"The world is dying."
Not with a roar, but a whimper—a slow, gasping decay most refused to name. A great rift had split the earth, a festering wound that vomited forth hell's legions. The sky, once gold-dawned and endless blue, now sagged like a shroud of ashes, choked by the smoke of burning cities and the breath of demons. Rivers curdled into black veins. Crops crumbled to dust. The air itself reeked of rust and rot, as if the ground mourned its own death.
Yet in the heart of the blight, Zion stood.
It was no mere city. It was a bastion of pale stone, glowing as if lit from within, its walls etched with the fingerprints of Yahweh.
Zion rose from the ruined earth like a hymn made flesh. Its alabaster walls burned with the warmth of a thousand oil lamps at dusk—every stone placed by the hands of the Elders, who had measured each inch by divine vision. Towers crowned in lapis lazuli stretched toward heaven, their bronze-clad spires scattering light into prismatic halos. The streets, paved in onyx and silver, pulsed like a living thing, breathing in time with the Faith Helix's radiant heart.
Pomegranates and figs hung heavy in orchards that spilled perfume over terraced gardens. Honey dripped from wild hives into springs so clear they mirrored the stars at noon. Every archway, every mosaic of jasper and sardonyx, bore the mark of heaven's decree: temples angled to catch celestial winds, granaries where no shadow could taint the wheat, doorways anointed in lamb's blood to seal them as sacred.
This was no city of man. It was the covenant given form—where milk thickened to cream on the tongue and honeycomb dissolved like manna. A promise written not just in stone, but in the very air, thick with the incense of endless prayer.
"The Elders claimed divine hands had shaped its foundations—a fortress raised against the tide of darkness.
Within its gates, life endured like a defiant psalm. Hollow-eyed pilgrims haggled with merchants. Children wove through courtyards where hymns still clung to the wind. Zion was more than refuge; it was a covenant carved in stone: Darkness would not prevail. Not yet.
At its heart, the Faith Helix speared the sky—a monolith of shimmering light, its surface alive with swirling colors. The air around it thrummed like the pulse of God, vibrating with a power that set teeth on edge and sent shadows writhing. To the people, it was salvation. To demons, annihilation. The Evangels guarded it, their order devoted to harnessing its light—to fuel Zion's strength, its weapons, its very purpose.
"As long as it burns, Zion will never fall."
But beyond those hallowed walls, the world had become a hymn of damnation. The wastes seethed with creatures of gnashing teeth and spiraling horns, their bodies a blasphemy of flesh and rusted iron. Among them marched the Zealots—men and women who had knelt to the darkness, their eyes hollow, their skin carved with infernal sigils. They were the rift's heralds, their whispers enough to unravel the courage of hardened soldiers.
Zion did not cower.
Against the Zealots, the Crusaders stood unbroken. But for the true horrors—the abominations spat from hell's womb—there was another force.
The Archmen.
They were not soldiers. They were wrath incarnate.
Chosen by Yahweh Himself, three hundred strong, each a tempest of divine retribution. Ten could scatter an army. A hundred could shatter kingdoms. Their armor was blacker than the void between stars, inked with golden scripture that blazed like holy fire—Psalm 27:1. Their gauntlet blades sang with celestial fury, reducing demons to ash in a single strike. At their breastplates, the Sigil of Conviction flared—their power rising and falling with the iron of their faith."
And the world would learn to tremble.
And among them, none struck harder than " Hael, the Archon Primus"
—First of the Chosen, the Unbreakable, the End of Evil. With him stood " " Briel and Zael" " , his twin tempests, commanders who wielded divine fury like a scalpel.
They were forged in " ritual and Faith" .
From the moment the boy was offered—" from his mother's arms at ten years old, her tears evaporating before they could stain his tunic" —his life ceased to be his own. His flesh was no longer flesh; his will no longer will. He belonged to Yahweh now, a " living sacrifice" ..
