General Pierce stared at the feed, eyes wide with confusion. He watched Angelo tearing through angels one by one—laughing like a lunatic as divine bodies were ripped apart.
His hand shot to the radio.
"Vance, what the hell is going on down there?"
Colonel Vance tried to track Angelo's movements on the battlefield, but the boy was a blur—too fast to follow, too wild to predict.
"I think Angelo went rogue, sir," Vance reported, voice tight. "He's not responding to any commands."
A beat. Then, quieter, almost a whisper:
"He's… like a demon."
Pierce froze. Sweat gathered at his brow. His grip tightened around the radio until the plastic creaked.
"Vance."
"Waiting for your orders, General."
Pierce's eyes stayed glued to the soldier-mounted camera feeds—images of ruined streets, burning angels, and Angelo cutting through everything like a nightmare unleashed.
"Order everyone to keep their distance from Angelo," Pierce said slowly. "If things get worse… prepare to retreat."
"Understood, General."
Vance switched frequencies.
"All units—do NOT approach Angelo. Repeat, do NOT go near him. Maintain cover and fall back from his position."
Soldiers immediately pulled away from Angelo, ducking behind rubble and dragging the wounded. Some bodies, crushed or incinerated, had to be left behind in the destruction he carved through the streets.
Angelo tore past them like a living shockwave. Roads cracked beneath each step. He leapt from building to building, dragging angels out of the sky and slamming them into the earth with enough force to crater entire blocks. Those that survived were finished with chunks of debris—concrete slabs, steel beams, shattered pillars—thrown with impossible precision.
But the angels fought back.
They swarmed him from all directions, weapons of pure light—swords, chains, lances—cutting through the air.
Each weapon that touched Angelo shattered instantly, splintering like thin ice before dissolving into sparks.
Angelo's body glowed red-hot.
The air rippled around him.
Crimson flames danced along his arms but did not burn his skin.
Angel blood hissed and evaporated as soon as it touched him.
The cracked mark on his back showed through the destroyed armor—no longer pulsing, no longer glowing… just dark, devouring the light around it.
Angelo stood atop a collapsed building, dust still drifting through the air.
One angel shrieked and charged him, lance aimed at his heart.
Angelo was still laughing—mad, echoing through the ruined streets.
The lance hit his chest.
It shattered on impact, light breaking apart like brittle glass before dissolving into mist.
The angel froze—face twisted in terror. It hovered only an arm's length away, trembling, powerless.
Angelo's laughter tapered off, but the grin stayed, carved into his face like a wound.
He stepped closer. Each footfall melted the concrete beneath him, sending up smoke and the thick stink of scorched stone.
He leaned in beside the angel's ear. The heat of him blistered its skin. The divine being was too terrified to even twitch.
Angelo whispered, soft and venomous:
"Why don't you try running?"
A beat.
"I promise I won't chase you."
The angel did not look at him—only stared ahead, voice shaking.
"You… promise?"
Angelo stepped back.
The burning eased.
Still grinning, he nodded.
"I promise. You can run or fly wherever you like."
His expression darkened, grin widening.
"As long as I finish killing the rest of you."
The Angel gave a shaky nod and turned to flee.
Angelo didn't let it.
He seized both wings and tore them free in a single, brutal pull. Blood fountained from its back as it hit the ground screaming. The other Angels froze—none dared approach him now.
Before the wounded one could speak or crawl away, Angelo grabbed its legs. Flames erupted around his hands, burning straight through flesh and sinew until bone showed white beneath the fire. The scream that followed seemed loud enough to reach heaven itself.
Angelo didn't stop.
He pressed his flaming palms to the bleeding stumps on its back, sealing the wounds so it couldn't die—only suffer. The Angel sobbed beneath him, trembling, as Angelo laughed.
He didn't kill it. He simply made sure it could never go anywhere again.
Then his head snapped up—eyes locking onto the remaining Angels.
They didn't run. There was nowhere to run.
Weapons of light manifested in their hands—swords, spears, chains—each of them shaking as they charged.
Angelo didn't move.
He raised one arm toward them. A small, bright blue-white flame hovered above his open palm. The Angels screamed as they rushed in.
The flame flickered once.
Then it expanded—erupting into a blinding ray of concentrated fire. Everything in its path evaporated. The street, the rubble, the Angels—melted into nothing from Angelo's hand to the far edge of the city. A clean line of annihilation carved through the world.
When he closed his palm, the fireball winked out.
The battlefield lay blood-soaked and silent. Angelo stood at the center of the devastation—wrath given form. Angelic bodies lay broken in every direction. Wings severed. Bones crushed. Golden ichor sprayed across ruined stone.
Behind cover, soldiers stared with hollow eyes.
A single question lingered like a held breath:
What if he turns on us next?
Hale's voice cracked through the comms, loud with desperation.
"Angelo! Stand down! It's over! Do you hear me?!"
No response.
Angelo's dim silver eyes settled on the final Angel—a trembling wretch whose glow had nearly faded. He lifted it by the throat, flames curling around its body without burning.
"I gave you a chance to flee," he murmured, mockery dripping from every word. "Guess you didn't want to leave your comrades to die alone. Fine… I'll send you to them."
With a sharp twist, he tore off its head.
The body hit the ground. Flames clung to it, burning it away until nothing remained.
Slowly, the redness of Angelo's skin began to fade. The flames around his arms guttered… then died. The heat bled out of the air.
Hale's voice cut through the ringing silence.
"Angelo! Enough!"
The inferno within him flickered—then collapsed.
His knees buckled. He hit the scorched earth hard, gasping for breath. Soldiers hesitated, unsure whether to approach or brace for another outbreak.
Vance moved first.
He stepped beside Angelo and raised the radio. "General… what do I do with him? He looks—vulnerable."
Pierce watched the feed, sweat dripping down his temples. He finally leaned back, exhaling shakily.
"I don't think he's a threat anymore. Give him first aid. Bring him back… all of them."
"Understood." Vance signaled the medics forward.
"Check him. We move in thirty minutes."
As he walked back toward the vehicles, he switched channels.
"All units, treat the wounded and recover what you can. The mission's done—we're leaving in thirty."
The medics approached Angelo cautiously. One knelt beside him.
"Sir… are you alright?"
Angelo groaned, eyes drifting up to the smoke-blurred sky.
"No. Everything hurts. What… happened?"
"You obliterated them," the medic said quietly. "It was like watching a god of war unleashed."
"I don't remember," Angelo whispered. "Just… darkness. I'll deal with it later."
A stretcher arrived. They lifted him gently, securing him in place.
Hale's final orders echoed across the comms:
"Collect the fallen—both ours and theirs. Tag and transport. We're heading back."
The convoy rolled out under a heavy shroud of silence.
Ash clung to their boots.
Dried blood stained every plate of armor.
And in the heart of it all, Angelo lay still—drained, broken, and frighteningly quiet.