The first bullet pierced the night.
Then another. And another.
Azazel emptied both pistols into Kimaris's skull, the recoil hammering his arms, smoke curling in the moonlight. Each shot burst through shadow and bone, splattering black ichor across the garden. By the sixth bullet, the Marquis of Hell staggered, his once-perfect face torn and burning.
Kimaris reeled back, laughing through broken teeth.
"W–Weyer's pistols?" His voice shook, part fury, part disbelief. "So his toys survived. But—" His glowing eyes fixed on Azazel. "—you should have gone for the heart."
He lunged, a tidal wave of shadow.
But from behind the shattered shield, the Pope raised his staff high. The moment Kimaris loosened his grip to strike Azazel, the holy barrier surged. Three spears of light blasted from the staff, slamming into the chests of three demons. Their roars echoed like collapsing mountains.
Kimaris shrieked in fury, his leap halted.
"NOW!" Aurelius's voice cracked across the battlefield, pushing back the snake demon he was fighting.
He appeared beside Azazel in a flash, daggers materializing from nothing—blades forged of pure absence. He carved them through the air, and the world itself split: lines of fractured reality lingered in the wake of each stroke, black cracks that hummed with cosmic dread. Aurelius moved like a man swimming through dimensions, cutting through demons with unnatural grace. Every slash erased, every motion carved nightmares into existence.
As the three spears hit the demon lords, from big shadowy portals surged demon army. Knights could barely hold them back now.
The lesser fiends, hundreds of them, turned their bloodshot eyes to Aurelius. They swarmed—only to be torn apart as Aurelius flickered in and out of sight, daggers leaving trails of broken worlds behind him.
But then—two of the high-ranking demons bared their fangs and leapt forward, their weapons sparking against Aurelius's daggers. The ground quaked.
Aurelius gritted his teeth, eyes flickering silver. "Azazel! Run until you can!"
The boy froze. The words shook him to the core—but his heart rebelled. He couldn't just leave. His grip tightened around the pistols. He watched as the three church leaders split, each hurling themselves into combat against the rampaging demons. The garden erupted into a war of humans and demons.
Azazel's mind screamed: Help him.
He raised the pistols again. The barrels clicked empty. No more bullets.
Kimaris sneered, advancing. "Pathetic. Do you really think his relics make you his heir?" His black claws rose for the kill.
Azazel scrambled to reload, his hands trembling. The clips clattered, sweat stinging his eyes. Too slow—
And then—
Aurelius stopped. He closed his eyes. The air stilled.
Two demons surged to kill him from different sides.
He raised one dagger to his chest and whispered—not to God, not to saints, but to himself.
A prayer to his own soul.
The ground shuddered.
All the demons froze in an instant, even five high-ranking trembled trying to break free from dimensional suppression.
Light burst through the cracks of reality Aurelius had left behind, spilling into the night like molten rivers. His daggers glowed, his figure swelled with an otherworldly brilliance, as though the world itself bowed to his existence.
"Blade that splits the world,
Silence where light is hurled.
Grandmaster of the Ash.
Aurelius of the Rift,
I beg for the shift!"