The first five years were " a crucible of ink and agony" . Each dawn, the boy knelt on cold stone, fingers pressed into the grooves of sacred words carved into the floor— " Psalms, Proverbs, the thundering judgments of Ezekiel" —until his knees bled and his voice frayed to a rasp. A hundred scriptures. A thousand recitations. Ten thousand corrections from the rod of the Elder-Inquisitor, whose eyes missed nothing. "Again," the old man would command, and the boys would obey, chanting until the words " seared his bones like brands" , until the syllables coiled around his ribs like serpents of fire. There was no room for error. A misquoted verse meant a day without food. A forgotten line meant a night locked in the "Solitary Chamber of reflection"
At fifteen, those who did well and passed,memorizing every scripture— " those whose minds had not shattered under the weight of divine law" —were handed swords. Not the crude steel of Crusaders, but " blades of celestial iron" , forged in the heart of the Faith Helix, their edges humming with restrained power. Training was not practice. It was " preparation" . The boys sparred in the " Pit" , a sunken arena where the ground bristled with barbed vines. To step wrong was to be flayed. To hesitate was to be maimed. The Elder-Inquisitors watched, their faces impassive, as brothers " clashed like starving wolves" , each duel a test of zeal as much as skill.
"Mercy for evil is sin," the instructors intoned. "The wicked do not relent. Neither shall you." "Suffer not the witch to live"
One by one, the unworthy fell. Some broke beneath the relentless drills. Others who faltered in spirit, their doubts leaching into their strikes—" they were given back to their families, a cloud of shame and disdain hovered over them an their family" . By the end, only a handful remained: " the sharpened, the sanctified, the ruthless" .
At twenty, the final trial began. Stripped of armor, stripped of weapons, the aspirant was taken to the " Blighted Expanse" , a wasteland where the earth itself hissed with corruption. There, he was left— " forty days and forty nights, no food, no water, no shelter from the scorching sun or the freezing void of night".
But he was never alone.
The demons came first as " shadows" , slithering at the edges of his vision. Then as "voices" , murmuring in the cadence of his forgotten brothers. "You are forsaken," they crooned. "Yahweh abandoned us, He will abandon you too. Why suffer? Why starve? One mouthful of rotten fruit, one sip of poisoned water, and the pain ends." Their words slithered into his skull, " " a venom more corrosive than any blade" " .
The test was simple: " endure and have Faith" .
To eat was to fail.
To drink was to fail.
To give in to fear was to fail.
Some broke on the tenth day, clawing at their own flesh in madness. Others held until the thirty-ninth, only to " crawl toward a mirage of Zion, their fingers scraping grooves in the dust as the demons dragged them under" .
Those who returned—" skeletal, sun-scorched, eyes burning with something beyond mortal resolve" —faced the final crucible. The Faith Helix did not tolerate imperfection of ones faith. The aspirant was forced to kneel before the monolith, his bare flesh inches from its searing light.
The fearful and the tainted "burned" . Their skin blackened, their blood boiled, their sins "erupting from their mouths like serpents" before they crumbled to ash.
The righteous " rose" .
The Helix's light pierced them, scouring away the last remnants of doubt, of fear.. What emerged was no longer a man, but a vessel. His armor was not donned—it manifested from a crucifix blessed with the light from the Faith Helix, it was given to them to be placed onto their chest and from it a liquid shadow pooling from it before hardening into obsidian plate, its surface etched with a specific scripture for each one, a golden scripture that resonated well with the Archman. His veins "glowed" , thrumming with divine fire. The Gauntlet which housed their blade and gun " sang" when drawn, its edge humming with the fury of a thousand prayers.
He had become an " Archman now" taught vigorously through pain, suffering and scripture to never take on the spirit of fear.
Yet the Archmen were " shadows in the light" . They fought only at Yahweh's command, their appearances rare as " miracles" . When they marched, it was not war. It was " reckoning".
And the world, rotting beyond Zion's walls, knew their footsteps " like the drumbeat of the apocalypse" .
The Battle at the Cliffs of Mourning
The battle commenced at dawn, yet the sun remained hidden, obscured by dense clouds of ash and smoke. A thousand soldiers from Zion, known as the Crusaders, advanced across a desolate wasteland toward the Cliffs of Mourning. Their white-and-red crucifix flags fluttered in the wind as they pressed onward, their expressions grave and resolute. They were acutely aware of what lay ahead; having faced the enemy forces who stood against God for centuries , they understood the gravity of the situation.
Leading the way was Lieutenant Garrick, a battle-hardened soldier marked by scars on both his armor and his face. He had witnessed too much death and suffering, yet he still believed in Zion and their cause. "Hold the line!" he shouted, his voice rough but assured. "And try not to die, alright? Fight for Zion, for Yahweh, and for whoever is treating us to dinner after this!"
"For Zion!" the soldiers roared, their voices echoing across the desolate plains.
