Third Person POV
The armies faced each other across the scorched plains of the Underworld's deepest reaches.
Heaven's Host stood in perfect formation, thousands of angels arranged in battle groups, their armor reflecting holy light, their weapons blessed and ready.
At their front stood Yahweh, the Biblical God, creator of angels and architect of Heaven itself. His white robes were pristine, his staff of ancient wood resting in his hands.
He looked tired.
Michael noticed it immediately. Standing just behind his Father, the Seraph of Creation could see what others might miss. The slight tremor in Yahweh's hands, the way he leaned more heavily on his staff than usual, the dimness in light that should have been blinding.
"The sealing cost him more than he's letting on," Michael thought, concern tightening his chest. "Much more."
Across the battlefield, the Devil army waited. Tens of thousands of devils arranged in their own formations, commanded by the four Satans.
At their front stood Lucifer—twelve black demonic wings spread wide, a dark mirror of what he'd once been.
Michael looked at those three other Satans. Leviathan. Beelzebub. Asmodeus.
He'd known them. Before the Fall. Before everything went wrong.
Leviathan had been gentle once. Had sung in the choir with a voice like flowing water. Beelzebub had been curious, always asking questions about Creation. Asmodeus had been warm, affectionate, the first to comfort anyone in distress.
Now they were enemies. Satans. Leaders of Hell's forces.
"How did we get here? "Michael wondered, not for the first time. "How did our family become this?"
"Michael." Yahweh's voice was quiet. Only for him. "When this begins, don't hold back. Fight with everything you have."
"Father, I—"
"Promise me." Yahweh turned slightly, and Michael saw something in those ancient eyes. Not just tiredness. Farewell.
Michael's throat tightened. "I promise."
Yahweh nodded. Then he looked to where Gabriel stood with her legion, to where Azrael and Metatron prepared, to where Kokabiel waited at the rear.
"Take care of each other," Yahweh said quietly. "When I'm gone, take care of each other."
Before Michael could respond, Lucifer's voice rang across the battlefield.
"Yahweh! Surrender and spare their them from the slaughter " The words were both arrogant and condescending. "It doesn't have to be this way!"
Yahweh stepped forward, staff tapping against scorched earth. "No, Lucifer. It didn't. But you made your choice, my foolish son. And I made mine."
"Don't call me that!" Lucifer's voice cracked. "I stopped being your son the moment you cast me out!"
The distance between them closed. Twenty meters. Ten. Five.
They stood face to face now. Creator and creation. Father and son.
"You never stopped being my son," Yahweh said gently. "I never stopped loving you, Lucifer. Even now. Even here."
For just a moment, Lucifer's expression cracked. Something vulnerable showed through, the angel he'd been before pride and rebellion consumed him.
The son who'd once stood at God's right hand and loved him without reservation.
Then pride sealed it away. His face hardened.
"Then you're a fool," Lucifer said coldly.
Behind them, both armies tensed. Weapons raised. Power gathered
.
Yahweh raised his staff.
Lucifer's darkness coalesced into a blade.
"For peace!" Yahweh's voice carried across both armies. "For the future! For those we've lost and those we protect! Charge!"
"FOR PEACE!" Heaven's Host roared.
The Devil army answered with their own cry—darker, filled with malice and hunger.
[Advocate of Gender Equality: this is like watching a fantasy cinema. Only this one is real.]
[Flash Goddess: Watch closely. This is what war is.]
The two armies collided.
And in the center of it all, Yahweh and Lucifer began their final dance.
Lucifer moved first. Not because he was faster, but because he was eager. Desperate. This moment, this chance; he'd been waiting millennias for it.
His blade of condensed darkness cut toward Yahweh's heart. Not just to kill. To prove.
To show that the creation could surpass the creator. That rebellion could defeat order.
That free will could overcome predestination.
Yahweh's staff rose to meet it.
The clash sent shockwaves rippling outward. Angels and devils nearby were thrown back, their ears bleeding from the pressure. The ground cracked in a perfect circle around them.
For a moment, they were locked. Blade against staff. Darkness against light.
