The light faded.
Where once there had been cities filled with laughter, life, and hope, now only ruin remained. Towers reduced to ash. Rivers boiled into steam. Shadows stretching endlessly across a dead landscape. Entire nations—gone.
The flames of Satan's dragon form still scorched the earth, rivers of molten rock carving through what little remained of the capital. His colossal body coiled through the smoke, wings blotting out the skies.
Belial's shadows writhed across the ruins, swallowing corpses, extinguishing the last flickers of fire. Even the faint light of the stars was dimmed, veiled beneath his endless night.
And in the center of it all… Beelzebub fed.
His mouths tore into buildings, streets, even the ground itself. His belly swelled grotesquely, and from his many throats came the sounds of chewing, tearing, and laughing.
"Mmm… so sweet… a whole nation's despair, swallowed in one feast. Delicious. Delicioussss…"
The last screams of humanity were drowned beneath his endless hunger.
High above, beyond the ruined land, Metatron hovered, his radiance dimmed. The Crown of Creation still burned upon his head, his wings still shone, but his body trembled. His six hundred and fifty eyes blinked slowly, heavy with sorrow.
His voice, once thunderous, was now a whisper only he could hear.
I failed them…
The vision of the capital flashed in his mind—the children crying, the prayers of the weak, the hopes of mortals looking to him for salvation. And now, all of it was gone.
Even with all this power… even as the Living Sun… I could not save them.
His grip tightened on the Sword of Silence. The blade hummed, eager to cut again, but he forced it still.
He knew the truth.
If he had continued… the destruction would have spread across the continent.
Retreat was his only choice. Yet it was a choice soaked in blood.
Tears of light fell from his many eyes, streaking across the sky like falling stars.
Far below, the princes of hell gathered amid the ruins, their victory undeniable.
Satan, still in his dragon form, curled his flaming wings around the battlefield, his molten eyes glaring upward at the fading glow of Metatron.
"Run, angel. Run as far as you can. You cannot stop us. Not now. Not ever."
His roar shook the air, echoing across oceans.
Belial's shadow slithered beside him, coiling like smoke around the ruins. His whisper, colder than death, slipped into the ears of demons and mortals alike.
"He shines brightly, yes… but light always fades. We will wait. And when he burns out… there will be nothing left."
Beelzebub's body quaked with laughter, his bloated form writhing, mouths dripping acid and ichor. His tongues licked the air hungrily.
"Hahahaha… he is mine. Do you hear me, brothers? Metatron will be mine! His flesh, his crown, his wings—I will eat them all. I will eat the sun itself. I will eat hope!"
The legion of demons shrieked in unison, their victory song rattling across the abyss.
And yet… in the midst of their triumph, something else stirred.
The angels.
Scattered and broken, yes—but not gone. Across the ruined country, survivors crawled from beneath rubble, eyes filled not with despair, but with awe.
They had seen him. The Living Sun. The guardian who had fought three princes of hell alone. Even retreating, even failing to save their land—he had shown them the impossible.
Hope.
It flickered weakly in their hearts. Fragile. But alive.
Metatron felt it.
The tiny sparks, barely surviving beneath mountains of despair. They reached him like whispers, like prayers. His tears slowed, his eyes closing for a moment.
And then he whispered back, a vow carried only to himself and to creation.
"I will not fail again. Even if the world turns to ash… even if the abyss consumes the stars… I will rise. For hope does not die. Not while I live."
His wings spread once more, and with a final flare of light, Metatron vanished into the heavens.
The princes roared below, the demons feasted, the earth burned.
And the chapter of a nation… ended in silence.