But the enemy was prepared. The enemy surged forth from the shadows like a wave of darkness. First came the zealots—wild, screaming fanatics with vacant eyes and contorted faces. Behind them followed monstrous creatures, distorted by sorcery, roaring and snarling as they advanced. Above, winged demons circled like vultures, their leathery wings obscuring the scant light that remained.
When the two armies collided, the noise was deafening. Swords clashed, axes struck flesh, and the air was filled with screams and roars. The crusaders fought fiercely, cutting down enemies left and right, but for every one they killed, two more took its place. The beasts were even more terrifying, tearing through armor and flesh with their claws and fangs. And the demons—they were pure nightmares, swooping down from the sky to rip soldiers apart.
Garrick fought like a man possessed, his sword slicing through the enemy ranks. He dispatched a massive beast with a swift thrust to its heart, but even he could not hold out indefinitely. The crusaders were being overwhelmed, their lines breaking under the relentless assault. Then, as if matters couldn't get worse, winged demons swooped down from the sky.
They tore through the soldiers like paper, their claws shredding armor and their venom searing like acid. The crusaders, once so disciplined, began to panic. Men were seized, lifted into the air, and torn apart, their bodies plummeting back to the ground in bloody fragments. The battlefield transformed into a scene of utter horror."Lieutenant!" a young soldier named Elias cried out, his face pale with fear. "We can't hold them! What do we do?"
Garrick's mind raced. They were outnumbered, outmatched, and running out of time. The demons were too fast, too strong. He clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his sword and then.
A miracle, a golden flare into the smoky sky. For a moment, everything seemed to stop—the fighting, the wind, even the demons—as if the world was holding its breath.
Then, the ground began to shake. At first, it was just a faint rumble, but it grew stronger and stronger until the earth itself seemed to tremble. The crusaders paused, their eyes wide with fear and hope. Even the demons hesitated, looking toward the horizon as if they sensed something coming.
And then, they arrived.
The Archmen arrived from the east,west,north and south, stepping out of the swirling smoke and ash like figures from an ancient myth and surrounding the enemy. Their black-and-gold armor glowed with a strange, otherworldly light, pushing back the shadows around them. They moved in perfect unison, each step deliberate and precise, as if they were following some silent, divine rhythm. The ground shook with every step they took, as if the earth itself was bowing to their power. They didn't rush—they didn't need to. Their calm, steady pace made it clear they were unstoppable. The air around them seemed to ripple with energy, sending chills through everyone, friend and foe alike.
Garrick's breath hitched as he watched them. He'd heard the stories, of course—everyone in Zion had. But seeing the Archmen in person was something else entirely. They weren't just soldiers; they were something beyond human, something almost divine.
The demons, sensing the new threat, turned their attention to the Archmen, screeching and roaring as they attacked. But the Archmen didn't flinch. Their blades ignited with flames so bright they lit up the battlefield like a second sun. The first demon to reach them was cut down instantly, turning to ash before it even hit the ground. More demons followed, but they were no match for the Archmen's speed, skill, and precision. It wasn't a fight—it was a slaughter,their gauntlet shooting out massive projectiles that ripped holes through the demons.
The crusaders could only watch in stunned silence as the Archmen tore through the demons like a hot knife through butter. Their movements were so fluid and graceful, it was almost hypnotic. Garrick was in awe, his mind struggling to process the sheer power he was witnessing.
But then, as if in response to the Archmen's arrival, the sky darkened again. A thick, black smoke rose from the ground, forming a swirling vortex that pulsed with evil energy. The air turned icy, the stench of decay grew unbearable, and a wave of dread washed over the battlefield. The vortex split open, revealing a portal to what could only be described as hell itself. Out poured a new wave of demons, bigger and more terrifying than before.
The crusaders froze in terror, their courage faltering at the sight. But the Archmen didn't hesitate. They calmly sheathed their flaming blades and began to retreat, their movements as disciplined as ever.
Garrick couldn't believe it. "Retreat?!" he shouted, his voice cracking with disbelief. "You're running away? Are you afraid?"
One of the Archmen, towering and clad in his black-and-gold armor, turned to Garrick. In one swift motion, he grabbed Garrick by the throat and lifted him off the ground. Garrick struggled, but the Archman's grip was like iron. "We fear nothing, lieutenant," the Archman said, his deep, resonant voice vibrating with power. "We are Yahweh's strength made manifest."
