The Ritual Circle Blazed.
Light screamed skyward.Reality itself twisted under the strain.
At the heart of it, the anchors strained, binding an incomplete summoning,while Aren Vale stood sentinel at the ritual's edge.
Above —the angels descended.
Silent.Magnificent.Inevitable.
They did not see him.
Not truly.
Their gazes passed over Aren as if he were mist,their focus locked utterly on the ritual,on the crackling rift that would birth a god of sin.
One bore a lance of pure destruction.The other, a sword forged from the light of forgotten stars.
Their wings unfurled wide —six each, blazing so brightly the world itself seemed to fade.
The temperature dropped.The air grew razor-thin.The mortal world shrank back in terror.
They Moved.
No words.No warning.
A single sound — the barest whisper of displaced air —and they descended.
Faster than thought.
Faster than lightning.
The lance-bearer flew straight for the center of the circle —a killing blow aimed at the ritual's heart.
The sword-bearer split off, spiraling outward —a killing sweep designed to sever the anchors.
Flawless.Merciless.
An execution.
Aren Moved.
He did not shout.He did not hesitate.
One step —and he was there.
Behemoth's Fang flared into existence —a blade so dark it swallowed the desperate sunlight,sheened with a faint corona of devouring purple qi.
In one fluid motion,Aren caught the lance strike mid-thrust.
Steel screamed against energy.
The ground split beneath his feet —giant cracks spiderwebbing outward, shattering the sacred glade.
Aren staggered back half a step —then grounded himself, planting the sword like a wall.
The lance-bearing angel blinked —the first sign of emotion Aren had seen from them.
Recognition.
The Battle Begins.
The second angel — sword singing death — swept in toward the ritual.
Aren twisted, pivoted, moving faster than mortal eyes could follow.
A flash of purple.
The shriek of clashing forces.
Aren's body blurred into motion,his blade intercepting the star-forged sword in a shower of blinding sparks.
The impact knocked him backward,his boots gouging deep trenches in the earth.
But he held.
He held.
The World Tree Awakens.
High above, the World Tree groaned —a sound deeper than oceans, older than suns.
Her will unfurled through the glade like an unseen wind.
Aren gasped as power surged into him.
Pure qi.Endless.Vast beyond comprehension.
Not his to command.Not his to shape.
But his to wield —as guardian of the ritual, defender of the future.
A halo of violet-gold light flared around Aren's body,his aura fusing with the World Tree's blessing.
For the first time in centuries,he stood no longer alone.
He stood as the Tree's chosen sword.
The Clash Deepens.
The two angels moved again —coordinated perfectly, wordlessly.
One engaged Aren directly, raining blows with impossible speed and force.
The other circled wide,searching for an opening to strike the ritual itself.
Aren fought on two fronts.
Behemoth's Fang moved like a living thing —parrying, deflecting, weaving counter-forces into every desperate block.
Each clash sent shockwaves that flattened the grass for miles.
Each missed stroke carved craters deep enough to swallow houses.
Still, he Endured.
Blood welled from Aren's palms where the sword hilt bit into him.
His bones groaned under the force of every strike.
But he did not yield.
He could not yield.
Every second he held the line,Azrador crept closer to the world.
Every heartbeat bought another inch of salvation.
And so Aren Vale —
The Lion of the Battlefield.The Silent Sword.The Sovereign Who Chose Family Over Glory —
stood alone against Heaven itself.
And smiled.
Because if he fell today —it would not be without a fight that shook the very stars.