The battle shattered the world.
The two angels — radiant and pitiless — fell toward the ritual circle like stars torn from heaven.
Their weapons gleamed with annihilation —the lance, a needle that could stitch through mountains,the sword, a blade that could carve rivers into deserts.
Aren moved.
He met them with steel and will.
Behemoth's Fang exploded into existence —a slash of devouring darkness rimmed with violet flames.
The moment their forces collided —the ground for five hundred meters shattered.
The air boomed outward in concentric rings of compressed spiritual shockwaves.Stone cracked and melted.The skies above rippled like disturbed water.
The First Exchange.
The lance angel thrust.
The point of the lance tore through space itself —leaving a blackened rift behind.
Aren shifted —a pivot so sharp it blurred his figure —and parried with Behemoth's Fang in a single, vicious upward cut.
The clash detonated.
A crater the size of a house erupted under their feet.Mountains on the horizon trembled.The forest around the clearing burst into splinters.
Aren threw his body backward mid-air, controlling the rebound —deflecting the full force upward into the sky instead of sideways,preserving the ritual grounds behind him.
His boots gouged trenches a hundred meters long when he landed.
The Sword Angel Followed.
He descended like a comet —sword overhead, spiraling with golden flames.
Aren's aura flared.
He stepped inside the killing arc —parrying at the last possible instant.
The impact crushed the earth downward in a bowl —dozens of meters deep.
Yet the ritual behind Aren remained untouched —shielded by the careful redirection of forces.
Sweat trickled from Aren's brow.He could not afford even one mistake.
Not one.
The Rhythm of the Fight Changed.
The two angels pressed him mercilessly —one striking with piercing stabs,the other slashing with arcs that split the heavens.
Each movement shattered sound barriers.Each missed blow created spiritual typhoons that whipped the destroyed landscape.
Aren Adapted.
He used the fractured battlefield to his advantage —stepping over shattered ridges, pivoting off broken stones.
He manipulated the World Tree's qi subtly —forming momentary barriers to divert some of the worse impacts upward.
Roots of ancient strength coiled from the ground,briefly binding an angel's ankle —enough for Aren to drive a brutal kick into the angel's ribs,sending the being skidding back through a line of ancient boulders.
Boulders that exploded into clouds of dust and fire.
Aren's black armor cracked along his ribs.Purple blood leaked from dozens of cuts.One wingbeat from the lance bearer slammed into him like a meteor —hurling Aren bodily through a rocky hill,shattering it into an avalanche of stones.
From the falling rubble, Aren burst forth —his golden eyes blazing with fury and focus.
He hurled Behemoth's Fang like a spear —the weapon howling through the air,severing a passing lightning bolt clean in half as it flew.
It smashed into the sword angel's shoulder —sending him spiraling backward in a shockwave of broken qi.
Despite the destruction, despite the chaos —the ritual circle behind Aren blazed steadily, untouched.
Azrador's presence clawed steadily closer.
Aren breathed heavily —chest heaving, muscles screaming for relief.
But he smiled.
Because every second he endured brought them closer.
Closer to victory.
Closer to defiance.
Closer to hope.
The two angels, enraged now, synchronized.
The lance drove at Aren's heart.
The sword carved low to sever his legs.
Aren's body blurred —a pivot, a step, a twist —moving faster than mortal comprehension.
He caught the lance strike on the flat of Behemoth's Fang —redirected it up into the storming sky —then dropped to one knee, letting the sword slash pass inches above his head.
Dust exploded around him.
Thunder split the heavens.
When the dust settled —Aren stood.
Bloodied.Torn.Armor ruined.
But standing.
The angels floated above him, weapons dripping golden radiance.Their flawless forms were marred now — scorched, battered by the relentless defense.
And behind Aren —the ritual roared.
Azrador's incomplete soul clawed toward existence.Reality bent and twisted around the circle as forbidden power poured through.
The angels felt it too.
Their perfect composure faltered — just for a breath.
Urgency.Frustration.
They knew their window was closing.
And Aren — bloodied, breathing hard, armor cracked but unbowed — smiled faintly.
He had bought them the time they needed.
Now the true price of war would be paid.