Four angels rose over the shaft. Their wings kept the same beat; ash shook loose on every downstroke. Blades crossed until steel edges touched; sanctity gathered at the point of contact and stiffened into one white pressure. The push of it ran downward; stone under the shaft lip split along old seams; dust lifted fast and hung thick with lime and burned iron.
Broken steps held under Noctis's boots. Blood streamed from the hole above his heart where sanctity still burned; steam rose each time breath went shallow. The right arm ended at the elbow and held a living construct of blood; each pulse pushed a bead of red off the wrist and dropped it to stone. Three wings were already gone; the last twitched weakly against scorched muscle whenever air pulled in. The halo had collapsed into a black ring of soot.
Grip shifted on grit; the Twilight Reaver dragged the blood hand low from weight and fatigue. Jaw locked, teeth showed.
"Come."
The Tier X strike fell.
Sovereign Bulwark IX folded into place because the lattice demanded protection or death. Crimson plates locked along set rails. Shadow Veil lined the seams to deny entry. A false sanctity skin layered over the frame to confuse the braid.
Impact met the Bulwark hard; the wall rang with a heavy iron note that pushed through plate and into ribs. That ring shook breath loose; lungs lost rhythm for a second; air came back tasting like dust. The floor cracked from the load and dropped grit around his heels. The blood arm split at the wrist from shock; essence spilled down forearm and hip until the Grid closed the seam with force.
Heat and pressure increased at the same time; a top plate bent inward under strain and touched sternum through the shell. Cartilage sheared under the push; a rib snapped and scraped lung on every breath that followed. Jaw clamped harder against pain.
"My chest feels torn open… one more hit like that and I'm finished."
Reinforcements dragged across the Bulwark because nothing else would hold: Command threads locked across fracture lines; Radiant Barrier inverted and spread as a backer; Chalice of Apostasy pulled the edge off sanctity and fed it as blood. The wall thickened; the strike did not lose pressure. White poured through seam glows; hair along neck and jaw curled and burned away; the smell turned hard to iron and cooked skin.
Cracks formed because the load had passed what the plates could carry. Fissures traced from the bent top plate to both sides; edges glowed white where sanctity worked the metal. In the next second the frame failed across three joints at once; plates burst; fragments shot outward and hammered into walls and steps. The braid poured through without resistance; skin across the chest seared off in a sheet; bone showed pale under the blast; steam hissed as blood boiled against sanctity and failed to close.
The force kept going down because momentum was still in it. Floors below failed one after another; each break threw shards up around the body; each impact jarred spine and shoulders; joints ground under weight until ligaments burned. Air left the chest on every crash and came back thin and hot.
Rubble stopped further fall by pinning one shin between two broken slabs. Muscles tore as the leg wrenched free. The wound at the chest smoked; every breath dragged grit across burned tissue.
Spit came up black with ash and blood and hit the floor in a line.
The Grid forced itself open despite sanctity interference; Inversion scraped glow off charred edges and carried it into blood; the trickle steadied breath but could not knit more than a few fibers at a time.
The shaft above showed four pale shapes circling. One held a wing crooked; another had a split helm that showed hair stuck to dried blood. Blades still burned. The air carried only wing-noise and pressure; no voices came down.
Knees set under the body because staying down was death. The blood arm shook; the Reaver's tip dragged stone and threw sparks. Jaw stayed locked.
"Again."
They obeyed because training told them to finish the work.
Left air moved; a spear came in at thigh height from Noctis's left. Point tore through quadriceps and kept traveling until it struck stone behind him; the haft jammed hard because the point bit deep into the step. A heel stamped the shaft to lock it; a pull on the stuck haft dragged the wielder forward off balance.
Rear pressure rose; the blade at his back carved along spine and cut to bone; heat poured into the wound because the edge carried sanctity. The Reaver answered across the front of the man he had pulled in; metal at the throat split; blood sprayed hot across his chest and hissed on sanctity burn lines.
Upper right air dropped fast; a blade angled down for ribs. Bone caught most of the cut and turned it shallow; fingers closed over a dented visor; pressure crushed shell and skull together; the body went loose and slid off the step.
Weight struck shoulder from the right as another angel clipped in hard; rubble gave way; balance went a step sideways. Ankles bit stone to recover stance; pain fired from thigh where the spear had passed; breath came short behind clenched teeth.
"They're too fast… I can't keep this up."
Wings pushed dust into circles as they rose to reset distance.
