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"There are two types of people in the world: those with a gun, and those who dig."
— Blondie (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly)
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<(Omniscient POV)>
"Relax, kid. Those tales about divine angels being tough enough to take us demons on? Just bedtime stories humans cooked up," growled a high-demon, his voice gravelly as his goat-like head twisted toward the trembling young incubus. The bull-bodied monster sneered, ichor still dripping from the claws he had buried in some poor lower demon minutes ago simply because it had looked at him the wrong way.
"Old winged fossils from a dead realm—barely more than a myth. I heard from one of my grandfathers that thousands of years angels did exist, but they were barely more than just overhyped warriors who could even sell their own bodies for a coin or two. So even if these are the same angels of that time, we don't have anything to be afraid of." He chuckled darkly. "Though I think they would make for excellent little toys. I have been getting bored with playing with humans anyway, so this might even be a good change."
The ground trembled as thousands of demons surged forward, their armored feet pounding the scorched terrain. Hell's skies churned with blood-red clouds and winds as hot as fire, but even through all that chaos, the demons saw it—multiple crimson rifts tearing through the fabric of the horizon, spilling radiant golden figures that were coming their way, menacingly flying in their direction with speeds faster than that of sound.
The angels had arrived.
Most demons had heard whispers of Heven before. Old war stories, warnings passed down like rumors among the lower ranks. Tales of mercenaries in celestial armor who fought for the right price. Truth be told, they weren't too different from demons in that way.
However, angels weren't as... versatile as demons—or even gods. Sure, in a straight-up fight, your average angel could drop an Asgardian like a bag of bricks. But when it came to sorcery, demonic manipulation, or bending the rules of reality? Demons ran circles around them. So most demons stayed calm—cocky even—confident in their grip on the supernatural forces of hell.
To be honest, most of them thought the angels were long gone, some extinct race tucked into a dying dimension. And yet here they were—facing down those very angels in open war. There were legions of them, clad in silver and white armor, laced with gold, glowing sigils engraved deep into their plating, their feathered wings flaring with crackling golden light. Even their weapons thrummed with that same kind of golden energy.
"Bring me their heads!" barked one of the demon dukes, his voice like gravel on steel, eyes crazed and sword raised. The infernal horde responded to his command with a roar—feral, proud, bloodthirsty. In their minds, they were Hellspawn—battle-hardened killers forged in fire. Angels? Please. They were merely delicate relics of a bygone age.
But then came the first strike.
It was just a single angel, a towering woman with silver hair and eight glowing pairs of wings who dropped like a bolt of heaven into their ranks. Her lance sliced through six frontliners in a clean arc. They didn't even scream. Just gone as if they were dissolved by her golden light energy. No ash. No blood. Nothing. She didn't slow. Didn't even blink.
The bull-demon who had previously mocked the angels' power flinched—just a little—but it showed.
But before he or the other elite demons could regroup, the full force of the angels slammed into them like judgment day. Blasts of divine energy screamed down from the skies, vaporizing whole swaths of the demon army. Thousands fell in seconds. Some tried shielding spells, desperation clearly audible in their chants—but the golden light shattered them, melted through them like acid on parchment. They never even had a chance.
"Retreat!" The same demon commander duke, who was previously ordering the front section of the troops to bring back angel heads, now screamed in panic. "Their magic is a direct counter to our own. Form ranks and retreat! FORM—"
An angel with seven pairs of wings fell upon him—a girl, no older than a human teen, laughing as she slaughtered through the demon defense lines as if she were dancing. Her scimitar-shaped blades glowed brightly as they kept severing the demons' limbs and heads, even fatally damaging their souls, leaving them no chance for revival of any kind. She wasn't just killing demons—she was massacring them. Even the highborns, demon nobles who'd ruled layers and sections of Hell for eons, fell to her like insects to a grinder.
The demons had numbers. They had strength. They had the home advantage.
But the angels… they had something else on their side now. Divinity. And by the time the demons figured that out, it was too late. These weren't just elite fighters anymore—they were being backed by a god. A New God, to be exact.
