The silence after Pythius's annihilation lasted only a heartbeat. Then the world erupted.
The legions of demons shrieked, their cries rattling the air as their master's presence vanished. Some collapsed to the ground, writhing in confusion. Others went berserk, tearing into one another, their connection to despair broken.
High above the ruins of the city, the Living Sun hovered, Metatron's body glowing with incomprehensible radiance. Six hundred and fifty eyes burned across his flesh, gazing in all directions. Seven wings spanned across the sky, each feather a blade of divinity. His halo—the Crown of Creation—shone brighter than any star.
Every demon that dared look directly at him combusted instantly, reduced to ash before they could scream.
The remaining angels rallied, their voices trembling with awe.
"He… he did it!""Pythius is gone! The Lord of Despair has fallen!""Metatron… Metatron is the chosen one!"
But the princes of hell did not share their joy.
From the north, Satan stepped forward, his colossal body towering like a mountain of fire. His horns curved like burning spires, and his crimson armor radiated unbearable heat. When he moved, the very earth cracked and rivers of magma erupted beneath his feet.
His voice was deep, echoing like an eternal furnace:
"So… this is the form you've been hiding, Metatron. The crown. The sword. The sun. I admit it… you are no ordinary guardian."
Metatron's golden eyes narrowed, each of the hundreds of other eyes on his body blinking in unison.
"Satan. How many more innocents must burn before you realize your war is nothing but vanity?"
Satan smirked, the flames around him roaring higher.
"You speak of vanity while wielding power that can annihilate entire legions with a breath? Hypocrite. You protect them… yet your very existence now scorches the world. Tell me—are you any different from us?"
Before Metatron could respond, another voice slithered through the ruins, oily and disgusting.
It came from the shadows, from every corner, every sewer, every corpse. The words were wet, hungry, accompanied by the sound of chewing.
"Mmmm… splendid, splendid… Pythius fed me despair for centuries, but you—ahhh, Metatron, you are a feast waiting to be devoured."
From the blackened husks of buildings, a mountain of flesh emerged. Eyes, mouths, claws, and wings stitched together in grotesque harmony. His bulk covered streets, and yet his presence was not clumsy—it was suffocating, inevitable.
Beelzebub.
The Eater of Worlds. The embodiment of gluttony.
His countless mouths dripped with acid, drool sizzling holes into the ground. His laughter was a chorus of gurgling voices.
"Ahhh… I can still taste it. That slash… that silence… the way you erased Pythius's soul. Hahahaha! You are delicious."
His many hands clapped together as if applauding, though each clap was wet and revolting.
"The light. The crown. The eyes. The wings. The silence. Every piece of you… is food. Do you hear me, Metatron? Foooood."
Metatron's six hundred and fifty eyes turned upon him, blazing with divine fury.
"Beelzebub. Your hunger has consumed countless worlds. Your gluttony has left creation hollow. I will not allow you to touch this one."
Beelzebub only grinned wider, hundreds of tongues writhing.
"Touch it? My sweet angel… I will eat it. I will gnaw this world down to the core until nothing but bones and void remain. And when I am done—" His many eyes gleamed red. "—I will eat you."
The ground shook. Beelzebub's body split open, revealing a cavernous maw large enough to swallow a city block. From it poured a tidal wave of smaller demons, each birthed from his flesh. They screeched and swarmed, their claws sharper than steel, their wings blotting out the skies.
Metatron raised his sword. His aura flared, and instantly, ten thousand demons vaporized, their ashes scattered on the wind.
But for every one destroyed, ten more crawled from Beelzebub's body.
Satan chuckled darkly, arms crossed.
"So, Metatron… will you fight the glutton, or will you face me? Choose carefully. One mistake, and this city will fall entirely."
From the east, another prince's laughter rang out—cold, cruel, and mocking. The shadows lengthened, coiling like snakes. Though unseen, the presence of Belial crept across the battlefield.
"Satan, Beelzebub, Pythius… all fallen or stalled, and yet the guardian still stands. Perhaps we should all strike together. What say you, brothers?"
Metatron's voice thundered across creation, silencing their schemes.
"Enough of this! Your endless cruelty has lasted long enough. You have made mortals suffer unnecessarily. Your war is not justice, nor balance, nor destiny. It is hunger. It is greed. It is pride. And I—"
His aura flared so brightly that the night turned to day. Demons shrieked as their flesh boiled from the light.
"—I will protect them! No one else will suffer!"
The Living Sun spread his wings, and the Sword of Silence ignited with power.
The air cracked, splitting into rivers of light. Space distorted as Metatron advanced. His movements were no longer those of a warrior—they were inevitability itself.
Satan roared, summoning infernos that blanketed the skies. Beelzebub's mouths opened, vomiting oceans of bile and swarms of beasts. Belial's shadows snaked around the ruins, seeking to pierce unseen.
The fight had only just begun.