The battlefield writhed beneath a dome of shimmering divine energy, a colossal shield forged to contain the cataclysm within—keeping the war of angels and demons from tearing the world apart. Within that dome, heaven and hell clashed in brutal symphony. The air was thick with the scent of burning flesh, scorched earth, and holy fire. Screams of the fallen echoed beneath the thunderous clash of swords.
At the epicenter stood Uriel and Azazel, locked in a savage duel. Uriel's arms dripped crimson, deep cuts carved into his flesh, but his grip on his sword never faltered. Their blades collided, sparks exploding with every stroke, the force of their strikes cracking the ground beneath them. Azazel's eyes gleamed with cruel calculation—he knew Uriel's strength was waning, the archangel's breath ragged, movements slower. With a subtle shift, Azazel dropped his aggressive stance, adopting a poised, defensive guard. He no longer pressed, waiting—patient as a serpent—for Uriel to falter, to give him the slightest opening.
Uriel faltered indeed. His sword lowered, his legs trembling. The bloodied archangel staggered back, retreating under the oppressive weight of his exhaustion.
Azazel's lips curled into a mocking sneer. "Is this all the light of Heaven can muster? You bleed like any mortal worm."
Uriel's eyes burned with quiet fire. He planted his feet firmly, gripping his sword with renewed resolve. A radiant light erupted from his body, blinding and pure. Golden wings burst forth, unfurling with divine majesty. His form shifted, muscles hardening, aura intensifying—the very essence of an archangel made manifest.
Saerelion, his sword, blazed with celestial fire, rejuvenated and sharp as the dawn. A golden crown formed above his brow, and his eyes, now glowing with brilliant golden pupils, pierced through the smoke. Every wound sealed instantly, flesh knitting together as if time itself bent to his will.
Azazel's eyes widened in awe and disbelief. "Ah, how blessed I am to witness the true glory of an archangel."
Uriel lifted Saerelion, pointing it unwaveringly at Azazel. The battle resumed—but now the balance shifted. Uriel's strikes were swift, powerful, and unyielding. Azazel, though masterful, was forced back, the relentless assault pushing him onto the defensive.
Elsewhere, amidst the chaos, Mikhael carved a path through hordes of demonic fiends, his blade cleaving with deadly precision. Angels faltered under overwhelming numbers, but Mikhael's presence was a beacon. His keen eyes caught a demon lunging to strike down a wounded angel. With fluid grace, Mikhael intercepted, saving the angel from death's clutch.
The fallen angel collapsed to the bloodied ground. Mikhael extended a hand, his face radiant with gentle warmth. The angel grasped it, rising shakily.
"Be careful. Don't push beyond your limits," Mikhael warned softly before turning to leave.
Suddenly, the angel lunged with a clumsy, erratic strike. Mikhael dodged effortlessly, time seeming to slow as he observed. The angel's eyes were dilated—empty, drained. His limbs moved like a puppet's, jerky and uncoordinated. Attacks lacked strength and precision.
The angel was not himself.
Mikhael backed away as the angel prepared another attack, but a heavy hand clamped down, crushing the angel's skull in an instant. Blood, scalp, eyes, and shattered bones sprayed violently.
Aamon, Prince of Hell, stood there, dripping with angelic blood, a sadistic grin twisting his lips. Without pause, he lunged at Mikhael.
Their blades clashed, sparks flying, neither gaining the upper hand. Aamon fought with calculated frenzy, Mikhael countering with divine skill. The battle raged—a deadly dance where each attack was met with precise defense.
Suddenly, Aamon vanished.
All eyes on the battlefield shifted toward Mikhael. A horde of angels, battered, some wounded but relentless, surged forward. Wings torn, bloodied limbs dragging, they closed in on Mikhael with blind fury.
The wave crashed—blades slashing, weapons hurled. Mikhael defended, parrying thousands of blows. Time slowed, each movement measured. Angels stabbed for his throat, his limbs, his chest. His wounds healed, but the onslaught never ceased.
His mind raced, searching for a cure to this madness. His shouts echoed—"Stop! This isn't you!"—but no soul responded. Divine magic flared defensively, yet the tide only grew stronger.
