky split open.

Angel Krish didn’t descend gently this time—
I felt like a sword from heaven, wings seething with smoke and flame, and a gaze that made even the stars dim.

I didn’t come with blessings.
I came to break them.

From the grave of the boy, I rose a mirror.
Forged not of glass, but of his suffering.
His tears were its river,
His screams, the silver.
His blood—the frame.

And then I whispered across the land:

“Let each sinner see himself—not as he wishes, but as he truly was.”

The mirror trembled.

The first boy, Rekton, the village smith’s son—
He approached, mocking still, lips curled in that same sneer he wore while carving pain into the demon child.
But when he saw his reflection—
He fell to his knees.

Because what looked back was not himself.
It was what he had done.
Scene by scene.
Moment by moment.
Every thrust. Every scream. Every time he laughed while the boy bled.

He clawed at his face, screaming, “No, no, NO!”
His eyes bled. His skin tore.
He saw himself not as a human, but the beast he had become.

His father found him the next morning:
Naked. Foaming. Eyes gouged.
Whispering the boy’s name like a prayer he never deserved to know.

One by one, they came.
And one by one, they broke.

Elidra, the priestess — she called it holy purification.
But the mirror showed her blessing the assault, sealing the chapel doors while the child screamed.
Now her hands blister endlessly, always burning as if in eternal flame.
She cannot sleep.
She cannot speak.
She just sits and weeps, blood from her palms pooling at her knees.

Tomas, the hunter, threw the first stone.
His reflection turned into a child’s eyes—
Innocent. Wide.
Then dead.

He tried to run.
Tried to shoot the mirror.
But every time he blinked, the boy’s face appeared behind his eyelids.

Three days later, he hung himself with the same rope they had tied the boy with.

I stood over them.
Not in mercy,
But as the wrath they swore, angels didn’t carry.

I did not kill them.
I let their sins consume them.

This is the Sinister Gift.
Not a blessing.
Not a curse.

Just the truth.

Because monsters who wear masks of righteousness—
They don’t deserve a fire.
They deserve their reflections.

The winds stopped.
The villagers froze.
Even time itself dared not move—because something was coming.

And then…
He arrived.

Not in silence.
Not hidden.

But in glorious eruption.

Angel Krish.

The skies shattered like fragile glass, as a thousand feathers of fire rained down.
Wings, massive and radiant, swept across the sky like auroras with edges.
A robe of stars, a crown of gold fire, eyes like galaxies burning with fury and grief.

He did not come to forgive.
He came to finish what they started.

And in his arms—
He carried the boy.
Not lifeless. Not forgotten.
But resurrected, wrapped in divine silk, soul glowing softly like a second moon.

Gasps turned into wails.
The same people who once tore him apart dropped to their knees, not in devotion—
In dread.