"What are those angels doing?"
A young man with red sclera and black irises asked, the black, spiky wings on his back fluttering slightly in curiosity.
"Ah, that," the older devil beside him paused, looking at the scene that the young devil pointed to. "The angels do this every hundred years, to pay their respects to the previous Supreme Gods and their families. Though, only a few are chosen."
"But, why do they have to pay their respects at our border?"
"You idiot," the older devil knocked the young devil on the head. "This isn't our border, it's shared, a neutral zone."
The young devil winced, looking back at the scene again.
It was a mystical sight.
The land was vast, the green grassy pasture contradicting against the sheer stark white outfits of the angels. Thousands of them followed in one line, all of them donning white robes, hairs of various colors cascading down their waists.