Cameraman Never Dies

Silence fell over the room like a particularly heavy and awkwardly placed blanket. The recorders shuffled into their respective seats with all the grace of a school assembly — virtues to the left, sins to the right, each side casting side-eyes at the other like rival families at a forced dinner gathering.

Judge, draped in his usual aura of barely concealed exasperation, lounged on his grand throne, which, despite its majesty, had recently started squeaking at the most inopportune moments.

He rolled his shoulders and cracked his fingers, staring down at the absurdly long list of stories he had to provide Clio with. It was so long that if he let it unroll all the way, it would probably stretch out of the room and slap some poor janitor in the face.

But sadly there were no janitors in the castle and the list was not physical. But it could still work since, Judge's studio — Judge's rules, he could maybe make another castle if he wanted to, but it was just that his current skills did not allow him to make janitors yet.

Although compared to the last time he scanned through the story his recorders brought, his enhanced cognition had improved by miles — no longer a sputtering candle but a full-blown lighthouse of efficiency. He could now juggle more tasks at once, go faster, and, most importantly, maybe — just maybe — reduce the psyche screaming for attention that came with the sheer volume of work.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean he was free from distractions, as the recorders had collectively decided to dedicate their entire attention to the new recruit, all but gawking at her like she was a newly discovered species. (She was in fact, a rare species to be seen out in the world, since Avian rarely goes out of their hometown. Even if they did, most would be cooped up inside a temple)

Uriel, as she had introduced herself — with a slight nudge from Gabriel, who clearly had to play her social buffer — was now officially part of the recorder squad. Every recorder present had seen her when they all went to see the brawl of Vampire vs. Avians, but she was too insignificant to notice — there were better fights going on.

Her presence brought the total headcount to six, meaning Judge now had to deal with an even number of virtues and sins. A perfectly balanced council, at least theoretically. Reality? Well, reality had many ways of keeping people in check.

The virtue side consisted of Gabriel, Barachiel, and Uriel, representing Chastity, Patience, and Temperance. One was an eternal saint, one was a walking meditation retreat, and the last was trying her best to pretend she hadn't just signed up for absolute chaos.

On the sin side sat Lucifer, Asmodeus, and Satan — Pride, Lust, and Wrath, respectively. It was the equivalent of having a boardroom where one guy thought he was a god, another was too busy winking at himself in the reflection of his wine glass, and the last was probably considering flipping the table just for the drama.

But silence reigned, thick and suffocating, like an awkward family gathering where everyone knew a secret except the poor fool at the head of the table. The reason? Every single person in the room feared one individual — the observer, who, upon receiving their stories, transformed into an unreadable enigma. No reactions, no remarks, just silent, soul-piercing judgment.

Judge, the observer in question, was not intentionally cultivating this terrifying aura — he was just desperately trying to break his own speed record in processing stories.

He flipped through them with the focus of a scholar cramming for an exam, only instead of ancient texts, his workload consisted of everything from mundane life events to epic race wars to a bunch of overenthusiastic adventurers who were convinced dragons were real. Judge had a feeling these guys would either become legends or get eaten by a very confused oversized lizard.

Meanwhile, his attempts to gather information on the prince's side were proving more frustrating than trying to catch smoke with his bare hands.

The prince remained an enigma, revealing only what he wanted, like a professional magician pulling rabbits out of hats but never showing where the rabbits came from. It was like playing chess against an opponent who refused to move until you blinked.

Then, another war record caught Judge's attention — but this one was different. This was not some petty scuffle between merchants arguing over the price of silk; this was a battle that had been brewing for two millennia. And the biggest shock? The vampires had made the first move.

Now, that was unexpected. Vampires taking the initiative was about as common as a cat voluntarily taking a bath. Ever since Veritas cursed them, condemning them to the shadows, vampires had been playing an eternal game of "Let's Not Die at Dawn."

They were utterly powerless under the light, while their avian adversaries, despite weakening in darkness, could still generate their own light. It was like an unfair video game where one side got nerfed into oblivion while the other got an overpowered flashlight.

So why now? Why break a pattern that had held firm for centuries? Judge's instincts told him this wasn't just a reckless ambush to weaken the avian forces — something, or more likely someone, was pulling the strings behind the scenes.

And then he saw it — Gabriel's recording of Leo, the vampire general.

Leo, with all the flair of a war strategist who had just discovered the existence of cheat codes, had boldly declared that Flora, the Light's Blessed, was their ticket out of this mess. She would rid them of their curse.

Judge narrowed his eyes. That was a big claim. A huge claim. A claim so big it could probably be seen from space.

But one question loomed above all others: why now?

Had there been no Light's Blessed before? Had they all been frauds? Or had something — or someone — kept them from fulfilling this role all these years?