Abbadon hangs above the fissure like a shadow pinned against the sky. The world itself seems to slow around him. Even the fires burning across the plains dim, as if afraid to glow too brightly in his presence.
The demon legions closest to the chasm remain frozen, bodies pressed against the earth, throats constricted by an invisible pressure. Those farther back kneel instinctively, out of primal fear.
A ripple of movement spreads through the army as a contingent of upper ranking demons approach the fissure's edge. They force themselves forward, trembling, armor rattling with each staggered step. Their horns bow. Their spines curl. Their wings twitch uncontrollably as they fight for air.
At the front is a towering warlord, obsidian armor cracked from the shockwaves. He lowers his head so deeply his horns scrape the ground.
"Lord Abbadon," he wheezes, voice cracking under the pressure.
Abbadon turns his head a fraction of an inch.
The warlord explodes into a black mist of gore.
His armor clatters to the ground in pieces as droplets of blood rain on the surrounding forces. The demons freeze. No one dares to speak again.
With a slow motion, Abbadon lifts his gaze toward Sanctuary.
The walls glow with radiant light and wards, reinforcing themselves against the presence of demons and other divine beings. Nicolas steadies his breath. The others fight to maintain composure.
Cyra's fingers grip the parapet so tightly the stone cracks beneath her palms. "If he walks toward this wall… we will not withstand him."
Lisa closes her eyes, whispering, "We must. We have no choice."
Abbadon raises one hand.
The air ripples.
Every demon on the field drops to all fours, pressed against the ground by sheer gravity. The weight intensifies, stone fissuring beneath their bodies. Wings snap. Spines crack. Even the higher nobles struggle to remain conscious.
Then Abbadon speaks again, calm, neutral, emotionless.
"Mephistopheles."
The name echoes across the battlefield like distant thunder.
A tear in the air opens at the ground level as if reality is stepping back to allow something through. Black mist curls outward, forming a swirling portal of thick shadow. From within the darkness, Mephistopheles emerges with slow, graceful confidence.
His crimson coat drags behind him like spilled blood. His smile is sharp and elegant. Flames wreathe his hooves with every step. He stops a respectful distance from Abbadon and bows deeply.
"My lord," Mephistopheles purrs. "Your descent is most welcome. The angels honor us with their gift."
Abbadon's gaze drops to him but holds no interest, no disdain, nothing. Just an acknowledgment that the demon exists.
"Your armies have gathered."
"Yes, my lord. We stand prepared to seize Sanctuary and the temple of the gods within."
Mephistopheles bows his head again, though the smile behind it is unmistakable.
"I was summoned but have received no orders from my god."
Abbadon turns his attention back to the radiant walls above.
"I shall see how strong they are."
The air tightens. Even the council feels the crushing weight, each of them unconsciously stepping back as the atmosphere warps. Nicolas steadies himself first, planting his hands on the parapet as golden light flares around him.
"Brace yourselves," he says. "He is preparing something enormous."
The radiance of Sanctuary flickers. A low hum vibrates through the stone beneath the council's feet. The wards reinforcing the city tremble like stretched cloth.
Pete's voice rumbles. "These walls won't hold if he puts real power behind that."
Jennifer swallows hard. "Then we fight until the end."
Abbadon extends one finger toward the walls.
The simple gesture distorts the air so violently that the ground beneath him cracks, splitting outward in a jagged circle as though the world itself recoils from his intent.
A pulse forms at the tip of Abbadon's finger.
It starts as a pinprick, then expands, a sphere of warped reality bending space around it. The red sky bleeds into it, stretching thin like liquid being sucked into a drain. Sound collapses. Color drains. The wind stops.
Nicolas feels his knees buckle.
"That attack…" he whispers, voice straining. "If it reaches the wall—"
"It will erase the wall," Lisa says, her voice trembling. "And us."
Cyra lifts her hands, golden mist swirling around her fingertips. "Brace for impact!"
But Abbadon is not firing at them.
Not yet.
The sphere pulses again. The fabric of the world bends inward, compressing, condensing.
