Metatron's Incantation was like an invisible yet incomparably precise awl, driving viciously into the deepest part of Castiel's soul. It found the last pure flame of light that represented his angelic essence—the grace bestowed upon him by God.
"Ah—!"
Castiel let out a heart-rending scream, utterly unlike any human sound.
He felt his very existence being vivisected alive. The most central and precious part of his soul—the part that defined him as the angel "Castiel"—was being forcibly extracted and stripped away by an irresistible, violent force!
That warm, pure, milky-white point of light, rapidly dimming, was brutally torn from his violently trembling body and floated above Metatron's palm.
The instant his grace left his body, indescribable agony erupted from Castiel's back, as though bone and flesh were being crushed together.
His pair of wings, already scarred and weakened, shattered and crumbled inch by inch amid his shrill cries, like weathered sand sculptures.
They turned into countless faintly glowing specks of dust and dispersed into the air.
His power receded from his body like the ebbing tide.
His supernatural senses dulled, and the faint connection between his soul and Heaven was completely severed.
The sensation of lightness was replaced by the heavy burden of a mortal body.
Cold, pain, weakness, and an endless hollow void flooded over him.
He collapsed onto the cold, filthy ground and curled up, leaving only broken, instinctive gasps.
His eyes stared blankly as he looked at his hands, now dull and no different from those of an ordinary human.
The angel... Castiel... was finished.
Metatron looked with satisfaction at the point of grace belonging to Castiel floating above his palm. Then he looked at the magnificent sight of the dark-red magic circle beneath his feet perfectly merging with the pink-gold web of light overhead, before finally