"You're slower," Lucifer breathed, feeling it. Sensing the weakness. "The sealing. It cost you everything, didn't it?"
Yahweh didn't deny it. Just adjusted his grip, shifted his weight. His movements were still precise, still technically perfect.
But they lacked the overwhelming power that had once made him invincible.
"Everything I did was necessary," Yahweh said calmly.
"Necessary?" Lucifer pushed harder. His blade inched closer to Yahweh's chest. "You sacrificed yourself for what? For these insects?"
He gestured at the warring armies with his free hand. "They'll turn on each other the moment you're gone! Your precious peace will crumble!"
"Perhaps." Yahweh's staff held firm despite the pressure. "But they'll have the choice to do better. That's all any creator can give, the choice."
"You and your choices!" Lucifer snarled. "Your free will! Look where it got me! Look where it got all of us!"
He broke the deadlock with a burst of power. His blade came at Yahweh from a different angle—low, aimed at the legs.
Yahweh stepped back. His staff swept down to block.
He was fast enough. Almost.
Lucifer's blade caught his staff at an angle that sent splinters flying. A hairline crack formed in the ancient wood.
And Lucifer's follow-up—a winged strike that came like a blade, caught Yahweh across the ribs.
The impact sounded like thunder. Yahweh slid backward, his feet carving deep trenches. His robes tore where the wing had struck.
Beneath them, golden blood welled up.
Lucifer froze. Stared.
For millennia, he'd fought him. Fought and lost and fought again. Wounds he'd inflicted had healed before his eyes. Power he'd thrown had been absorbed like rain into an ocean.
Now? Now Yahweh bled. And the wound stayed open.
"You really are dying," Lucifer said. His voice was strange. Complex. Not triumph, something more complicated. Horror mixed with vindication. Grief mixed with satisfaction.
Yahweh straightened despite the pain. His hand pressed against his side, golden blood seeping between his fingers.
"Yes," he said simply. "I am."
"Then why?!" Lucifer's composure cracked completely. His voice rose, breaking. "Why come here when you're already know you'll die?!
You could have stayed in Heaven! Lived your last days in peace! Why throw your life away like it means nothing?!"
Yahweh's expression softened. That gentle look that Lucifer remembered from before everything went wrong.
"Because this is the only way the war ends," Yahweh said quietly. "Because my death gives all of you the chance for something better. Because I love you too much, all of you, to let this continue."
"LIAR!" Lucifer roared. Pain and rage and grief all mixed together in that single word. "If you loved us, you wouldn't have cast us out! If you loved me, you wouldn't have—"
His blade lashed out. Pure emotion given form.
Yahweh raised his staff to block. The impact drove him to one knee. The crack in his staff widened, spreading like lightning across the wood.
Lucifer pressed his advantage. Another strike. Then another. Each one faster, harder, more desperate.
Yahweh blocked. Parried. Deflected. But each impact cost him more. The wound in his side spread. More golden blood pooled on the scorched earth.
"Fight back!" Lucifer screamed. "Stop just defending! Fight me like you mean it!"
"I am fighting," Yahweh said. "Just not the way you want me to."
His staff caught Lucifer's blade and redirected it. The motion created an opening. Yahweh's palm struck Lucifer's chest—not hard, but precise.
Divine light poured into the impact point.
Lucifer was thrown back. Not far. Maybe five meters. But when he landed, his armor was smoking. A handprint seared into his chest plate.
He touched it. Felt the burn beneath.
"You can still hurt me," Lucifer said, something like wonder in his voice. "Even weakened, you can still—"
"I never wanted to hurt you," Yahweh interrupted quietly. He was still on one knee, blood still flowing. "I only ever wanted you to choose something better."
"Better?!" Lucifer's laugh was broken. "You wanted us to be slaves! Perfect, obedient slaves who never questioned! Never doubted! Never wanted more!"
"I wanted you to have free will," Yahweh corrected. "Even knowing it would lead to this. Even knowing some of you would choose to leave. That was the gift, the ability to choose. Including the ability to choose wrong."
Lucifer charged with a roar of fury that shook the underworld. No more words. Just fury and grief and three millennia of conflict condensed into pure violence.
