Screams still rang through the battlefield like broken hymns.
The Archons were reduced to howling vessels of pain. Flesh sizzled, divine and demonic blood alike spilled onto the ground. Their bodies twisted under the acid-like burn of the tendrils that held them—immense limbs pulsing with cruel life, tightening with every breath they took.
Kael clutched his melted arm, sobbing.
Vale's chest heaved in shallow gasps, smoke curling from his wounds.
Elyen, eyes wide with shock, trembled—her hands scarred from the tainted corrosion.
Mael bit his lip until blood poured from it, refusing to scream again.
And Avile…
He lay limp in Belphegor's grasp, his body pale, his eyes shut. Tears streamed from the corners of his eyes. He had surrendered to death. To void. To whatever nothingness awaited inside the mouth of a thing like Belphegor.
Belphegor's monstrous form hovered above him, mouth unhinged, teeth gnashing hungrily.
Then—
A bolt of celestial light struck.
Belphegor dodged, hissing as it incinerated the tips of his limbs.
He growled. "...How are you here?"
Smoke exploded** across the field.
And from it walked Uriel.
The Archangel's armor shimmered like a fragment of the sun itself, his eyes glowing brighter than any star.Golden armor scorched with battle. Wings cracked but radiant. His blade long, lean, humming with sacred wrath glowed with an intensity that made even time itself hesitate.
Belphegor snarled, "Zariel should've eaten you."
Uriel didn't speak.
He moved.
Faster than thought. Faster than any concept comprehensible.
His sword came down in an arc that shattered the very laws of space around it.
Belphegor reeled, blocking with a shield of limbs. They were cut clean, exploding into black sludge. He roared and launched a counterattack—dozens of shadow tendrils whipping through the air, forming claws, spears, serpents of rot.
The Archons fell, released, gasping for air.
Uriel attacked again.
Belphegor blocked with an arm. Bone cracked. The force sent him flying backwards, limbs dragging behind like ink trails. He landed, skidding against the ground.
Uriel blurred again—another strike. Another flash of pain. Belphegor staggered back, snarling. The Archangel was faster than before. Stronger.
"Don't you get tired?" Belphegor spat. "You keep saving people like it'll change anything. First your little angels. Now these broken gods?"
Uriel weaved through them all. Impossibly precise. He spun, pivoted, drove his blade through Belphegor's shoulder.
The demon screamed.
Belphegor bellowed, summoning a vortex of chaos, his body swelling in size.
But Uriel kept coming.
A thrust of light sent Belphegor flying through the air, crashing into the shattered remnants of a fallen temple. Rubble flew.
Belphegor rose with a monstrous screech and unleashed a torrent of death—blood lasers, howling faces from other realms, waves of cursed fire.
Uriel's wings spread wide. He soared into the air and dove.
His sword sang.
A perfect note that made the entire battlefield fall silent for one breathless instant.
One slash cut across Belphegor's chest—another took a chunk of his ribs.
Belphegor screamed and retaliated, claws of blackened hatred tearing at the air, dark fire erupting from his mouth.
Uriel weaved between it all. A blur of precision and fury.
Belphegor dropped to one knee, snarling, "Is this the part where I'm supposed to feel fear?."
Uriel drove his blade forward again—Belphegor caught it, but the holy steel burned his palms. The two locked eyes.
And then—Belphegor grinned.
"Fine," he whispered. "You want my true face?"
The world shivered.
His cloak unraveled into shadow. His skin peeled again, sloughing off like rotting cloth. What rose from the crater wasn't a man, nor a god. It was a thing.
A truth the universe tried to bury.
His true form.
A towering shape, cloaked in swarming void. His body was stitched together with screams. Blood poured from dozens of open mouths across his torso. His face was still faceless—until eyes opened, dozens, red and vertical, blinking across every inch of him. No pupils. No whites. Just red.
The sky above cracked. Clouds fled. Space twisted.
Belphegor opened his mouth, and from it poured a voice older than creation.
Uriel didn't flinch.
He lifted his blade again.
Their battle erupted with a fury that shook mountains. Each clash fractured the ground, each blow summoned shockwaves that disintegrated whatever stood near them.
Belphegor fought like a wounded beast—feral, apocalyptic. He used his limbs like spears, like whips, like oceans. Entire realms inside his body opened, trying to consume Uriel.
Uriel kept moving.
One slash. Two. Ten.
Each time, Belphegor bled more.
His body tried to heal—but the light burned too deep.
For the first time in a thousand ages—Belphegor faltered.
Uriel's sword cleaved through his chest. He screamed and reeled.
Then—
Impact.
Belphegor was smashed to the ground.
Stone cracked. The earth screamed beneath the blow.
He tried to rise—but before he could—
Uriel was upon him.
The blade sliced through his knees—both legs, gone.
Belphegor screamed. Not in rage. Not in arrogance. But in pure, unfiltered agony.
He fell, crawling, dragging himself through his own blood.
He looked up—and saw Uriel walking toward him, golden light bleeding from his armor, his eyes locked and unreadable.
"What… are you?" Belphegor whispered.
Uriel said nothing.
His face was expressionless, but his aura burned anything it touched. Something not even Belphegor could name.
And then—
Uriel raised his sword with both hands.
The blade responded to his will.
It began to grow—slowly, like a sunrise unfolding, impossibly massive, infinitely long.
It rose through the clouds.
Through the atmosphere.
Beyond the stars.
The heavens split around it. Light bled across dimensions. Galaxies flared in its reflection.
It wasn't a weapon.
It was judgment.