Garrick wanted to argue, but the words caught in his throat as the Archman dropped him to the ground. Rubbing his bruised neck, Garrick glared up at the Archman, confused and angry. Then the Archman asked, "Do you not hear it?"
Garrick frowned. "Hear what?"
And then he heard it—a low, rumbling sound, like distant thunder but far more menacing. The ground began to shake violently, the air crackling with energy. Garrick's eyes widened as he looked up at the sky.
"The rolling thunder," the Archman said softly, his voice barely audible over the chaos.
Suddenly, the heavens split open. A massive bolt of yellow lightning streaked down, striking the center of the demon horde with the force of a thousand suns. The explosion was blinding, the shock wave throwing Garrick to the ground. When he finally opened his eyes, the battlefield was transformed. A third of the demons were gone, reduced to ash and charred bone. Standing in the midst of the destruction were three figures, radiating power and authority.
Hael, the Archon Primus, was a giant of a man, his massive frame exuding raw strength. His face was hidden behind an ornate helmet, but his presence alone was enough to inspire awe—and fear. To his left stood Briel, his long white hair flowing like a banner, his piercing eyes burning with intensity. To his right was Zael, graceful and deadly, his golden hair shimmering like liquid light.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their mere presence was enough to turn the tide of the battle, filling the crusaders with hope and the demons with terror.
The Archmen bowed their heads in reverence as the Archons took their place on the battlefield. But the fight wasn't over. The black smoke continued to rise, and more demons poured out of the abyss, even more monstrous than before.
Briel broke the silence, his voice a low growl. "Brothers," he said, "it seems we've walked into terrible odds."
His voice, deep and unshakable, cut through the din of battle. "Yes," he said, his tone brimming with assurance. "They stand no chance."
Zael, the most otherworldly of the three, stood to Hael's right. His long, golden hair flowed like silk, untouched by the dirt and blood of the battlefield. His radiant wings shimmered faintly, as if they carried a piece of heaven's light. He tilted his head slightly, his voice calm but filled with unshakable authority. "Shall we?"
With that, Hael let out a thunderous war cry. "Archmen! To me!"
The Archmen moved as one, their footsteps shaking the ground, their presence like a thunderclap that shattered the enemy's will. Behind them, the crusaders roared, their voices rising in a defiant chorus as they charged into battle.
Hael struck first. His axe, crackling with divine lightning, cut through a swarm of demons in a single, devastating swing. The lightning arced from one enemy to the next, turning them to ash. He moved like a force of nature, each strike a testament to Yahweh's wrath.
Briel was a whirlwind of fire and fury. His flaming broadsword carved through the horde, leaving trails of scorched earth and ash in its wake. He laughed as he fought, a deep, wild sound that sent chills through everyone who heard it. "Is this all you've got?" he bellowed, his voice dripping with savage joy. "Come on, you cowards!"
Zael took to the skies, his wings spreading in a burst of radiant light. He moved with a grace that defied the chaos below, his spear glowing with holy energy. From above, he rained down beams of light, each one striking with deadly precision and obliterating clusters of demons. His attacks were swift, precise, and devastating.
Hael stood at the front, his massive frame a fortress of strength. His axe cut through the enemy with brutal efficiency, but even he couldn't be everywhere at once.
A scream pierced the air—sharp, desperate, and filled with terror. Hael's head snapped toward the sound. A young crusader, no older than twenty, was pinned to the ground by a demon, its fanged jaws dripping with saliva as it loomed over him. The boy's eyes were wide with fear, his sword just out of reach.
"Help!" the boy screamed, his voice breaking.
Hael moved.
But he was too late.
The demon's claws slashed down, tearing through the boy's throat. His body went limp, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. Nearby, a woman—a civilian who had followed the crusaders to help the wounded—was snatched up by another demon. She struggled, her cries piercing the air, but the creature's claws silenced her forever.
Hael's breath caught. His grip on his axe tightened until his knuckles turned white. The world seemed to slow, the sounds of battle fading into a distant hum. All he could see was the blood, the lifeless bodies, the faces of those who had trusted him to protect them.
And then, something inside him snapped.
A low growl escaped his lips, building into a roar that shook the earth. His eyes, usually cold and calculating, burned with a fury that could only be described as divine. He dropped his axe, the weapon embedding itself in the ground as he charged forward, his massive hands outstretched.