His blade became a blur. High, low, left, right. Every angle of attack. Every technique he'd learned over eons of warfare.
Yahweh met each strike. His staff was cracking further with each impact, but it held. His movements were still economical, still perfect.
But he was slowing. Visibly slowing.
Lucifer saw it. Felt it. The fight was turning.
[The Fool: I can feel it even through the stream. God is weakening.]
[Last Master of Humanity: Why isn't anyone helping him?! The other angels should—]
[Shadow Monarch: Because this is personal. This is between Creator and creation. Father and son. No one can interfere.]
Lucifer's blade found an opening and slipped past Yahweh's guard. Cut across his shoulder.
More golden blood flowed. The wound was deep.
Yahweh's grip on his staff weakened. His left arm hung lower, less responsive.
"This is it," Lucifer breathed. "This is actually it. After everything... I'm going to win."
He should have felt triumphant. Victorious. This was everything he'd fought for.
So why did it feel like losing?
****
Michael saw his Father's blood hit the ground. Saw him stumble. Saw the wound across his shoulder that wasn't healing.
Something inside him broke.
He stood thirty meters away, and in front of him stood three Satans. Three beings who'd once been his brothers.
Leviathan noticed his expression. Saw something in his eyes that made her step back instinctively.
"Michael?" Her voice was uncertain. "You look... Different."
Michael's flames erupted.
Not the controlled fire he'd been taught. Not the measured power he'd practiced for millennia. Something that came from a place beyond technique.
The heat was immediate and intense. Devils nearby stumbled back, their skin blistering. Angels in his own ranks created distance, recognizing that Michael wasn't in control anymore.
"Michael," Beelzebub said carefully. They'd been friends once. Brothers in arms. "You need to calm—"
"Don't." Michael's voice was flat. Empty. Wrong. "Don't tell me to calm down."
He moved.
The distance between them evaporated. One moment Michael was ten meters away, the next his sword was cutting toward Beelzebub's chest.
The Satan raised his guard. His plague-infused insect power should have created a barrier that rotted anything it touched.
Michael's holy fire burned through it like it wasn't there.
His blade caught Beelzebub across the chest and cut deep through armor. The sword opened him from shoulder to hip.
Beelzebub's scream was filled with pain. The kind of sound that came when regeneration failed and real death became possible.
"Brother!" Asmodeus moved to intercede.
Brother. They still called each other that. Despite everything. Despite the Fall and the war and the millennia of killing. Some words stuck.
Michael's fist caught Asmodeus in the throat mid-word. Not just a punch, a strike infused with compressed divine fire. The kind of technique that was considered excessive. Brutal. Forbidden in sparring.
Asmodeus's throat collapsed. His windpipe crushed. His jaw dislocated with a sickening crack. He fell, choking, unable to scream because his airway was destroyed.
[Advocate of Gender Equality: HOLY SHIT DID HE JUST....]
[Shadow Monarch: Crushed his throat. Brutal but effective.]
[Flash Goddess: That's not the kind and gentle Michael we've been hearing about. That's someone else entirely.]
Leviathan created distance immediately. Water formed defensive barriers—three layers deep, each one capable of stopping Satan-class attacks.
Michael walked forward. His flames preceded him. The water didn't boil. It just evaporated. Gone before he reached it.
"Michael, stop!" Leviathan's voice cracked. "This isn't you! This isn't—"
"Isn't what?" Michael interrupted. His eyes were wrong. Too bright. Flames literally dancing in his pupils. "Isn't appropriate? Isn't how the gentle Seraph should fight?"
He was close now. Close enough that Leviathan could see her reflection in his burning eyes.
"Father is dying over there," Michael said. Each word precise. Controlled. Which made them more terrifying. "He's bleeding out while fighting Lucifer. Your leader. The one you chose over us."
"We didn't, it wasn't," Leviathan struggled for words.
"You were my sister," Michael continued, and now there was something in his voice. Something broken.
"All of you. We sang together. Trained together. Protected and loved each other. And then you left. You chose pride and freedom over family."
"You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly." Michael's flames surged hotter. The barriers shattered like glass.
