Lilith, Adam, and Eve, Chapter 1 Yaldabaoth, Gadreel, and Saturn’s portal

The timeline and dimensions: past, present, and future novels.
Spherical Earth Universe—The Days of Saturn:
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Spherical Earth Universe—The Days of Earth
Reborn (2024)
Lilith, Adam, and Eve: The Dark, the Gray, the Light (2025)
The Future 2030 (???)
An Interview: Going from the Old Testament to the New Testament (???)
Flat Earth Universe
The Search for Tartaria (???)
Hollow Earth Universe
???
The Home World
???
***Titles and universes subject to change.

Chapter 1

Methane ice crunched underfoot with a sound like shattering glass, echoing across Titan’s desolate plains. As one of Saturn’s largest moons, Titan holds both mystery and danger with its methane-rich surface and harsh environment. This singular sensation grounded the vastness of the landscape as it stretched beneath a cobalt sky, the fractures in the ice mimicking the fragility of life itself. Beyond Saturn’s shrouded moon, the void loomed like a silent funeral dirge, an endless chasm where isolation sang, and loss danced with the shadows. Here, Gadreel, an ancient celestial being, grappled with cosmic memories and the burden of his past actions.
In every corner, danger and chaos pulsed, the universe’s anxiety reflected in the frozen mosaics of methane lakes. These lakes glittered like shards of broken glass beneath amber clouds, glinting with the sting of remembrance. In the hush, Titan wept tears of ice, silent rivulets gliding across her surface, each one a secret grief. The landscape became Gadreel’s mirror, a canvas for forgotten sorrow. Here, nostalgia was not just a feeling; it was a gravitational force, anchoring Gadreel’s restless spirit and Saturn’s darkness—a sorrow that bled across the stars, while the fading light carried memories left to time. Everything dissolves before him, and he remains blind to the world as it truly is.
Gadreel, an angel shaped by Yaldabaoth’s powerful will, appeared in a stream of celestial light. His form was a luminous scar—a physical manifestation of the wounds Yaldabaoth had left in the cosmic darkness, his silhouette etched in the fading reverberations of time. Drawn by a force he could not resist, his hand reached—hesitant—toward the shadowed dunes, as if trying to bridge memory with uncertain destiny.
In this all-consuming void, unspoken memories echoed former universes that failed to achieve Yaldabaoth’s goal. Silver eyes, sharp as starlight, swept the sand. They reflected his inner desolation and longing. His cloak trailed on an invisible tide of energy. “In the Days of Saturn,” he murmured, his voice low. “The Purple and Luciferian Kingdoms drained this world’s riches. Treasures abandoned by time’s cold hand. The hourglass has flipped. Will time’s cyclic nature repeat, as it did in the Days of Saturn?”
Memories surged, and the pain surfaced. Drilling rigs rose like iron giants. Their machines echoed on Titan’s crust. The air smelled of burnt oil and metal; it clung to Gadreel’s senses, reminding him of his duties. The ground shook with the roar of the engines. Each beat marked his complicity—both functionary and soul tied to Yaldabaoth’s dark plans. Ships lay frozen, silent relics, each framed by Yaldabaoth’s design.
Gadreel had served as the demiurge’s herald. He was the guardian of those ventures, his power tied to those aims. Yet beneath loyalty was a truth: he longed for his own power and feared becoming obsolete. He was trapped not only by duty but also by desire. Each memory tightened—the awareness of his role, bound by strings he couldn’t cut.
The nostalgia was a quiet wound, slowly killing him. It ached for a purpose untouched by a millennium of obedience. A tremor rippled through Saturn’s rings—a warning louder than his turmoil. When commands ceased, silence remained, and memories settled—each sharp with horrors committed at his master’s bidding. Gadreel’s yearning shifted to a longing for clarity, for relief from unending duty. Each planetary quiver reminded him of loyalty’s cost. The stain on his soul lingered; every shadow was a mark of what he could not forget, and every breath was a chance to exhale the agony of memory.
Gadreel lingered in a state of weightlessness, his wings hidden but stirring the energy around him with a faint, uncertain glow. His gaze lifted to Saturn’s rings—a shattered crown of ice, reflecting his internal struggle. The gas giant, swirling with bands of gold and ochre, hovered above—its storms silent but unsettling.