The battle raged on. Mikhael blocked, parried, tried to think, but the onslaught grew unbearable.
The torrent of blows surged, relentless as a tidal wave. Thousands of angelic strikes—blades flashing, fists pounding, weapons hurled like deadly rain—descended on Mikhael from every angle. He was a lightning storm of motion, each block, parry, and dodge executed with flawless precision and speed. Every strike met a shield of divine light; every weapon deflected by the unyielding edge of his blade.
Blades sliced the air inches from his skin. Hands grabbed and tore, but Mikhael twisted and flowed like molten gold, never once faltering. His body moved with a speed beyond mortal comprehension, a blur weaving through the furious assault.
Yet his mind churned beneath this storm.
There was no saving them.
No spell could shatter the curse that blinded his brothers and sisters. No divine call could pierce the fog clouding their reason. The madness was complete, impenetrable. The once-proud angels had become puppets—mindless, driven only by violent instinct.
Hope shattered inside him like glass underfoot.
He held his defense, yet in his heart, he ceased the fight. The impossible had sunk in. Mikhael fought not just blades but despair itself, wrestling with the truth that they couldn't be saved.
Suddenly, a lightning-quick strike arced toward his neck—a desperate, vicious thrust from one of the maddened angels.
Mikhael's eyes snapped open, calculating a counter, muscles coiling to respond.
Before he could act, a thunderous impact tore through the chaos.
Smoke erupted, screams shredded the air, and a torrent of blood flowed like a crimson river. Pieces of flesh and shattered bone flew through the air as a colossal figure cut through the horde.
Abbadon had arrived.
With brutal efficiency, the hell's prince severed angel's limbs and heads, his greatsword a merciless blade of destruction. An angel's head, severed cleanly, tumbled toward Mikhael. The lifeless eyes cleared—the fog lifted in death's cold gaze.
Mikhael's anger ignited—burning, fierce, unyielding.
No longer prisoner to despair, he gripped his sword tightly. With blazing resolve, he surged forward, intercepting Abbadon's rampage. Each counterstrike was a promise: the mindless angels might be lost, but he would not let them be butchered like this.
Abbadon's story began in Heavens , where he stood apart from his kin—not for pride, nor for political scheming, but for a singular passion: the thrill of battle and the judgment of the weak. Unlike the others who were entangled in divine duties or heavenly governance, Abbadon cared little for such matters. His contempt was reserved for humanity, whose frailty and timidity he scorned deeply. To him, their weakness was a blemish on creation, a disgrace that should have been cleansed or conquered.
He often questioned the angels' restraint, wondering why they did not seize dominion over the earthly realm and bend it under their will. His eyes, burning with a warrior's fire, pitied even God Himself—not out of blasphemy, but out of a tragic sympathy. God was unmatched in power, yet lacked an adversary worthy of His strength. Abbadon saw this as a void, a cosmic challenge he yearned to fill.
Every day, he honed his skills relentlessly, dueling archangels not for victory, but for the experience and growth only a true fight could offer. The outcome mattered less than the battle itself, the clash of wills and power.
When Lucifer's rebellion erupted, Abbadon saw his moment. He pledged himself not to politics or cause, but to the one thing that defined him: the fight against God Himself. The day of the rebellion was his chance to face the ultimate opponent. For a fleeting moment, he believed his wish had come true.
But divine power proved overwhelming. Abbadon faltered, eyes wide with shock as God's strength crushed him. His hopes shattered like glass underfoot. Defeated, broken, he was cast down—exiled to the infernal depths alongside the other fallen angels.
Yet in hell, the fire of his combat spirit remained unquenched, fueling the ruthless warrior who now thrived in chaos and bloodshed.
Abbadon landed with a heavy thud, stepping back from Mikhael's counterattack. His eyes held a mocking pity as he spoke, voice laced with bitter amusement.
"You still look out for them?" he sneered. "They've become mindless."
Mikhael's gaze hardened. "I am not like your kind. I care for my brothers and sisters."
Abbadon's smirk widened. "A moment ago, you lost hope. Now, my actions have stoked your anger? You, an archangel, being so... stupid."