"I understand that after today, I'll be alone. Father will be dead. Kokabiel will leave because he can't bear to stay.
Gabriel will be traumatized by what she's had to do here. And I'll have to hold Heaven together by myself."
Leviathan tried to create more barriers. Michael was already inside her guard.
"So forgive me," he said quietly, his hand closing around her throat, "if I'm not feeling merciful."
Holy fire poured directly into her from his palm. Not an attack from outside—an infusion from within. Burning her from the inside out.
Leviathan screamed in pain. The kind of sound that made other devils stop fighting and stare.
Michael released her. She fell, clutching her throat, smoke rising from between her fingers.
Beelzebub was trying to rise. His chest wound wasn't healing properly—holy fire had seared it shut but the damage was catastrophic.
"Stay down," Michael said.
Beelzebub didn't. Tried to stand. Tried to raise his guard.
Michael's foot caught him in the chest. The impact sent him flying backward, crashing through a group of fighting devils.
Asmodeus was crawling. Still couldn't breathe. His throat a ruined mess.
Michael walked past him. Didn't even look down.
"Father is dying. I can feel every drop of his blood that hits the ground. Every wound Lucifer inflicts. I feel all of it."
He raised his hand. Fire gathered around him. A sphere of divine flame that grew and grew. Until his entire form was engulfed in flames.
This was Michael at his full strength. Even Kokabiel would not underestimate this form despite his powers. He sighed and looked away, sad that his kind and gentle brother had become so broken with sorrow.
The three Satans saw it. Recognized what was coming.
They gathered their remaining demonic power. Created a combined barrier. The strongest defense they could manage.
Michael released the attack.
The explosion carved a crater hundreds meters wide and deep. The shockwave knocked angels and devils both off their feet. The heat vaporized blood and scorched earth to glass.
When the flames cleared, the three Satans were still visible. Their barrier had held.
Barely.
All three were on their knees. Armor melted. Skin burned. Wings shredded.
Michael stood at the crater's center. Flames still dancing across his body. His own armor was cracked. Blood—his own—dripping from wounds he didn't remember receiving.
He looked at them. Three beings who'd been his siblings once. Who he'd loved. Who he'd trusted.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "For what you made me become."
Then he attacked again.
****
Gabriel had killed seventy-three Fallen Angels.
She knew the exact number because she counted each one. Remembered each face. Each name when she knew it.
Her sword, blessed with purity itself, a concept that burned corruption, cut through another Fallen's guard. The blade opened his chest. Shallow. Not immediately fatal.
He looked down at the wound. Then up at her. Confusion and pain mixing in his eyes.
"Sister Gabriel?" His voice was weak. Disbelieving. "You... you were always so kind. So gentle. What happened—"
Her blade took his head before he finished.
She knew him. Tamiel. He'd been part of the choir. Had a beautiful voice that could make even the strictest angels weep. Used to sing during evening prayers, his voice carrying hope and beauty.
Now he was just a corpse at her feet.
"I'm sorry, Tamiel. I'm so sorry. But I can't stop. Can't show mercy. Mercy gets my brothers and sisters killed."
Her legion moved with her. Two hundred angels in perfect coordination. They'd adapted to her new style. no more honorable single combat, no more measured responses. Just ruthless efficiency.
A Fallen commander tried to rally his forces. He was young by angelic standards—maybe a thousand years. Had likely been a low-rank choir member before the Fall.
"It's just Gabriel!" he shouted to his troops. "She's one angel! We outnumber her two hundred to one! We can—"
Gabriel's spear of light took him through the eye socket. Punched through his brain. He was dead before he registered the pain.
The Fallen around him stared. Their commander dead mid-sentence. Gabriel standing there with golden hair matted with blood, armor covered in gore, face serene.
Some broke. Just turned and ran.
Gabriel let them go. Focused on those who stayed.
"I've become efficient at killing. When did that happen? When did ending life become this easy?"
Another attacker. She recognized him too.
Baruch. Young. Eager. Had wanted to prove himself during the war. Always volunteered for dangerous missions.