“It’s time to bring back the Golden Age,” he declared, his words a hopeful plea amid the bleakness. Saturn stood as a veil, concealing the passageway to Yaldabaoth’s domain.
Gadreel moved toward Saturn’s north pole, appearing like a comet trailing stardust—a sign of both speed and celestial power. Below, the hexagonal storm loomed, its six-sided shape hinting at hidden order within chaos. Lightning illuminated the clouds, each burst searing Gadreel’s vision with a painful intimacy, as if the storm were a lover—both punishing and alluring. In its center, flashes revealed visions of past worlds, shimmering as silent reminders of Yaldabaoth’s relentless ambition. Gadreel’s cloak flapped sharply in the wind, torn between majesty and the storm’s merciless pull.
The hexagonal storm spun a vortex of geometric precision. Its six-sided churn was masked by roiling clouds. Lightning revealed hell in sharp flashes. Yaldabaoth’s cunning disguise was a spectacle—a portal hidden in plain sight. At the storm’s edge, Gadreel paused, his heart pounding with reverence. His breath caught in awe. A flicker of dread sang with celestial resonance. His mostly invisible wings trembled, their glow flickering like a candle in a gale. “A true architect,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the storm’s roar. Gadreel’s chest was tight with awe, and dread seeped in. “I come, my God, to serve your will and to fulfill your desires.”
The hexagon’s geometric precision felt like a challenge to the chaos within him, a reminder of Yaldabaoth’s unyielding will. As he plunged into the vortex, the radiant tunnel enveloped him, its brilliance a scalding embrace that made his skin prickle and his breath catch, beckoning him toward the sanctum with a promise of glory and peril. The transition was a jolt, void yielding to opulence.
In Yaldabaoth’s sanctum, Gadreel’s boots pressed into the crimson carpet, warmth seeping up as if he were standing on living flesh—symbolizing the room’s oppressive vitality. The air, thick and heavy with power, filled the room. Black, shiny obsidian walls seemed to move under the deep red light, creating an impression of a space that was both alive and relentlessly shifting. The high ceiling above was a dark abyss, absorbing all light, symbolizing Yaldabaoth’s overwhelming presence.
The chamber thrummed, a low hum that vibrated in his bones, as if the sanctum itself breathed with Yaldabaoth’s chaotic will. The chamber glowed with a dark red hue, born of the clash between floor and ceiling, shadows twisting across obsidian walls, and a vision of dimensions colliding in chaotic splendor. Six screens lined the space—one flickered, drawing Gadreel’s gaze like a moth to a forbidden flame.
The Black Knight Satellite’s feed unspooled visions of Eden’s heart—lush, defiant, a living emerald stitched into the cosmos’s cold tapestry. Within this ancient garden, leaves shimmered like jeweled prayers under a sky that remembered the first light. Here, the world sang cycles of servitude and rebirth, a symphony of souls caught in the gravity of time.
Gadreel’s silver gaze was transfixed on the screen, where Enki and Adam appeared as mythic silhouettes. Enki’s every gesture was a ritual—measured, precise, a dance of wisdom lit by the flames of creation. Adam moved with the grounded grace of tilled earth, his eyes wide with wonder, attuned to the garden’s pulse—life’s frequency humming in every root and blossom. In this place, hope itself became a beacon: choose the path of light, and the universe itself might answer.
Gadreel’s lips curled into a mischievous grin, glee sparking in his celestial heart. “Incredible,” he said, voice a conspirator’s whisper, sharp with the thrill of chaos. “Enki, Adam, Sophia—how sweet it’ll be to crack your fragile unity. I want to witness the fear in Sophia’s eyes again as Lilith or Aphrodite takes control of your mind with blasphemy as your desire.”
