The clash shook creation.
Metatron surged forward, the Sword of Silence cutting through flame, shadow, and flesh. His seven wings sliced like divine guillotines, his six hundred and fifty eyes flaring beams of pure annihilation. Every swing of his blade vaporized armies. Every flare of his wings burned legions to dust.
But the princes of hell… were not finished.
Satan roared.
The flames of his body erupted, rising higher than mountains. His horns grew, twisting into burning spires. His armor melted, revealing crimson scales beneath. His flesh expanded, his body lengthening, expanding, until the ruins of the city trembled beneath his size.
In moments, Satan no longer stood as a man—but as a dragon of rebellion, a colossal beast wrapped in eternal fire. His wings blotted out the heavens, his scales shone like magma, and his maw burned hotter than stars.
The Dragon of Rebellion raised its head, and his voice thundered like the cracking of worlds:
"I AM THE FIRST REBEL! THE FIRST FLAME! THE DRAGON WHO DEFIED CREATION ITSELF!"
He exhaled, and his breath was not fire—it was cataclysm. A torrent of rebellion's flame surged forth, swallowing mountains, erasing the landscape.
Metatron crossed his sword and wings, holding against the wave. His light fought back, beams of gold splitting through the inferno, but the sheer force hurled him back, carving canyons into the ruined earth.
Then came Belial.
The Shadow Prince no longer bothered with tricks. His laughter became silence. His body faded, dissolving into pure blackness. No longer a man, no longer flesh—he became shadow itself.
The darkness spread across the battlefield, seeping into every crack, every corpse, every flame, every ray of light. He was untouchable, intangible, infinite.
His whisper crawled through Metatron's mind, impossible to locate.
"You cannot touch me, Guardian. For even your light… casts me."
The shadow coiled around Metatron's legs, his wings, his blade. For the first time, the Living Sun faltered—not because he was weak, but because his enemy no longer existed in a way he could strike.
And then—Beelzebub laughed.
The bloated prince's body split further, his mass writhing. Entire buildings were consumed into his ever-growing bulk. His countless mouths roared, his eyes shone with hunger.
"YES! YES! Struggle, angel! Struggle harder! Feed me with your despair! For soon—soon I will show you what it means to be the Eater of Worlds!"
From his belly burst a chasm, a maw large enough to swallow an entire city. Inside it, stars flickered—tiny fragments of realities he had devoured across eons. The air grew heavy, pulled toward that impossible gravity.
Metatron fought against it, his wings flaring, but he felt the pull. Beelzebub's hunger was not physical—it was conceptual. He consumed existence itself.
Metatron's Crown blazed brighter, defiance roaring in every voice.
"Even if you turn into dragons, into shadows, into worlds of hunger—I will not yield!"
The Sword of Silence flared, and with a slash, it cut through Beelzebub's tide, searing through Satan's flames, scattering Belial's shadows. The explosion of force rattled heaven itself, a burst of light so vast that it blinded even angels.
For a heartbeat—hope surged.
Demons screamed and burned. Legions collapsed.
But then, the counterattack came.
Satan's dragon claw, larger than mountains, smashed into Metatron, hurling him through what remained of the capital. The ground cracked for miles, entire districts swallowed in the impact.
Belial's shadows pierced him from every direction, intangible yet suffocating, draining his light.
Beelzebub's maw opened wider, his voice shaking creation:
"I will EAT YOU NOW!"
The pull became unbearable. The world itself bent toward his hunger. Trees, stone, air, even screams were dragged into his abyssal stomach.
Metatron resisted with every fiber of his being. His wings flared, his eyes blazed, his sword cut through tide after tide.
But even the Living Sun… could not hold forever.
A terrible truth struck him.
If I continue here… this country will cease to exist.
Already, cities burned. Rivers boiled. Shadows swallowed villages. Beelzebub's hunger was devouring the land itself. Millions had already perished. If the battle continued—nothing would remain.
Metatron clenched his blade, fury shaking through his being.
"Damn you…"
For the first time—he stepped back.
With a surge of light, he spread his seven wings wide. The Crown of Creation pulsed, and in an instant, the battlefield was drowned in radiance. The explosion blinded demons, vaporized thousands, and pushed back the hunger, the flames, the shadows.
But it was not an attack.
It was a retreat.
In a beam of pure light, the Living Sun vanished into the skies, his body dissolving into streaks that raced toward the heavens.
The princes of hell remained.
Satan, in dragon form, roared triumphantly, flames spiraling across the land. Belial's shadow flooded the ruins, swallowing what light remained. Beelzebub's mouths chewed, laughing, as the ground itself was dragged into his endless maw.
The country burned.
The capital fell.
A nation was erased in one night.
And in the silence that followed, the world realized:
Even the Living Sun… could not win.