He paced slowly, eyes scanning the ravaged battlefield. "Tell me, Mikhael—can you afford to save them? Look around."
His tone darkened, weighty with grim certainty. "It's only a matter of time before Heaven falls. Uriel will die by Azazel's hand. The archons—injured, their strength shattered. One of my brothers will finish them. You don't have Raphael anymore; a cornerstone of your power is gone."
Abbadon chuckled, cold and cruel. "And Lucifer... any moment now, he will arrive. When he does, the victor is already decided. How much can you endure? How long until your righteousness runs dry? Your fate has already been written, Mikhael."
He paused, then added with a mocking shrug, "Not that I care. I only want to kill an archangel. I wished to fight the archons too, but I hear they're too weak."
Mikhael's jaw tightened. Quietly, in the depths of his mind, he argued back:
Gabriel and the other archangels remain. Uriel will not fall to Azazel.
But beneath his fierce resolve, doubt gnawed. It wasn't enough. Not yet.
Their blades clashed once more, the battle raging on—two forces locked in a desperate struggle amid the war-torn skies.
The battlefield trembled beneath their feet as Mikhael and Abbadon faced each other. The air crackled with tension, thick with the scent of smoke and blood. Both warriors were masters of their craft—archangel and hell's prince—each movement precise, calculated, lethal.
Abbadon surged forward with the weight of his greatsword driving the assault. His first strike was a downward cleave, a devastating blow meant to crush Mikhael's guard and split him in two. Mikhael anticipated it—his eyes narrowing, muscles coiling like a spring. With a lightning-quick parry, he deflected the strike sideways, sparks flying as divine steel clashed against corrupted might.
Mikhael riposted instantly, swinging his blade in a horizontal arc aimed at Abbadon's midsection. Abbadon twisted his torso with fluid grace, avoiding the blade by mere centimeters. He countered with a low sweep of his sword, aiming to knock Mikhael off balance. Mikhael leapt, rolling backward, landing softly on the scorched earth.
Abbadon didn't relent. He adjusted stance, switching from brute force to a more agile, calculated approach. His strikes became quicker—slashes, thrusts, feints designed to probe Mikhael's defenses. Mikhael, reading every twitch of Abbadon's body, responded by raising his shield of divine light to absorb the sharper blows, while waiting for an opening.
Abbadon feinted a left strike, then spun, attempting to catch Mikhael's back with a brutal overhand chop. Mikhael sensed the shift a heartbeat before impact. He twisted sharply, using Abbadon's momentum against him, and grabbed the prince's arm mid-swing. Using the grip, Mikhael pivoted, aiming to throw Abbadon off balance and follow with a piercing thrust.
But Abbadon's grip was iron. With a guttural roar, he twisted fiercely, breaking free and slamming his elbow into Mikhael's ribs. The impact knocked the wind out of Mikhael momentarily, but his resolve hardened. He shifted stance into a defensive crouch, recalibrating.
Now Mikhael switched tactics—he drew on speed and precision over raw power. His blade flickered like a golden serpent, striking not to kill but to disable—aiming for joints, limbs, and weapon hand. Each strike was measured, probing for weakness.
Abbadon parried fiercely but grew cautious, realizing Mikhael was no longer matching his ferocity with force but with surgical precision. He retreated a few steps, regrouping.
With a guttural shout, Abbadon launched a flurry—blindingly fast slashes, spinning and twisting, designed to overwhelm Mikhael's defense. Mikhael responded in kind, his blade a blur, each parry met with a counter. The battlefield echoed with the ringing of metal, sparks flying like stardust.
They both pulled back briefly, panting but unyielding. Mikhael's mind raced: Abbadon's style was adapting—more unpredictable, less brute force, more cunning. Abbadon's eyes gleamed with sadistic joy—he fed on chaos and bloodshed.
Abbadon charged, swinging wide with a devastating overhead strike. Mikhael dove aside, rolling through the scorched soil, then sprang to his feet behind Abbadon. He slashed upward, aiming to unbalance the fallen prince.
But Abbadon twisted sharply, catching Mikhael's blade with his own. The force pushed Mikhael back several steps, the pressure threatening to break his guard.