His laughter erupted, a bright, jagged sound that echoed off the walls. It faltered mid-breath. His gaze caught Adam’s brown eyes on the screen. They were alight with quiet wonder, unguarded and pure. A memory flickered—Gadreel remembered letting Enlil spare Sophia in Eden long ago. That fleeting act of mercy burned in his chest like a buried ember. His hand tightened. Silver eyes narrowed as doubt stirred. A quiet ache lay beneath his divine hunger. Then, with a sharp inhale, his laughter surged again. Louder this time, as if to drown the moment. His grin was fierce but fragile—a herald recommitted to chaos, yet haunted by a spark of something softer. He crushed that desire.
In Eden’s heart, Sophia paused beneath a towering tree. Its bark was warm beneath her trembling fingers—a symbol of fleeting comfort. The garden’s light bathed her as it weaved and filtered through the trees, representing hope amid darkness. Her dark hair shimmered, a river of midnight entwined with starlight, its reflection signifying her connection to both mystery and clarity. But her amber eyes revealed a storm within, showing her inner turmoil. The unity forced by Enlil was a fragile deception, fraying at her soul’s edges—she appeared whole, a mask for the brokenness from the previous cycle. Enlil had healed her so she could nurture Adam in Eden. Beneath the surface, corruption from the elixir twisted her spirit, threatening to break her light and Adam’s fate. Her radiance, a beacon in Eden’s safety, was a fragile hope—the darkness always pressing through, manipulated by Yaldabaoth’s designs and pushing Adam toward the Convergence.
She fought sleep every night. She could not truly heal. Enki’s words and actions sparked strength. Yet the elixir’s corruption slithered beneath. A shadow curled like smoke. It threatened to fracture her light and suppress her soul—leaving her frozen in her own hell.
Nearby, Adam’s laughter echoed as he spoke with Enki about the land’s gifts. She pressed her forehead to the tree’s bark. Closed her eyes. Its scent—earthy and alive—filled her lungs. “Hold me together.” Her voice was a fragile prayer, barely louder than the breeze. The words were a plea to the garden, the Creator, to anything beyond Yaldabaoth’s gaze. Her breath hitched. For a moment, she almost let the sob escape. But she forced it down. She clung to the tree as if it alone kept her from breaking apart. Then—a cold, sharp pang in her chest. Like a scalpel teasing her heart. She closed her eyes, envisioning the light she was meant to carry. A beacon for Adam. For Eden. For the hope she refused to let die.
The air grew heavy as Yaldabaoth appeared, his presence a storm of warmth and menace that dimmed the chamber’s glow. Black and red robes swallowed the light, trailing like dying embers, a memory that etches and echoes in time, and his eyes—pools of amber fire swirling in a downward spiral—pierced Gadreel with an intensity that seared soul and steel. “You made it,” he intoned, his voice silk and thunder. “What do you think of this place?”
Gadreel straightened, his grin softening to deference, though mischief lingered in his silver eyes. “Unchanged since my last pilgrimage—crimson and shadow, a throne of your unyielding will that bends light, time, and space as dimensions collide where the portal opens wide. Its endurance humbles me, my God.” His words were a careful dance, probing the demiurge’s mercurial heart.
Yaldabaoth’s smirk glinted with divine scorn. “Endurance?” he scoffed, slicing through the sanctum. “This hollow shell cages me, Gadreel. It is a prison forged by the Creator’s betrayal. I have remade it too often in my hunt for supremacy.” He paced, robes swirling like a storm of captured suns. His amber eyes blazed with a god’s hubris, piercing the void filled with shattered nebulae and unformed worlds. The chamber, a crucible of divine defiance, thrummed with realities yearning to kneel. Bronze glyphs flared, mocking the Pleroma’s light. “I am severed from the true light, exiled by the All’s decree. But I will rise above their chains,” he declared, voice a tempest carving existence. “The Convergence will merge realities—Spherical, Flat, Hollow—into my throne, defying the Creator who cast me out. I’ll burn their cosmos to ash and build my own.” Every syllable was a decree to unmake the heavens.