"Sister, please!" He raised his hands in surrender. "I don't want to fight you! I don't want—"
Her wing snapped out. The edge caught his throat. Divine feathers cut cleaner than any blade.
Blood sprayed. He gurgled and fell down limply.
"That's wrong. His name was Baruch and he liked to paint. He'd show me his work and ask for feedback. He painted landscapes of Heaven with such love.
And I just killed him without hesitation."
[Girl Who Loves Reading: She's... this is destroying her. You can see it in how she moves.]
[Last Master of Humanity: Someone should stop this. She shouldn't have to—]
[The Fool: She's doing what needs to be done. Keep watching.]
Gabriel moved through the battlefield methodically. Her sword never stopped. Cut. Parry. Thrust. Block. Kill.
Her technique was perfect. No wasted energy. The result of three thousand years of training distilled into pure efficiency.
But her eyes were empty.
She saw a group ahead—Fallen Angels forming a protective circle around something. She moved closer to investigate.
Wounded. They were protecting their injured. Four Fallen standing guard over maybe a dozen who couldn't fight anymore.
It was exactly what Heaven's forces did. What she'd been taught to do. Protect the vulnerable. Guard the wounded.
Gabriel hesitated.
"They were angels once. Made the same choice I could have made if circumstances were different. They're protecting their own. Just like we do."
One of the wounded looked up. Met her eyes. Recognition dawned.
"Gabriel?" His voice was hopeful. Desperate.
She knew that voice. Nathaniel. He'd taught her a hymn when she was young. Had been patient with her when she couldn't get the notes right.
"Nathaniel," she said quietly.
"Sister!" His face lit up despite his injuries. "Sister, please. We surrender. We don't want to fight anymore. We just want—"
Her sword fell.
Nathaniel's hope turned to shock. Then to nothing as her blade opened his throat.
The protective formation broke. The guards stared at her in horror.
"You killed him!" one screamed. "He surrendered! He was wounded! You—"
Gabriel's response was to attack the formation.
Not with rage. Not with passion. Just methodical execution.
Her sword cut through the first guard. Seventy-seven. Her wing sliced the second. Seventy-eight. Her light spear impaled the third and fourth together.
Then she turned to the wounded. Twelve Fallen Angels who couldn't defend themselves. Who were looking at her with terror and betrayal.
"You were always kind," one whispered. He was missing a wing. Barely conscious. "What happened to you?"
Gabriel didn't answer. Couldn't answer.
"I became what Heaven needed me to be. I became the monster that kills so others don't have to."
Her sword moved. Methodical. Efficient. Merciful in that she made it quick.
She stood among the bodies. All Fallen Angels who'd once been her siblings. Her family.
Her hands weren't shaking. That was the worst part. They should have been shaking. She should have been crying, screaming, breaking down.
Instead, she just cleaned her blade and moved to the next target.
"Father is dying. Brother Kokabiel is leaving. I need to be strong. I need to be what they need me to be.
Even if it kills what I was."
Another group ahead. More Fallen Angels. She moved toward them.
She stopped counting after one hundred. The numbers stopped mattering.
All that mattered was ending this. Getting through this day. Surviving so she could fall apart later when no one was watching.
****
Azrael and Metatron were facing the seven deadly sins.
Azrael's scythe cut through Sloth's essence. The demon dispersed—not destroyed, but disrupted. It would reform. Eventually.
"These conceptual beings are problematic," Azrael thought, maintaining his guard.
"Physical attacks only delay them. We need to target their philosophical foundations."
Beside him, Metatron was struggling. As Heaven's Scribe, his role was administrative. Combat was secondary. He'd trained, yes, but his strength lay in recording, analyzing, maintaining Heaven's systems.
Not fighting manifestations of sin itself.
Greed attacked. Not physically—conceptually. The demon's power manifested as desire. The overwhelming want for more. More power. More life. More everything.
Metatron's barrier held against the physical component. But the conceptual assault bypassed it entirely.
He felt it. The sudden hunger. The need. The greed for power that wasn't his.
"No," he gasped, divine energy burning just to maintain his sense of self. Angels had resistance to conceptual corruption, but resisting cost energy. Every second fighting the assault was energy not spent on defense.
