For a long moment, Father Black did not move. His jaw clenched around the pipe, smoke curling from his lips as his holy flame sword dimmed in his grip.
The two Fallen Angels—whose bodies he had so decisively cut apart—now hovered before him once more, whole and unscarred. Their mocking voices twined together like the echo of a nightmare.
"You thought…"
"…that death would save you?"
They laughed in unison, the sound jagged, scraping against the void itself.
Father Black's eyes narrowed. And then clarity struck him like a blade to the chest. His gaze flicked to the colossal Angel—the Eye the size of the moon. He understood now. That thing wasn't a fighter. It was a pillar. A function. A resurrection well. As long as it remained, none of the Fallen could truly die.
If this continued, he could kill and kill again—only for them to rise anew, like death itself was mocking him.