In that brief moment, Mikhael reached deep within—calling on every lesson, every battle, every memory forged in millennia. His eyes burned with renewed fury. With a sharp kick to Abbadon's knee, he destabilized him, breaking the lock on their blades.
Seizing the opening, Mikhael spun, delivering a series of rapid strikes—first a jab to the shoulder, then a slash across the chest, finally a piercing thrust aimed at Abbadon's side.
Abbadon grunted, stumbling but not yielding. He countered fiercely, swinging his greatsword in a wide arc, aiming to end the duel. Mikhael ducked under, rolled forward, and drove his blade upward, piercing Abbadon's armor.
Both men froze, chest heaving, eyes locked in a silent challenge—no victor yet.
The air thickened as Abbadon's voice thundered across the battlefield, each word a venomous lash aimed to unhinge Mikhael's spirit.
"Don't you see? It's all meaningless! You and your kind are doomed. Your brothers and sisters will become nothing but lifeless husks when Lucifer arrives. And Zariel... Zariel is no less a force—perhaps even stronger than Lucifer himself, when he gets serious he will destroy everything!."
His roar echoed, stirring a storm of rage and despair. Around them, the mindless angels surged, blades drawn, eyes glazed with fanatic fury. They descended upon Mikhael like a tidal wave, relentless and unforgiving.
Mikhael's senses sharpened. Time seemed to stretch and contract with every movement. The first strike was a lethal thrust aimed at his side—he twisted just in time, feeling the rush of displaced air as the blade passed too close. He countered with a swift upward slash, cleaving through one attacker's wing and sending the angel crashing to the scorched earth.
But the swarm came fast—daggers thrown, swords slashing from every angle. Mikhael's body moved on instinct and training: a weaving dance of dodges, parries, and counters executed with divine precision. A blade slashed across his shoulder; the pain was sharp but fleeting—his healing knitting flesh as he fought.
He stepped forward, cleaving through two angels in a single sweep, their forms collapsing into a tangle of broken limbs and fading light. Abbadon circled, watching with a smirk as Mikhael fought the storm of madness.
Abbadon seized the moment and lunged, greatsword swinging in a brutal arc. Mikhael raised his blade, the clash resonating like thunder. The force drove him back, but he absorbed the impact, grounding himself.
Mikhael's eyes blazed—not with anger alone but with desperate determination. With a sudden pivot, he slashed low, cutting through Abbadon's guard and forcing him to stagger. The prince snarled, retaliating with a flurry of vicious blows, each strike a test of Mikhael's defense.
As the fight intensified, Mikhael's mind raced. Every dodge, every block was a calculation—he knew he couldn't afford reckless fury. Abbadon wanted that: to drag him down to demon's rage, to lose control and be consumed. But Mikhael held firm, precise and measured.
Amidst the chaos, angels pressed in—some charging headlong, others attempting coordinated strikes. Mikhael spun, parried a descending blade, then launched a counterattack that severed an attacker's sword arm. Another lunged, but Mikhael caught the wrist mid-air and twisted, disarming the assailant before delivering a disabling strike to the knee.
The battlefield blurred around them, a maelstrom of clashing steel, divine light, and blood. Each move was a dance of survival, every decision critical.
Abbadon growled, frustration flickering behind his cruel smile. "You're wasting your strength on these puppets! Let go—embrace the chaos!"
Mikhael's gaze hardened. "I fight for those who still have a will."
Steel met steel again as their duel resumed—Abbadon's brutal, sweeping strikes versus Mikhael's calculated precision. The storm of mindless angels crashed around them, but neither yielded.
Every clash was a statement: hope against despair, order against chaos. The battle raged on, the outcome uncertain, but Mikhael's resolve unbroken.
The battlefield raged, a hurricane of divine light and demonic fire sealed beneath the great dome shielding the mortal world. But within that storm, in the shattered center where earth had turned to ash and blood, Mikhael faltered.
His thoughts were chaos, his faith cracking under the weight of Abbadon's venomous truths.
"Your brothers are falling. Your wings are clipped. Your sword is dull. Where is your God now?"