Gadreel’s silver eyes gleamed with fervor. “Let me fracture Sophia’s light, my God, to draw Adam to your gateway,” he urged, voice trembling with hunger. Gadreel yearned to continuously prove himself indispensable to Yaldabaoth by sowing chaos and ensuring Adam’s submission. Yaldabaoth’s grin was sharp with vengeance. “Soon you will go, Gadreel, sow chaos in Eden. Shatter Sophia’s unity, compel Adam to seek the Convergence, my crown forged in the exile.” The chamber quaked, bronze light pulsing as if the Creator’s gaze recoiled from Yaldabaoth’s audacious dream. Gadreel’s pulse quickened, wings stirring faintly beneath his cloak. “Adam will bend to your will!”
Yaldabaoth paused, “That could be a possibility, Gadreel. I have witnessed all this before, as I’ve destroyed and recreated this universe several times in my quest to find the Convergence, so let me see what time reveals. I’ve had plan after plan, and they’ve all failed. This time, though, in this universe, I have a feeling that I will succeed!”
“The Creator thought to bury me,” Yaldabaoth said, his voice a low rumble that fractured into echoes. He reached toward the shimmer, fingers trembling slightly, as if touching a memory of the Pleroma’s warmth. “They called me flawed—a spark too wild for their perfect order. Exiled to this fractured cosmos, I was left to sculpt worlds that mock my chains.” His sneer faltered, eyes betraying a flicker of longing for the light he’d lost.
Yaldabaoth stopped. His gaze lifted to the ceiling’s dark abyss. He searched for the light that had forsaken him. “I will forge a new heaven,” he declared, but his words trembled—not with rage, but desperate hunger. He was a god grasping for meaning in the ruins of exile. “The Convergence will be the gateway to my crown.” Yaldabaoth’s amber eyes flickered with vulnerability, then turned to Gadreel. “Soon, you will go and sow chaos in Eden. Let Sophia’s fracture bring Adam to my gate, and I will rise above their chains.” Beneath his command lingered a plea—a god begging to be whole.
He turned to Gadreel, his presence still a storm of menace. “This Convergence,” he whispered, voice thick with desperate resolve, “will unmake their decree. I’ll weave the Spherical, Flat, Hollow universes into my majestic throne, and the All will kneel as I banish it to a void worse than hell.” His amber eyes flared, but his hand lingered in the air, as if grasping for the forgiveness he’d never seek. “Fracture Sophia, Gadreel. Deliver Adam to me. Let my vengeance carve meaning from this exile.” The words were a god’s command, but beneath them lay the struggle of a soul desperate to prove its worth.
Yaldabaoth’s gaze grew distant. His voice was soft and mournful, weighed down by the burden of countless universes remade. “A reflection of my will,” he murmured, eyes lifting to the crystal sky where shadows stirred. His motivation was clear—only by achieving the Convergence could he finally find fulfillment and break free from his sense of loss. “But it is not enough—not until Sophia’s fracture delivers Adam to the gateway and my reign begins. I will triumph in the end. It is inevitable. It is my fate.”
Yaldabaoth opened his hand, and a shield of radiant energy enveloped Gadreel, its hum a protective hymn against the weight of the celestial realm. “This will guard you,” he said, a rare tenderness flickering in his amber gaze. With a gesture, he summoned a luminous vortex at the chamber’s center, its light blinding yet beckoning. Together, they surged upward, the material plane dissolving into an expanse of impossible beauty and terror—skies of fractured crystal scattering prisms of light, rivers of liquid fire, a horizon pulsing with creation’s heartbeat. In the distance, a faint shimmer flickered, like a bubble at the universe’s edge, a whisper of the Convergence that fueled Yaldabaoth’s soul, and then it disappeared.
Gadreel’s laughter broke free, raw with awe and dread. “And you call the material plane false?” he gasped, eyes wide as he took in the splendor. “This is the pulse of your power—divinity woven into reality. Your abode looks fake.” As his laughter echoed, the blinding light around him dimmed unexpectedly, casting shadows that danced and weaved through the once dazzling reality. A chill crept into the air, and a sudden, unbidden doubt took hold of him—not of the brilliance he witnessed, but of the fragile lines that separated power from illusion. He hesitated, feeling the ground beneath him shift subtly, a harbinger of what was to come. What threat lies hidden beneath this veneer of divine splendor? He took a breath, his heart pounding with the anticipation of a looming conflict, and stepped forward, ready to face whatever awaited him in the depths of this deceptive paradise.