The city was no longer a city. It was a graveyard of burning steel and shattered towers. Screams drowned beneath the roars of countless demons clawing their way through the streets. The ground itself bled black ichor as reality trembled under the weight of despair.
At the center of the devastation stood Pythius, the embodiment of hopelessness, fear given flesh. His voice echoed like thunder in the hollow void of the world:
"I am hopelessness itself. I am fear. I am the inevitability that consumes all things. All battles, all dreams, all lights… they end in me."
The shadows around him writhed like serpents, stretching across two hundred meters, swallowing lamps, swallowing fire, even swallowing sound itself. People who looked too long into that darkness collapsed instantly, their minds cracking under the weight of despair.
Yet, across from him stood Metatron, the Guardian of Light, his wings spread wide, face stern but unyielding.
Metatron raised his blade and his voice thundered back, shaking heaven and earth:
"Even if there is no hope, I will fight. Even if despair covers the skies, I will resist. Because that—"His golden eyes burned."—that is what hope truly is."
The ground quaked as both forces collided.
Pythius's red eyes ignited like hellfire. From them burst twin lasers of annihilation, beams that erased everything they touched. Skyscrapers fell like paper before that gaze. The sky itself seemed to split.
Metatron crossed his blade before him, deflecting the beams, but the sheer force hurled him across the battlefield. He crashed through three ruined towers, sending plumes of fire into the sky.
Pythius advanced, his laughter crawling into the ears of all who heard.
"Pathetic, angel. You think you can stand against inevitability? Even the strongest light fades, even suns die!"
From his palms, Pythius unleashed a storm of black spears, each carrying the weight of a dying star. They tore through the air faster than thought, collapsing space around them.
Metatron roared, summoning radiant shields that burst like glass as spear after spear struck. His wings flared, cutting through the storm, and he dove straight into the heart of the abyss.
Their fists met. The city shook. The world cracked.
Buildings for miles toppled as the shockwave thundered outward. Fire swallowed entire districts as the demons screamed and cheered. Above them, the sky was torn apart, a scar of darkness clashing against a wound of light.
Far away, the Demon Princes watched.
Satan, towering and armored in crimson fire, observed with narrowed eyes. His aura burned hotter than volcanoes, but even he frowned at the power Metatron revealed.
Beelzebub, lurking in the shadows, his bloated form covered in mouths and eyes, giggled hungrily. He whispered with a thousand tongues:
"Shiiiiiine, Metatron… shine brighter… so that when you fall, I can feast. Ah, your flesh… your light… your soul will taste divine. The Eater of Worlds waits."
Demons poured through the streets, devouring humans, tearing open cars, burning skyscrapers. Entire battalions of angels tried to push them back, but they were drowned in rivers of claws and fangs.
Still, the eyes of heaven and hell focused on the duel.
Pythius's shadow surged, wrapping around Metatron like serpents, crushing his wings, trying to snuff his light.
Metatron gritted his teeth as his body was dragged down. His sword trembled, his knees cracked against the broken ground.
"Do you see now?" Pythius hissed. His voice slithered into the ears of mortals. "This is despair. This is the end. There is no escape. No salvation. Only the inevitability of me."
The air grew heavy. Angels fell to their knees. Humans wept. Even demons paused, their instincts bowing before the raw concept of despair.
Metatron's head lowered. For a moment, it seemed he would break.
But then—
A whisper. Soft. From within him. A memory.
The countless faces of mortals who prayed. The cries of children who begged for protection. The hopes of the weak who had no power but still dreamed of light.
Metatron clenched his sword, and his voice rose—not for himself, but for them.
"Hope is not the absence of despair. Hope is defying despair… even when there is no reason to! Hope is standing… even when it means nothing!" "Then I must defeat you. Even if there is no hope… I will fight. Because that is hope itself."
His aura exploded. The chains of shadow shattered.
Light surged outward in a wave so vast that every demon within two kilometers burned to ash instantly. Pythius staggered back, his eyes narrowing.
"Impossible…! You cannot break inevitability!"
Metatron's form began to shift.
His body stretched, burning with radiant fire. Six hundred and fifty eyes opened across his frame, each one shining with truth. Seven wings burst from his back, each feather blazing brighter than a star. Upon his brow appeared the Crown of Creation, a halo of infinity.
His voice was no longer a voice—it was thunder, it was music, it was the song of existence itself.
"I am the guardian. I am the wall that despair cannot pass. I am the living sun. And I will protect them all!"
Darkness shrieked as the Living Sun descended.
Pythius screamed, unleashing torrents of black flame, shadow spears, and void storms. But all of it burned away before the light. His red eyes fired again, but Metatron's new form did not even flinch.
In his hands formed a blade unlike any other—the Sword of Silence, a weapon forged to erase not just flesh, but concept itself.
Metatron raised it, and in an instant, the distance between them vanished.
"Enough… is enough."
One swing.
The world froze. Silence swallowed creation.
Pythius screamed as his body disintegrated, torn apart into fragments of ash and void. His soul was dragged back, screaming, into the abyss from which he came.
The shadows vanished. The city burned, but it was no longer drowned in despair.
For the first time in eternity… silence reigned.
The princes of hell stood unmoving. Even Satan lowered his gaze. And Beelzebub, watching from the corner, only smiled wider.
"Mmm… delicious. This one… this chosen one… is no joke. The embodiment of power… The Crown's weapon. Ah, Metatron… I can't wait to eat you…"
The Eater of Worlds licked his lips, and the world trembled.