Celestial Warriors 8

The classroom felt like a concrete cell. For Angélica, the sound of chalk striking the blackboard and the murmur of her classmates were distant noises, echoes of a world she no longer felt she fully belonged to.

Her eyes were fixed on her own hands—the same hands that had trembled with rage yesterday, the same hands that had nearly caused an irreparable tragedy. A sense of inadequacy wrapped around her like a dense, icy fog.

She didn’t feel like a warrior; she felt like a fraud, a child playing at being a god while the real world bled from her mistakes.

Literature class slipped by in a blur of shadows. Ms. Elena, a woman with a sharp yet maternal gaze, hadn’t stopped watching her.

She noticed how Angélica hadn’t written down a single word, how her stare drifted into emptiness, how her shoulders sagged under an invisible weight. When the bell rang to signal the end of the day, Angélica packed her things with mechanical movements, wishing she could vanish into the crowd of students rushing toward freedom.

“Angélica, please wait a moment,” Ms. Elena said from her desk.

Angélica tensed. Her heart lurched—not with fear, but with deep exhaustion. The last thing she wanted was to talk.

“Is something wrong, ma’am?” she asked, forcing a neutrality her face betrayed.

“I’ve noticed you haven’t been yourself these past few days, Angélica. I’m concerned. I’d like you to come with me to the conference room. There are a few people who want to talk with you—just to make sure everything’s all right.”

Angélica wanted to refuse, to invent a doctor’s appointment or a family emergency, but she knew resistance would only raise more suspicion.

She nodded, feeling her feet weigh a ton as she followed the teacher down the hallway.

The conference room was small, lit by fluorescent light that made everything look sterile and drained of color.

Seated around a round table were the math teacher, known for her severity, and Dr. Aranda, the school psychologist—a young woman who always carried a notebook, ready to dissect feelings.

Angélica sat in the chair they offered her, feeling like a specimen under a microscope.

“Thank you for staying, Angélica,” Dr. Aranda began, in that soft, professional voice Angélica found irritating. “You’re not in trouble, truly. But your teachers have noticed a very drastic change in your mood. You seem… absent. As if you were carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Angélica lowered her gaze, fiddling with the edge of her backpack. The irony was painful: she was literally carrying the salvation of souls, yet she couldn’t say a word.

“I’m fine, really. I’ve just had a few bad nights,” she lied, but her voice cracked, heavy with a sadness she couldn’t conceal.

“That sadness suggests otherwise,” the psychologist insisted. “Sometimes when we feel like this, it’s because something has overwhelmed us. Is there something going on at home? A situation with your parents? Or maybe a boy? At your age, romantic disappointments can feel like the end of the world.”

Angélica felt a stab of frustration. A boy? Romantic problems? While they spoke of adolescent trivialities, she had watched a man turn into a wooden monster born of pain. The gap between her reality and theirs was an unbridgeable abyss.

“It’s not any of that,” Angélica replied, realizing she had to give them something if she wanted to be let go. “It’s just… I had a fight with a friend I’ve known since childhood, and I realized I’m very immature. And I lost my favorite sweater, and yesterday I burned dinner, and I felt like everything goes wrong for me. I’m a mess. That’s all.”

The teachers exchanged puzzled looks.

Angélica’s excuses were erratic, almost absurd, but the tears welling in her eyes were real. The frustration of not being able to tell the truth was turning into something unmistakably depressive.

“Angélica, you seem to be going through a very severe episode of low self-esteem,” the math teacher intervened. “You’re too hard on yourself. No one is perfect.”

“That’s the problem!” Angélica burst out, unable to hold back any longer, even if her words sounded cryptic. “It’s not about being perfect—it’s about the fact that if I fail, the consequences are… final. I don’t have the right to make mistakes, and yet I keep making them.

“I feel like every time I try to help, I only make things worse. I feel small. Useless. Far from being brave, I’m just a burden to everyone.”

Dr. Aranda wrote something in her notebook.

“You feel like you have a responsibility you can’t handle,” she said. “Do you feel your friends or family expect too much from you? Or is it pressure you put on yourself?”

“It’s pressure that… exists,” Angélica whispered, wiping away a tear. “And I don’t know how to deal with it. I feel like I’m failing at the only thing that really matters.”

For half an hour, they probed her psyche, asking about friendships, possible bullying, fears of the future.

Angélica answered evasively, feeling more alone with every minute. How could she explain that her “depression” was actually the weight of a celestial war?

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Dr. Aranda closed her notebook.

“That’s enough for today, Angélica. But I want you to know this space is open to you. You don’t have to carry everything on your own. We’ll talk again tomorrow, all right?”

Angélica nodded quickly, desperate to escape that room. She left the school almost at a run, ignoring the greetings of a few acquaintances.

The afternoon air of Mexico City felt heavy, thick with the smell of impending rain and smog. Every step carried her farther from the safety of school and closer to the uncertainty of her life as the chosen one.

She walked the streets, watching ordinary people: a man selling newspapers, a couple laughing on a bench, children playing. She envied them—their ignorance of the darkness lurking in the corners of the human soul.

She felt like a ghost walking among the living. How could Sol have chosen her? She was unstable, tearful, prone to anger. Pamela, for all her confusion, seemed to have far more resolve.

“I’m a disaster,” she murmured to herself, stopping in front of a shop window to look at her reflection. She didn’t see a warrior. She saw a high school girl with red, swollen eyes and a poorly slung backpack.

Doubt was a poison running through her veins. What if she simply stopped answering the call? What if she hid in her room and pretended the cat had never spoken? But the previous incident flared in her memory, reminding her that human pain doesn’t wait until she feels “ready.”

“Self-pity is a luxury a celestial warrior cannot afford, Angélica.”

Sol’s voice emerged from the shadows of an alley. The calico cat appeared, walking elegantly along a low wall, his emerald eyes glowing with an intensity that cut through the gloom. Angélica wasn’t surprised; she had almost been expecting him.

“Did you come to scold me again?” she asked bitterly. “I’ve already had enough of school psychologists.”

Sol leapt down in front of her, blocking her path. His feline form radiated an authority that made the air itself vibrate.

“Those women search for problems in your human mind because that is all they understand. But you are no longer only human, Angélica. You are a channel for divine light. And that light cannot flow through a vessel filled with doubt and shadow.”

“It’s not that easy!” Angélica shouted, sobbing. “I’m afraid! I’m afraid of hurting someone else, of my rage feeding the demons. I feel like I’m dangerous.”

“And you are,” Sol replied, with a necessary coldness. “You are dangerous if you allow your emotions to rule you. The lives you are trying to save are not game pieces; they are real existences that depend on your balance.

“Every time you give in to frustration or despair, you give the enemy an advantage. I didn’t ask you to be perfect. I asked you to be conscious.”

Angélica lowered her head, clenching her fists. Sol’s words were harsh, but they carried the truth she feared most.

“This battle is not a game, Angélica. It is a war for the very fabric of human souls. If you do not learn to master your inner fire, that fire will consume you—and those you swore to protect.

“You must decide now: are you a victim of your feelings, or are you the warrior heaven needs?”

Angélica took a deep breath, feeling the chill of the night. The crying stopped, replaced by a spark of cold determination born from fear itself.

“I am a warrior,” she whispered, more to herself than to the cat.

“Then act like one. Control your thoughts, or they will control you,” Sol concluded, vanishing into the darkness.

Angélica was left alone in the street, knowing her school life was only a disguise—and that her true trial was just beginning…

…"

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