A demon lunged at him, claws extended, fangs bared. Hael caught it mid-air, his hands gripping its twisted form with crushing force. The creature screeched, its wings flailing, but Hael didn't relent. With a roar that echoed across the battlefield, he tore the demon in half, its black blood spraying across his armor.
For a moment, the battlefield fell silent. Crusaders and demons alike stared in awe and terror. Hael stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving, his hands dripping with black ichor. His eyes burned with righteous fury as he bellowed, "No more! No more will you take what is not yours! No more will you defile this earth! I am Hael, Archon Primus, Hand of Yahweh, and I will see you all burn!"
The demons hesitated, their malevolent eyes flickering with something like fear. But Hael was already moving. He waded into the horde, his fists crushing skulls, his hands ripping limbs from bodies. He was a storm of divine wrath, and the demons fell before him like wheat before a scythe.
But the horde seemed endless. For every demon they killed, two more took its place. The battlefield was a chaotic maelstrom of violence, the air thick with screams and the roar of flames.
Zael landed briefly beside his brothers, his wings folding behind him. His voice, though calm, carried urgency. "There's no end to them."
Briel, his white hair plastered to his face with sweat and blood, grinned like a wolf. "No matter," he said, his voice thick with excitement. "The more of them there are, the better!"
Hael's piercing gaze swept across the bloodied battlefield, analyzing the chaos with grim precision. His voice emerged as a deep, resonant growl. "An endless horde requires a source—a focal point channeling this darkness." His attention snapped toward a distant rise where a tight formation of demons stood vigil around a writhing black shroud. The artifact pulsed with unnatural energy, its malignant presence warping the very air around it while the earth at its base lay scorched and barren.
"That's our target," Hael declared, already shifting his weight forward.
Zael stepped in, his tone calm but urgent. "The Council's orders were explicit—no engagement with cursed relics."
Hael turned on him, eyes blazing. "So we stand idle while more innocents die?"
Zael faltered, his protest dying in his throat.
Without another word, Hael tightened his grip on his weapon and issued the command. " Hael barked, "clear a path."
Zael nodded, raising his spear high. It glowed with an intensity that rivaled the sun. His voice, soft but commanding, carried divine authority. Psalms 68:2 "As smoke is blown away by wind, as wax melts before fire, perish before Yahweh!'"
With a blinding flash, he released a massive beam of light from his sword. It cut through the battlefield, vaporizing demons in its path and carving a straight line toward the hill. The beam left a trail of smoldering ruin in its wake.
Hael didn't hesitate. With a roar, he charged forward, his axe crackling with lightning. The path Zael had created was already closing, the horde surging to fill the gap. But Hael was faster. He moved like a thunderbolt, his massive frame a blur of black and gold.
The Archmen watched in awe as their leader disappeared into the sea of demons, his axe flashing like a storm.
Hael didn't stop.
The blackened shroud loomed before him, a pulsating mass of dark energy that seemed alive. The demons guarding it were grotesque, their forms twisted and malformed. They lunged at him, claws extended, fangs bared. But Hael was faster.
His axe moved in a blur. One demon was gutted before it could scream, its black blood spraying across the ground. Another lost its head in a single, brutal stroke. Hael moved with precision, every strike calculated to destroy. He was a storm, and the demons were nothing before him.
When the last guard fell, Hael stood before the shroud, his chest heaving, his axe dripping with black blood. The air was filled with the stench of decay, the ground beneath his feet cracked and lifeless. He hesitated for only a moment before stepping into the shroud.
The world shifted.
He found himself in a desert of black sand, the sky above a swirling mass of dark clouds. The atmosphere was oppressive, as if it was trying to crush him. In the distance, a veiled woman in red sat atop a floating obelisk with 5 women in ragged clothes chained from their neck to her hands, she was siphoning their very life energy from them fueling her magic,all had died except for one, her form radiating dark energy. Her voice, when she spoke, echoed in his mind and ears alike."Welcome, Archon Primus Hael," she said, her tone dripping with mockery. "God's very own battle axe on this earth.thought you'd be taller." She smirked, her veiled face tilting slightly as if studying him.
Hael's eyes narrowed as he stepped into the strange, dark desert. His voice was a low growl. "What is this place, who are you, witch? Speak while you still have your tongue."
The woman chuckled, her voice like the rustling of dead leaves. "Defiant. Just as expected." She leaned forward, her hands resting on her knees. "I am here to reason with you, Archon. A great darkness approaches. One that will cover the entire world, Golgotha was only a taste,the darkness will continue from land to land and eventually, Zion. Do youreally want—"
Her words were cut off as Hael's axe flew through the air, embedding itself in her forehead with a sickening crunch. Her body jerked, then slumped to the ground, lifeless.