Mephistopheles watches with hungry delight.
"Magnificent," he murmurs. "Such elegance in destruction."
Abbadon flicks his finger.
The sphere vanishes.
For a split second, nothing happens.
Then the sky explodes.
A pillar of inverted light crashes downward. The beam slams into the demon ranks, not Sanctuary and annihilates thousands instantly. Bodies vaporize. Armor melts. Wings turn to ash mid-scream. The shockwave tears across the plains, peeling the earth apart in a perfect circle that expands then expands further.
The council braces as the shockwave slams into the radiant walls.
The barrier flashes white, rippling violently. Dust and debris blast upward, forming a towering plume of ash.
When the wave disperses, the land outside Sanctuary has been transformed into a perfectly smooth crater.
Demon armies that once filled the horizon are nothing but drifting cinders.
Mephistopheles sighs wistfully. "You cleared more than the path. You wiped out my front line."
Abbadon's eyes do not move to him. "You march with what remains."
Mephistopheles's smile widens. "Then so be it."
On the wall, Pete exhales slowly. "He just killed his own troops."
"No," Nicolas says, breath uneven. "I am not sure he sees them any different than us."
Lisa grips the railing, knuckles white. "This is… this is the power of the old angels. The true ones. Unfiltered. How can we stand against—"
A crack splits the air above Abbadon.
He tilts his head slightly, as though hearing something distant, inaudible to every other being.
His expression does not change.
"More," he murmurs softly. "More will be required."
The council members exchange looks.
"What is he talking about?" Jennifer whispers.
Nicolas's jaw clenches. "Orders. Someone is instructing him."
"Angels?" Pete growls.
Cyra shakes her head. "This magnitude… I don't think this is the angels we've met. This feels… different."
Below, the surviving demon legions reorganize rapidly. Commanders bark orders, pushing their exhausted soldiers into new formations. Obsidian banners rise. Siege beasts shriek and drag iron chains. Massive brutes with bone-forged clubs march forward, trembling but obedient.
Mephistopheles lifts a hand.
The army stops.
His voice cuts through the silence with razor precision.
"Prepare for the march on Sanctuary. The herald walks among us."
A collective shudder runs through the remaining demons.
Mephistopheles glances up at Abbadon, expression bright with twisted ambition. "My lord. Begin your advance."
But Abbadon does not move.
He lowers one hand to his side and lifts the other again, palm outward, as though feeling invisible threads stretching through the sky.
"His presence intensifies," Abbadon says quietly. "He approaches."
Nicolas's eyes widen. "He? Who?"
Cyra whispers the answer before the others.
"Could he be talking about Mike?"
Lightning splits the clouds above the desert hundreds of miles away as if the world reacts to the thought of him.
Abbadon's wings unfurl slightly, releasing a wave of crushing pressure that flattens the remaining demons to their knees.
Mephistopheles's smile broadens. "Ah. The angels' true concern. Now it becomes clear."
He steps forward, cloak dragging across scorched stone.
"Then, my lord, shall we march? Sanctuary will fall, and the boy will have nowhere left to run."
Abbadon lowers his hand.
The sky dims.
His voice echoes without emotion, without warmth, without hate.
"Interesting. Do as you want."
The infernal army roars.
Tens of thousands rise at once.
Drums begin again. Horns blare. The very ground shakes as demonic ranks surge forward, flooding across the smooth crater Abbadon carved with his power.
On the wall, Nicolas draws his sword.
Golden fire blazes along the blade.
"This is where we stand."
Leo slams his spear against the wall. "Then we stand until nothing remains."
Jennifer breathes deeply, prayer trembling in her throat.
Lisa's aura brightens, fire gathering around her hands.
Pete cracks his knuckles.
Cyra lets her sadness transform into resolve.
The demon army rushes closer, shadows spreading like a tide of claws and flame.
Abbadon floats above them, silent, unmoving, watching the radiant walls.
Waiting.
A distant roar can be heard faintly, drowned out by the march of the demon army.