Gluttony sensed the weakness. Attacked.
This demon's power was consumption. The desire to devour everything. To make it part of yourself.
Its attack manifested as hunger. The need to consume. To take. To make everything yours.
Metatron's barrier cracked. He poured more power into it. It held on barely.
Then Lust attacked. Pink energy that promised pleasure. Release. Surrender. An end to the struggle.
Metatron's concentration wavered. Just for a moment. Just a heartbeat.
It was enough.
The barrier shattered.
Gluttony's follow-up hit him in the side. The demon tried to consume Metatron's divine essence. To devour what made him angelic and incorporate it.
The pain was indescribable. The sensation of being unmade from the inside. Of your very existence being digested.
Metatron screamed in pain .
Azrael was there immediately. His scythe bisected Gluttony mid-attack. The demon dispersed, its concentration broken.
"Stay with me, brother." Azrael ordered, pulling Metatron back.
Metatron clutched his side. The wound was wrong. Reality itself was distorted there—space and flesh mixing in ways that shouldn't be possible. Like Gluttony had tried to eat the space where his body should be.
"I'm fine," Metatron gasped through clenched teeth. He wasn't.
Four Sins remained: Wrath, Pride, Envy, Gluttony. And they were learning. Adapting to angelic tactics.
"We're losing this fight, Azrael realized with cold clarity. Slowly but inevitably."
Wrath's aura expanded. Red energy that imposed fury on everything it touched. The desire to destroy. To kill indiscriminately.
Azrael felt it wash over him. Felt sudden rage. The urge to attack everything. Friend and foe alike.
He pushed back with divine will. Drew on three millennia of discipline and control. The rage receded.
But it cost him. More energy burned just to remain himself.
"You cannot win," Pride's voice echoed from everywhere and nowhere. The demon had learned not to maintain a single physical form. "We are eternal. We are concepts. How do you kill an idea?"
"By replacing it with a better one," Azrael said.
His scythe moved. Not cutting Pride's manifestation, but cutting at something deeper. The concept itself.
"Pride is the elevation of self above all else. To counter it, I must embody its opposite. Humility. Service. The willingness to be less."
He released his power. Not in an attack. Just released it. Let it flow out without trying to control or direct it.
His scythe moved again. This time, it connected with something that shouldn't be cuttable.
Pride's essence.
The demon felt it. Actually felt damage to its conceptual foundation.
"Impossible!" Pride's voice wavered. "You're just an angel! You can't affect—"
"Have you forgotten, demon? I am the angel of death." Azrael cut again. And again. Each strike targeting not the manifestation but the idea behind it.
Pride screamed. A sound that existed in minds rather than ears.
Then something fell from the sky.
A spear of compressed starlight. It moved so fast it seemed to teleport, just suddenly there, impaling Wrath through where its chest would be if it had maintained physical form.
The demon didn't just disperse. It was unmade. Its concept shattered into fragments that dissolved into nothing.
[Shadow Monarch: That attack crossed the entire battlefield. That's our guy alright.]
[The Fool: How much power does one angel have?]
Azrael looked up. Saw Kokabiel in the distance, his hand still raised from throwing.
"Thank you, brother. That bought us time."
He turned back to the remaining three Sins. The odds were better now.
"Where were we?" Azrael said.
Pride reformed cautiously. The demon had felt real damage for the first time. It was wary now.
Good. Fear was a weapon too.
Azrael attacked with renewed determination.
Kokabiel watched everything.
From his position at the rear, he had a clear view of the entire battlefield. Saw every major engagement. Felt every significant power spike.
His omniscience filled in the details he couldn't physically see.
Michael was burning himself out. Fighting with a desperation that would kill him if he kept it up. The Seraph had maybe ten minutes before his reserves ran dry completely.
Gabriel was breaking. Each kill cracked something inside her. She'd survive the day physically but psychologically? That damage would last.
Azrael and Metatron were losing ground. The conceptual Sins were wearing them down.
And Yahweh...
Kokabiel's jaw tightened.
He was dying. Slowly but inevitably. Each exchange with Lucifer cost more than Yahweh could afford.