Hael didn't waste a second. He yanked his axe free from her skull and turned to the obelisk. With a roar, he brought the weapon down, the blade crackling with divine energy. The obelisk split in two with a deafening crack, the dark energy inside it vanishing like smoke in the wind.
The effect was instant. Outside, the demon horde faltered, their bodies dissolving into ash as the conduit that sustained them was destroyed. The battlefield fell silent, the crusaders staring in awe as the tide of darkness retreated.
But Hael wasn't done.
As he turned to leave, the woman's corpse twitched. Her body rose unnaturally, like a puppet pulled by invisible strings. Her veil fell away, revealing a face of rotting flesh and exposed bone. Her hollow eyes fixed on Hael, and she spoke, her voice a guttural rasp.
"You cant stand against this tide," she said, raising a skeletal hand as Hael gripped his axe. "The blood of the innocent will flood these lands as you hide behind your walls." Her head tilted, the bones in her neck creaking. "In time, our master will come for you. We will destroy your precious walls. You will beg for mercy… but there will be none.." as she says this, a stream of destroyed lands and cities with cries of pain and suffering flood Haels mind, so vividly for a second his expression changed, the woman spoke out with a chuckle "Yes, you are right to be afraid for he is coming"
Hael stepped forward, his axe at his side, his eyes locked on hers. His voice was steady and cold. "No ,I am!… for you." the corpse laughed "I will be waiting ,and while I do" she moved her skeletal finger through the air like strings "I will find the most creative of endings for the church that remains in Golgotha"her eyes narrowed
Haels eyes opened wide "You lie!"
The corpse laughed once more "Only one way to find out"
The corpse's jaw went slack, and she collapsed back to the ground, lifeless once more.
Hael turned to the prisoner, who was barely standing. "Let's go," he said, and walked to the portal, emerging back onto the battlefield.
The scene outside was a smoldering ruin, the air thick with the stench of sulfur and ash. The crusaders, though battered and bloodied, stood tall, their eyes fixed on Hael with a mix of awe and relief.
Briel was the first to greet him, his flaming broadsword resting on his shoulder, his white hair plastered to his face with sweat and soot. His grin was wild, his eyes burning with intensity. "Brother," he called out, his voice booming. "Is it done?"
Hael's gaze met his, his expression unchanging. "Yes," he replied, his voice a low rumble. "End this."
Briel's grin widened. "With pleasure," he said, his voice dripping with savage joy.
A surge of power began to radiate from Briel's body, the air around him shimmering with heat. The ground beneath his feet cracked and blackened, the flames of his sword flaring brighter and hotter until they were nearly blinding. Zael, ever calm and perceptive, moved quickly. His wings unfurled in a burst of light, and with a wave of his hand, he summoned a shimmering barrier around the Archmen and the crusaders.
"Extracting all forces," Zael said, his voice calm but urgent. "Stand clear." He flew to lift the woman prisoner from the scene, cradling her in his arms.
The crusaders were pulled back, their forms flickering as Zael's power transported them to safety. The Archmen remained, their eyes fixed on Briel as he prepared to unleash his wrath.
Briel inverted his flaming sword, pointing it toward the ground. The flames roared to life, the heat so intense it warped the air around him. His voice thundered across the battlefield.
Psalms50:3 "My God is not silent; He devours with holy fire, and around Him a tempest rages!"
With a deafening cry, he drove the blade into the ground. The impact was cataclysmic. The earth shattered, great fissures spreading out like a spider's web. Flames erupted from the cracks, devouring everything in their path. The demons screeched in agony as they were consumed, their bodies reduced to ash and smoke.
The ground itself seemed to come alive, swallowing the horde whole. The flames burned with a divine intensity, purging the battlefield of the taint of darkness. The air was filled with the sound of cracking stone and the roar of fire, a symphony of destruction that echoed across the plains.
When the flames finally subsided, the battlefield was silent. The ground was scorched and broken, the air thick with the smell of burning sulfur. The demons were gone, erased as if they had never existed.
Briel stood at the center of the devastation, his sword still embedded in the ground, his chest heaving with exertion. His grin hadn't faded; if anything, it had grown wider. "Now that," he said, his voice dripping with satisfaction, "is how you end a fight."