A dive from behind targeted the last functioning wing because they had sighted it; the blade split the root clean; tendons parted; the limb tore free and slid down stone. Pain ran in a hot line down the back; legs stiffened under the spike; stance remained only because habit kept feet planted.
"My wings are gone… doesn't matter. I can still stand."
Cross-guard lifted the Reaver horizontal as two edges hit together; steel rang on the flat and threw bright chips; a third point came in high and stuck in shoulder meat; a twist into the blade jammed it; a head drove forward; the visor caved under forehead bone; the attacker reeled.
Low scythe arcs answered because ankles were open; one edge bit through a greave at a thin joint; tendon parted; the angel dropped; blood pumped across stone and made it slick underfoot.
Dust thickened; throat burned; cough brought more iron taste up.
Two more pressed at tight angle: one line raked the jaw and opened cheek to the teeth; another line cut calf and made the knee flex. The Reaver's flat caught both on the next beat; a shove drove both weapons off line long enough to re-square feet on grit.
They rose again because training called for fresh angle and same pressure.
Blood settled around boots and made tack; chest steamed; cheek hung open; calf quivered under load; air stank of ash, hot iron, and burned feather.
Final rush came in coordinated lanes because exhaustion had not broken their discipline. One edge cut bicep and weakened grip; another opened flank and let heat in; a third raked face across the brow; a spear targeted the same chest hole and drove through. The point burst out the back and hit stone; the haft pinned body to step.
Spine jerked from shock; hands closed on wood; pull met resistance; muscle tore across chest wall; blood spilled out of mouth and down chin in a heavy rope.
The spear wielder braced feet and shoved; haft went deeper; a white wash ran across vision; breath failed; head dropped forward.
The Grid threw a high warning across nerves and then slowed because sanctity choked every channel.
Hands released the haft because strength left the arms; bodies above hauled him off wood and threw him into rubble. A roll stopped under a leaning beam. Blood spread out and found grooves cut by falling stone; eyes stayed open and did not track; air left the hole at the chest and whistled once.
Two blades flicked the Reaver away so it could not be reached from the floor; it slid into a heap of feathers and armor. An ankle pull dragged the body two paces until the beam overhead would bury it if collapse came. Wings beat the shaft air into a spiral; both shapes turned toward the sea.
Silence took the space left behind wing-noise. Heat from the shaft kept air moving; dust settled grain by grain; feathers turned and lay flat.
The chest wound steamed; the vapor thinned as blood boiled off; lips dried and cracked; nothing else moved.
Hunger clenched under the ribs because the body knew the heart had been torn. The Grid answered with instinct and opened a narrow line; blood essence flowed toward the hole; sanctity burned it to vapor at the edge and sent it back as a thin white breath.
The smell of copper and ash cut through that breath because a fresh pool sat close by. Fingers dragged across rough stone and slipped into warm liquid; a handful of it reached the mouth; heat ran down throat into the hole and stung; another swallow pushed through the same path; the sting dulled; the Grid found a channel along cooler tissue and forced the flow inside.
Weight shifted across grit; skin on ribs scraped stone; the face pressed to a broader pool and drank until the line went dry. The beam above groaned once and held.
Eyes fixed on one crack in the step because moving them made the world tilt; breath settled into shallow counts; iron taste filled the mouth.
A roll to the back tore open the wound edge again; both hands set against a step to take weight; a small lift raised shoulders a hand's width and let the spine rest in a groove that hurt less.
The shaft showed a narrow strip of iron sky; smoke drifted across from burning oil on the sea; a faint wing beat sounded far away and faded.
"Still breathing… that'll have to be enough."
The Grid opened another finger's width; sanctity scraped off dead edges; blood filled space behind it; weak fibers crossed gaps; a slow beat returned where none had been; rhythm steadied pain enough to move without blacking out.
Back of the hand found rough wall; fingertips went into a crack; pull brought hips a little higher; legs took more of the load. Feet found holds by feel. Breath burned behind the sternum each time heat from the wound pushed outward.
Stone crumbled under one grip; shoulder dropped; the other grip held; heel found a notch; ascent continued. The next ledge took the weight; thighs shook from fatigue and loss; knees locked to keep stance.
The lip of the shaft reached the face after another set of handholds; wind hit skin and cooled blood to tack; salt stung open lines across cheek and chest.
Temple square lay open and ruined because the fight had broken it. Columns were split and lay in sections; roofs had burned through; feathers lay knee-deep in drifts; armor shells gaped where bodies had been pulled out of them by force. Some corpses still burned where oil had found them; air smelled like cooked meat and brine.