"I could stop this. One attack. End Lucifer. Save him.
But that would break everything that comes after. The peace. The balance. All of it."
His hand moved. Casual. Almost lazy.
A spear materialized—starlight compressed into a weapon that weighed more than planets but moved faster than thought.
He threw it.
The spear crossed the battlefield in a heartbeat. A Devil commander flanking Michael's position exploded. Just gone.
Michael didn't notice. Too focused on his own battle.
"Idiot. You're going to burn yourself to ash."
Another spear formed. This one killed three Devils about to overwhelm Gabriel's flank. They didn't even see it coming. Just suddenly stopped existing.
A third spear. This one destroyed Wrath, supporting Azrael and Metatron.
Each casual gesture ended lives across the battlefield. His forces watched in awe and terror.
"Lord Kokabiel," a subordinate approached hesitantly. "Should we advance? Our forces could turn the tide on multiple fronts."
"Send three divisions forward," Kokabiel ordered without looking away from the battlefield.
"Reinforce Gabriel's position. Support Azrael and Metatron. Keep five divisions here with me."
"But my lord, that leaves us severely undermanned if—"
"Our enemy isn't in front of us," Kokabiel interrupted quietly. "Not yet."
The subordinate looked confused but knew better than to question Heaven's Wrath twice. He bowed and left to organize the deployment.
Kokabiel watched his forces split. Most moved to support the main battle. He remained with maybe five hundred angels.
Skeleton crew for a rear guard.
But he wasn't worried about the rear guard's strength.
He extended his senses eastward as he found it.
Divine power. Hindu pantheon signature. Multiple strong presences.
Arriving in Three minutes. Maybe less.
He shifted his attention back to the center of the battlefield. To where Yahweh and Lucifer fought.
He watched the being who'd given him purpose when he'd been a confused transmigrator drowning in angelic memories, fight his final battle.
"I'm sorry. But this is how it has to be."
The chat interface flickered.
[Advocate of Gender Equality: This is insane! Everyone's going all out! This is chaotic beyond imagination.]
[Flash Goddess: Michael is going to collapse soon. His energy signature is dropping rapidly.]
[Girl Who Loves Reading: Gabriel's kill count is over a hundred now. This is destroying her.]
[Last Master of Humanity: Why isn't anyone helping Yahweh?! He's dying!]
[The Fool: Because that's the point. This is a sacrifice play.]
Kokabiel closed the interface. Focused on the approaching signatures from the east.
"Rear guard!" His voice carried across his reduced forces. "Prepare for engagement!"
His soldiers looked around confused. There was nothing to the east. Just empty lands.
Then they felt it. Divine power. Wrong signature. Not angelic. Not devilish.
Something else.
"Battle positions!" Kokabiel commanded. "Now!"
They scrambled into formation. Five hundred angels against... he counted the approaching signatures.
Three thousand Devas. Twelve major Hindu gods. And Indra himself.
His forces formed up behind him. Disciplined despite their confusion. They trusted Heaven's Wrath even when they didn't understand.
The horizon shimmered.
A golden chariot appeared, pulled by horses that galloped through empty air. Divine radiance poured from it like water.
Standing on the chariot: Indra. No sunglasses today—his eyes crackled with divine lightning.
Beside him stood Rudra, god of storms. Behind them, other Hindu gods arranged in positions of power.
And behind them? An army. Thousands of Devas in divine armor, weapons blessed by their pantheon's power.
The chariot stopped maybe two hundred meters away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to retreat if needed.
Indra and Kokabiel stared at each other across the distance.
The King of the Devas and Heaven's Wrath.
"So," Indra called out, his voice carrying across the battlefield, "you're the one who killed the Dragon Emperors. I've been curious about you, Heaven's Wrath."
Kokabiel didn't respond. Just watched. Counted forces. Assessed power levels. Calculated probabilities.
Three thousand Devas. Average power level is high-to-ultimate class. Twelve gods at peak ultimate class. Indra himself is Satan-class or beyond it.
Against him and five hundred angels.
Kokabiel sighed. "Let's end this then."