The battlefield cracked under the weight of their power.
The ruined city no longer looked like a place where mortals once lived—it had become a war zone of gods and devils. Flames swallowed entire districts, shadows writhed like serpents across skyscrapers, and rivers of acid chewed through the ground as Beelzebub's spawn flooded the streets.
Above it all, Metatron hovered, blazing brighter than the sun itself. His six hundred and fifty eyes scanned the battlefield in every direction, each one perceiving layers of reality mortals could not even comprehend. His seven wings stretched wide, cutting through the black skies. The Sword of Silence pulsed in his grip, eager, ready to erase.
He faced not one enemy—but three.
Satan. The crimson warlord, embodiment of rebellion and fire. His every step turned the ground into rivers of magma. His presence warped the air itself into suffocating heat.
Beelzebub. The Eater of Worlds, his body a grotesque landscape of mouths, claws, and eyes. Every breath he took spawned new horrors, each dripping with acid and hunger.
Belial. The Shadow Prince, unseen, his laughter echoing across the ruins as his darkness slithered through every crack, blade-like tendrils hidden in the veil of night.
The air itself groaned under the tension.
Then the princes attacked.
Satan moved first.
With a roar that shook heaven and hell, he slammed his fist into the earth. A geyser of fire exploded upward, a pillar so vast it tore through clouds and split the heavens.
"Burn, Metatron! Let your holy fire drown in mine!"
From his hands came a barrage of molten meteors, each the size of mountains, raining from the sky. They fell like divine punishment, smashing entire city blocks into craters of fire.
Metatron's wings flared. He slashed once—just once.
The Sword of Silence cut across the air, and the meteors shattered into dust. The flames sputtered, collapsing into harmless sparks before they could touch the earth.
But the reprieve lasted only a moment.
From below, Beelzebub surged forth.
His colossal body writhed, mouths opening across his arms, legs, and chest. A river of bile and acidic tendrils erupted from him, swallowing the ruins in a tide of hunger. His voice rang out from a thousand mouths in unison, grotesque and wet:
"Eaaaat! Eaaaat! I will eat the sun itself!"
From his maw, a beam of concentrated void acid shot forth, so corrosive that the air itself disintegrated as it traveled.
Metatron raised his free hand. His eyes—hundreds of them—flared at once.
"Radiance of Purity!"
A sphere of light burst forth from his palm, expanding rapidly until it enveloped the acid beam. The two forces collided—acid hissing, light screaming—and the explosion turned the sky white. Entire legions of demons beneath evaporated instantly, erased in the backlash.
But even as the light held Beelzebub back, something else stirred.
Belial struck from the shadows.
A whisper, a chuckle, then silence. The next instant, dozens of shadow blades pierced Metatron's body from all angles.
Or so it seemed.
The Metatron they struck shimmered—and vanished, nothing but an afterimage made of light.
From behind Belial's hidden form, a voice thundered.
"Your tricks are meaningless before me."
Metatron's blade swung, cutting through the veil of shadows. For an instant, Belial's form was revealed—a tall figure cloaked in endless night, his face hidden, his eyes glowing like cold embers.
Belial hissed as he retreated into the darkness, reforming from a thousand different shadows.
"Tch. The crown makes you dangerous, Metatron. But you cannot fight all of us. Even suns burn out. Even silence breaks."
The three forces converged.
Satan's firestorms. Beelzebub's tidal waves of flesh and acid. Belial's blades of darkness.
The city was consumed in chaos. Towers collapsed, rivers of lava met oceans of bile, and shadows split the earth into chasms.
At the center of it all, Metatron moved like inevitability itself.
Every swing of his sword erased armies. Every flare of his wings vaporized demonic hordes. His voice cut through despair like thunder, shaking mortals awake, giving angels strength.
But even so—he was pressed.
Three princes of hell at once, each a concept given flesh. Fire, Gluttony, Shadows. They were not mere combatants. They were truths of existence.
And even the Living Sun began to feel the weight.
Metatron's thoughts blazed.
If I falter, this world falls. If I fall, humanity is devoured. No… I cannot fall. I will not fall. For even when hope is gone… I am hope itself.
His eyes glowed brighter. His wings spread further. His sword howled.
And then, he surged forward.
Straight into Satan.
The clash was apocalyptic.
Satan raised a flaming greatsword forged from rebellion itself, his roar deafening. Metatron's Sword of Silence met it.
Light and fire collided. The shockwave blasted outward, leveling mountains in the distance, shaking oceans, rattling the core of the planet.
Satan grinned through the storm, his eyes mad with war.
"YES! This is it, Metatron! Show me the true strength of your so-called hope!"
Metatron pushed forward, his hundred voices ringing as one.
"Your flames are pride. Mine is sacrifice. And sacrifice burns brighter than pride!"
The Sword of Silence pierced through Satan's greatsword, shattering it into molten fragments. The blade grazed Satan's chest, burning through armor and flesh alike.
Satan staggered, snarling in fury.
But Beelzebub was already there.
From behind, his massive hand, covered in mouths, slammed down toward Metatron. Each tooth dripped with poison strong enough to corrode divine essence.
Metatron spun, his seven wings flaring.
The feathers turned into blades of light, slashing outward in all directions. They sliced through Beelzebub's monstrous arm, severing it completely. The prince of gluttony howled, but dozens of new arms sprouted instantly, writhing and snapping, dripping with hunger.
"Cut me, burn me, break me—it does not matter! All will be eaten! Even gods can be swallowed!"
Before Metatron could counter, Belial's shadows pierced him again, dozens of tendrils slamming into his back. This time, the shadows sank deeper, seeking to drag him into the void itself.
Belial's whisper curled into his ear.
"Even light casts a shadow. Even you cannot escape me."
Metatron's six hundred and fifty eyes blazed crimson-gold, and his voice thundered.
"Then I will burn until no shadows remain!"
He detonated.
A pulse of pure light erupted from his body, so vast that Belial's shadows disintegrated instantly. Beelzebub's flesh hissed, his spawn vaporizing in waves. Even Satan shielded himself with his arms, snarling as flames were stripped from his body.
The battlefield was silent for an instant, the princes reeling.
Metatron's form glowed brighter, his Crown of Creation pulsing with infinite power.
"This ends now."
And with those words, he dove forward—toward all three at once.