The Reaver lay three body lengths to the right because they had kicked it that way. A dead brazier covered half the hilt; feather drift covered the rest. Toes nudged the iron bowl clear; fingers swept feather piles aside; the blood arm lifted the blade; the other hand came up to steady the grip; the weight steadied the stance.
The shaft mouth stayed quiet. Nothing moved below.
The horizon beyond the platforms showed smoke lying low over black water. Oil burned in long thin sheets; wind pushed the flames in one direction. Two bright flecks sat far out over the sea where the last pair had gone; distance made them slow.
Jaw set until pain at the cut line reminded him to ease it. A breath went in and came back ragged. Blood spat once and darkened the stone near his boot.
"I'm not finished yet."
Feet set shoulder-width found a patch of stone that was not slick; hands checked the Reaver's edge by touch; the blade rang with a low clean note when knuckles tapped it because the metal was still true. The blood arm flexed around the grip; the seam at the wrist held.
The square stayed silent for a long count because the pair did not return. Wind ran over broken roofs and hissed through cuts in tile.
The body stayed upright because going down meant the next force would crush it. Breath stayed steady because the Grid kept the beat. Eyes held to the sea and the thin line in the sky where movement might show. Fingers adjusted grip because the shoulder trembled from fatigue.
Sanctity still clung inside the chest wound like grit under a lid; the Grid worked at it in slow circles; pain rose and fell with each pass; steam thinned until only heat remained.
The sword's point went to the stone on purpose to take some load off forearm muscle; the rest of the body weight stayed centered over hips and feet.
Nearby armor cooled and ticked when the wind shifted; feathers slid across stone when gusts changed direction; a brazier rolled two hand spans and then stopped against a cracked block.
Time stretched in small measures counted by breath because stepping wrong would pull stitches apart and drop him to the floor again. The edge on the horizon changed tone with the setting light; smoke turned from white to darker iron; oil fires dotted the sea in points.
The next motion on the sky line did not belong to gulls or slow ash. Two specks brightened and then moved in a slow arc toward the outer platforms. They did not drop immediately. They tested air and watched the square.
The blade came off the stone because they would be inside the square within seconds; the wrist set; the elbow aligned with the shoulder; stance angled to put the strong side where the Reaver could work without tearing shoulder meat further.
"My legs are giving out… I've got to drop one on the first pass."
Air grew colder against sweat as wind shifted off the sea; salt cut nose and mouth; breath burned less in the chest because the wind cooled the wound's edge.
The flecks steadied into figures above the outer lip; wings held level; spears and swords lined with bodies. They kept height to study ground and the man standing on it.
The body on the ground did not move to meet them; it did not signal; it did not speak again. It stood with a weapon held correct and weight set to receive a drop.
The drop did not come in that first minute; the pair circled the square twice; eyes behind ruined helms measured stance and tremor and angle of shoulders; hymn pressure washed over stone in slow pulses that made dust stir and then settle.
Teeth pressed the inside of cheek until copper taste returned; breath stayed even; the Grid kept the slow drum under the sternum; the wound bled less now; fresh blood ran only when the torso turned too far.
When the pair finally chose to descend, both lanes came from opposite sides of the same line to split attention. The left-hand one lowered spearpoint for the chest line again; the right-hand one kept blade high for shoulder and neck. Wings timed beats to hit together.
The stance shifted a half-step toward the spear because being pinned again meant the square would become a grave. The Reaver angled to catch the high blade on the flat during the same beat.
The first beats of their descent brought pressure down with them and shook dust out of feather drifts. Stone held under Noctis's boots because weight stayed centered. Breath locked to the incoming tempo because the body intended to move only during impacts and not before.
The scene closed there because the next contact would decide who left the square alive.
The square lay quiet. Smoke drifted above broken roofs. Armor cooled and ticked as it contracted. Feathers lay thick on the stone, stirred only by wind rolling in from the sea.
Noctis stood alone at the shaft's edge. The Reaver's weight dragged at his blood-forged arm. His chest was split wide where the spear had gone through before. Breath came shallow, each draw scraping heat across the wound. His jaw worked against the taste of iron.
Far across the water, two bright flecks had left the horizon. They drew closer, wing-beats heavy, closing in a slow circle above the square. These were the last of the host. The only survivors. Their wings were blackened in places, feathers curled from heat. Their helms were cracked, faces pale from fatigue. Still, their blades held steady in their hands.
Noctis's stance widened on cracked stone. His knees shook from loss of blood and marrow. His eyes stayed fixed on the flecks as they circled down. He spat dark and muttered low.