Each word, a hammer on his spirit.
Abbadon's blade came crashing down—steel screaming through the air—and Mikhael raised his sword instinctively.
CRACK.
The blade shattered, fragments spinning like dying stars. Mikhael's arms trembled, his palms sliced by the recoil. He tried to raise a shield of light, but it sputtered out. The angels came.
Wings blackened with blood, their eyes vacant, their movements like broken marionettes. Their blades descended as one. Mikhael braced himself. He fought barehanded, catching steel, twisting arms, redirecting strikes. Lightning-fast—one slash parried, another dodged, a third deflected with his forearm—but they were endless. Thousands.
Each movement tore into him. Cuts flared open, then sealed by divine power, only to be ripped anew. A spear burst through his side. A blade scraped his ribs. Then another—and another—and another. His breath grew shallow. His wings... he didn't even feel the pain when they were torn from his back. Only the sound—wet, final.
And in the sky above him, Abbadon raised his greatsword, pointing it at the heavens like a curse, before swinging it down with thunderous intent, the blade glowing with infernal hatred.
Time slowed.
Inside, Mikhael collapsed—not just in body, but in soul. Darkness crawled through him like rot. His mind spiraled. He searched—searched for something, anything to fight this.
He thought of heaven. Of the throne. Of Raphael, who had died with Asmodeus. Of Gabriel, fighting somewhere in the haze. Of Uriel, bleeding out beneath Azazel's sword. He thought of the Archons. Of Avile, when they came pleading for help—pleading to avoid their fall.
And they had refused.
They had turned away.
His lips parted in the stillness: "I should have helped them..."
Regret gripped him tighter than any wound.
But then—like lightning cracking in the dark—a thought struck.
Demonic energy. The Archons had accepted it from Lucifer.
The Archons were given demonic energy by Lucifer… but they're fragments of God. They should have God's power. That means they should contain both divine and demonic energy.
So the divine seal… it must've sealed both.
He paused. The thought settled like iron.
Lucifer didn't give them demonic power. He just broke the seal—used his pure demonic energy to shatter it. That's all.
Avile did the same. Infused his energy. The seal broke. The power inside other archons woke up.
Mikhael's eyes shot open, divine fire igigniting within them. The world returned to speed.
Abbadon's greatsword was a hair's breadth from cleaving him in two
CLANG
A radiant blade burst into existence—formed from nothing but will and revelation. Golden-green. Alive. It caught Abbadon's strike mid-swing, throwing the Prince of Hell back
Angels surged toward him again, but now Mikhael moved with clarity—dodging, sliding, never killing. His movements became elegant, ruthless only in defense. He flew skyward, light trailing behind him like a comet. The battlefield stopped
All eyes—those that could still see—turned skyward
Mikhael looked down upon the demon general, his voice quiet, absolute
"This demon doesn't deserve my true form. My true blade is enough.
His wounds began to seal. Wings reformed, golden and blinding. The sword in his hand pulsed like a heartbeat. His presence alone warped the space around him
Abbadon snarled, but behind it was glee. This was what he wanted
"Still clinging to your fantasy?" he shouted, laughing. "What's your plan, Mikhael? Kill all of us yourself? Think Uriel will defeat Azazel? Maybe the Archons will sprout halos and save you all?
He flew forward, greatsword like a meteor. Mikhael met him head-on—no hesitation. The clash sent out a shockwave that split the earth in two
Abbadon stumbled back, surprised
But Mikhael wasn't done
He dove, and with a flash of divine geometry, formed a glowing cube—woven from strands of sacred law, a prison and a dueling ground. Angels struck it from the outside, mindless still. Their blades glanced off its surface
Only Abbadon and Mikhael remained inside
Floating within the prison of purity, Mikhael declared
"You wanted a duel. Be grateful. You die by my blade. Demons perish before even facing it.
Abbadon's amusement vanished. His stance shifted—no more showmanship. No more mocking
Only intent
"Let's end this, Mikhael.
And they launched at each other—blades shining, wills unbroken—within the divine cube that now stood as the final arena between hope and annihilation
."..":.....".."....!.