And this wasn't some watered-down, ceremonial kind of power, the kind flaunted by minor deities lounging around Omnipotence City. No—this was raw, weaponized divine energy, shaped by the angels' own unique nature. These angels weren't just mercenaries like the demons assumed, and they sure as hell weren't the passive, halo-wearing guardians humanity liked to imagine. They were reengineered living weapons, built for combat. And like their new master intended, they were fully prepared to wage a 'holy' war... just for him.
The bull-demon had also been injured quite a lot—he'd tried to ambush an angel knight mid-duel, thinking her attention was locked on the demon king she was clashing with. Big mistake. She had five pairs of wings and reflexes sharp enough to read thoughts. Her golden hunting dagger blade had effortlessly gone through his leg like a plasma cutter through steel. Now, he was limping through the battlefield, eyes darting, searching for any way out of what felt like a waking nightmare.
"Maybe this is just Lady Nightmare messing with us again as a prank… or maybe Lord Mephisto caught wind of the demon kings' little coup attempt and decided to drop the hammer," he hopefully muttered to himself, dragging his broken limb through the scorched terrain. Flames erupted across the valley, only to be drowned in a blinding tidal wave of light that split the land like a fault line.
"Surrender, angels—and I'll spare you and your so-called god," came a guttural voice that shook the battlefield. It was Abaddon, the Knight of Hell, a force of destruction incarnate. Even the demon nobles gave him respect out of fear since it was common knowledge that he had the power to keep even demon lords and kings in check to maintain Mephisto's rule over them. He had crushed entire legions single-handedly during wars between realms. And it looked like he was doing quite well for himself today, too, since around him lay a dozen fallen angels, their radiant armor cracked, small black hell-forged daggers still lodged in their chests.
But the moment his challenge rang out, the skies seemed to freeze. A twelve-winged angel—clearly their Queen—lifted her hand. Her expression wasn't rage. It was colder than that. "Heresy!" she yelled, her voice like a blade. Then came the beam—a titanic column of gold, searing and pure, as if the heavens themselves had passed sentence. Abaddon barely managed a bellow before the light consumed him and a thousand other demons, wiping them all out in a single strike. His body exploded mid-air uncontrollably as if he were merely a bubble about to burst, scattering blood, shadow, and ash... It was pathetic.
The angels' formation was perfect, their movements effortless. They moved in sync, no hesitation, no wasted motion. While the demons bled and screamed and died, the angels looked like they were having fun. They sang battle hymns like maniacs as they ploughed through demons like wheat in a wheatfield. Even the angels who were severely bleeding or missing entire body parts didn't look like they cared too much about their condition. The strange golden aura enveloping their bodies seemed to be helping them, keeping them alive for longer than they should be, while passively healing them, not even letting them experience the full brunt of pain from their injuries.
"I see... We never even had any chance to begin with." The demon-bull laughed in self-pity as he watched an eight-winged angel advancing towards him with a bloody sword in her hand, her eyes not leaving his as if he were her prey. "All of it really was just one big foolish dream." He muttered one last time in a depressed tone as his vision darkened the next second. In the last second of his life, he had finally realized the truth of this war, that this wasn't even a war to begin with. It was just a purge.
These 'winged creatures' weren't angels. They were the literal embodiment of dominance and annihilation, clad in a radiant form. The world had played a joke on demons, on the realm of Hell itself. And these agents of utter destruction were just there to laugh in their inhuman faces while simply cleaning up the 'trash'.
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(A/N:Just want to randomly rant on why all MANHWAs and MANHUAs are always SO damn racist and predictable. As a matter of fact, I have yet to read a single Manhwa or Manhua where a foreign citizen of another country isn't either racist, stupid, or just straight-up evil. The only people who seem to be smart, just, and patriotic are always the citizens of the nation the MC is from. Honestly, this is the reason why reading Manga is so much easier on my brain. Chinese fanfictions have always been bad in this regard, but those Manhwas and Manhuas aren't doing any better as well.)
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