"My legs are shaking… I'll have to take one of you quick."
The angels chose their descent. One lined a spearpoint at his chest. The other angled a blade high for his shoulder. Their wings moved together. The air carried hymn pressure with each beat, pressing against the wound until it smoked.
They came down fast. Dust leapt from the ground. The spear leveled for his chest. The sword arced for his neck.
Noctis shifted half a step, keeping his good side angled. The Reaver came up crosswise. The spear struck first. Point drove into his side. The blow forced him back a pace. Blood burst from the wound and splashed across his hip.
His jaw tightened. "Damn it… too slow."
The sword hit a moment later. He caught it on the flat of the Reaver, sparks bursting at the impact. The weight drove into his shoulder and numbed the joint.
He twisted the blade down and stepped close. His free hand clawed at the helm of the swordsman. Fingers crushed metal. The skull beneath shifted. The angel wrenched free with a grunt and rose a wing-length back.
The spearman wrenched his weapon from Noctis's side. The withdrawal tore fresh lines of pain across his ribs. He staggered and pressed a hand against the hole. Blood poured through his fingers and dripped down to the floor.
"Bleeding out fast…" He muttered it under his breath, jaw tight. "One of you has to fall now."
The spearman pressed forward again. Point thrust for his chest. Noctis stepped aside just enough to take the shaft along muscle instead of through lung. The wood grazed bone. The point scraped past rib and came out his back.
He snarled and grabbed the shaft with both hands. Muscles burned as he twisted it. He dragged the spearman in close. The Reaver rose, edge biting down into the shoulder joint. Armor split. Bone cracked. Blood sprayed hot.
The angel screamed, wings beating wild. Noctis ripped the Reaver free and raised it for another cut.
The swordsman dove back into range, blade flashing down. The edge tore across Noctis's arm and ripped the blood-forged seam. The arm cracked. Essence sprayed.
Pain flashed across his face. His grip weakened. The spearman wrenched the weapon free and shoved.
The spearpoint drove forward. It struck his chest where the wound already gaped. This time it went deep. Cartilage broke. Ribs split. The point pierced straight through his heart.
Noctis's body jerked. His mouth opened. Blood poured out in a heavy rush, black with smoke and ash. His knees gave under the shock. Hands rose to the shaft but had no strength left to close around it.
"My heart…" His voice rasped raw. "They… got it."
The angel planted both feet on stone, bracing. The spear went in deeper. The sound was a crunch, bone splintering. Heat roared through Noctis's chest. His eyes dimmed.
The swordsman landed beside his partner. Both pressed close, weapons ready. The hymn swelled between them. Pressure washed over the square. Feathers in the blood drifts lifted and turned in the air.
Noctis sagged against the shaft. His hands slipped down the wood. His jaw hung loose. His head fell forward. Blood streamed from his mouth and spread in a dark pool across the stone.
The spearman held him upright for a moment, the weight hanging from the shaft. Then he tore the weapon free. The body collapsed to its knees.
The angels stepped in together. They seized him by the shoulders, lifted him, and dragged him toward the edge of the shaft. With one swing, they hurled him across the square. His body struck a broken pillar and tumbled into rubble.
He lay there on his side. His eyes stayed open but showed no focus. Blood pumped from his chest in weak spurts, then slowed. His aura, once heavy as an ocean, had dwindled to a faint shimmer.
The angels stood above him, wings spread, watching. Their chests rose and fell hard from fatigue. Their armor dripped blood, both theirs and his. They waited for the body to stop moving.
Noctis twitched once. His hand flexed, nails scraping stone. The angels tensed, blades ready. But the hand fell limp again.
The spearman turned to his partner. No words passed between them. Both nodded. They lifted together, wings beating strong. They rose above the shaft and circled once more, scanning the ruin.
Seeing no further motion, they turned toward the horizon. Their figures grew small as they left the square.
Silence filled the temple.
Noctis lay unmoving. Blood soaked the floor beneath him. His chest was a ruin, ribs split wide, heart torn apart. Each shallow breath rattled faint and weaker than the last.
He tried to swallow. Nothing came. His jaw moved once, muttering words that only the stone heard.
"I can't… move anymore."
His eyes slipped half-shut. The Reaver lay far from reach, glinting faint in ash and soot. The beam above groaned under shifting rubble. Ash drifted in the air like gray snow.
For long minutes, nothing changed. The square was still. The sea hissed far away where oil burned.
Noctis's chest rose once more. Then it stopped.
The world seemed ready to leave him behind.