All across the battlefield, even the near-dead opened their eyes.
Mikhael, far in the west, paused mid-battle and turned to the horizon.
He stared. "That light… it's his."
Zariel who was fighting angels stopped mid-flight.
He looked back. His expression were serious he looked at someone
And Avile, his eyes fluttering open, felt the warmth touch his face.
He blinked against the overwhelming shine—his tears now lit like starlight. He saw a figure.
He whispered, brokenly, "Uriel…?" and for a moment, he remembered hope.
Obil screamed, his voice cracking with panic.
"STOP! URIEL! DAMMIT, YOU'LL DESTROY EVERYTHING!"
But the sword was already moving.
Descending.
Reality screamed.
Heaven buckled.
The sword fell like the wrath of the Creator itself.
The light it carried wasn't just brightness—it was truth, compressed into form. A force so pure that it burned away lies, hatred, even memory.
When it struck—
The sky turned white.
Earth became a second sun.
Planets wept in orbit.
Billions of lesser demons were annihilated instantly.
Even the Archons, shielded by their own auras, cried out from the sheer force of the blow.
And at the center of it all—
Crater.
A hole punched into existence, stretching miles in every direction.
The battlefield became a scar.
For long seconds, nothing moved.
Only silence.
Then—
Breathing.
Belphegor was still alive.
His body was torn, bleeding black rivers. His limbs twitched. His monstrous form had mostly disintegrated.
But… he was not dead.
Uriel's blade had been stopped.
Standing between them were Zariel and Azazil.
Uriel leapt back, eyes scanning. Azazil's sword was gone, erased completely. Zariel's blade cracked down the middle, still humming with residual energy.
Obil, frozen, touched the ground.
It was still there. The world wasn't destroyed.
He looked up—and saw a transparent dome above them, massive and radiant. A shield. A miracle.
Zariel exhaled, eyes on Uriel.
Belphegor, still kneeling, muttered, "I don't need your pity."
Zariel chuckled. "You're not weak. Uriel's just… too strong. Heal yourself. Help, if you still can."
Azazil stepped forward. "I'll deal with him now."
Zariel hesitated. "Are you sure?"
Azazil smiled. "Look at him. He's slowing down. That sword drained him."
Then Zariel looked toward Obil—who hadn't stopped staring.
Zariel smirked, placed a hand on Belphegor's shoulder—and vanished with him into the void.
Smoke still coiled above the battlefield.
The dust hadn't even settled when Azazil turned his gaze toward the fallen Archons.
They were all in ruin.
Blood, burn marks, shattered limbs. Cracks in pride deeper than any wound.
Vale coughed, struggling to move. His legs—scorched down to raw flesh—shook violently as he tried to stand.
Obil stepped forward and barked, "Don't move. He rotted your legs. Try to walk and the burning will spread. Let your body heal."
But Vale glared at him, eyes full of hate.
"I know," he spat, "but we can't rest here. And I don't take orders from you."
His words cut deeper than any blade. He didn't see Obil as an ally. Not now. Not ever.
He continued, voice rising with fury, "If it weren't for Avile, I'd stab you a thousand times right now—even if it meant my own death from this damn rot."
Tension sparked.
Kael limped forward, jaw tight.
"Enough," he growled. "Speaking to him is only worsening your condition."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Stop wasting time. Look at Avile!"
All eyes turned.
Avile lay motionless. Skin pale, but his chest still moved—slow and shallow.
Elyen knelt beside him, fingers glowing faintly with gentle energy.
"Don't worry," she said, her voice trembling, "he's still alive. His body is healing… slowly."
Vale clenched his fists, pain etched into every fiber of him.
Then—
A golden shimmer. A ripple in the air.
An angel appeared.
Vale's instincts screamed. He stood tall—despite his legs nearly collapsing beneath him—and summoned his power.
The angel raised his hands peacefully. "I'm a healer. Do not fear me."
Within seconds, several more angels descended from the sky—silent, graceful. Wings of pure light.
They moved carefully, respectfully.
One of them gently touched Kael's shoulder. Another lifted Elyen, and a third cradled Avile as if he were a dying flame.
The Archons, broken as they were, were carried away—finally away from the nightmare.
In the ruined crater where galaxies had screamed—
Uriel stood.
His chest heaved.
His wings flickered like dying stars.
And in front of him—
Azazil waited. Calm. Smirking.
Uriel's sword was still clutched in his bloodied hands. Divine ichor dripped from his palms. The hilt was scorched. The blade cracked. But the rage in his eyes—that hadn't faded.
Not even close.
Uriel leapt.
No words. No warning.
Just war.
Azazil summoned a blade from smoke and shadow, intercepting the blow mid-air. Sparks exploded. Shockwaves shattered craters into the earth below.
They moved faster than mortal eyes could track.
Clash.
Clash.
Clash.
Uriel didn't slow.
He pushed—his strikes carried more desperation, more fury. The battlefield was gone. His world was narrowed to a single point: Azazil's throat.
Azazil laughed, parrying blow after blow.
"You're slowing down, angel," he taunted. "Want to rest up?"
Uriel didn't answer. Couldn't.
He was bleeding from his arms. His chest. His hands blistered and raw from gripping the blade too tightly. The divine weapon cried out with each clash, singing its pain into the air.
The wind howled.
And the attacks got sharper.
Azazil's grin faded. His strikes stopped mocking. He grew serious. Focused.
The two forces—light and dark—became a storm, a celestial collision that churned the battlefield into a maelstrom of flame, lightning, and raw will.
They weren't just fighting.
They were trying to end each other.
*End of Chapter.*