The clash in the nave lasted only seconds—yet it felt like eternity.
Black flame and golden light collided at the heart of the cathedral in a silent explosion of opposing absolutes. The stained-glass windows shattered inward, raining colored shards like divine tears. The great organ pipes twisted and screamed as though alive. The marble floor cracked in radiating lines that glowed alternately black and gold.
Then—nothing.
The powers did not cancel each other. They simply… held. A trembling equilibrium suspended between two wills older than the stones around them.
Lucifer stood on the altar steps, six golden wings still spread, Lucian's small frame somehow containing their impossible span. His face—boyish, gentle—was serene.
Elias stood at the foot of the crossing, black flames licking upward in a perfect column around him, eyes pure black for a heartbeat before flickering back to his own.
Neither moved.
The High Prelates—those who had not already fled or fallen—chanted louder, desperate, their voices cracking on the high notes. Golden light pulsed from their raised staves, feeding into Lucifer's radiance like tributaries into a river.
Outside, the plaza crowd pressed closer to the open doors—drawn by the impossible light spilling out, by the sound like distant thunder rolling inside sacred walls.
Lucifer spoke first. His voice carried the layered resonance of both saint and fallen angel.
"You still think you can win with fire, brother?"
Elias answered through clenched teeth. "I don't need to win. I just need to show them."
He swept one arm outward.
The black flames did not attack Lucifer.
They raced outward—through the broken windows, through the doors, across the plaza like a tide of living night.
Where they touched, illusions shattered.
Golden banners that had fluttered with divine light now hung tattered and ordinary. Statues of saints that had seemed to weep holy tears revealed only rainwater stains. The very air around the watching crowd cleared—revealing the hidden inquisitors stationed among them, blades drawn, ready to silence doubters.
And in the minds of every soul present, a single truth burned:
The Light they worshipped had just tried to kill them all.
Screams rose—not of fear alone, but of betrayal.
Some fell to their knees in horror.
Others turned on the nearest white-robed figures, bare hands against steel.
Chaos bloomed in the plaza.
Inside, Lucifer sighed.
"You really are his vessel," he said almost fondly. "Stubborn. Destructive. Beautiful in your ruin."
He raised one hand.
The sky above the cathedral tore open.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
A jagged rift split the vaulted ceiling—daylight pouring through in an unnatural white-gold beam. Through the tear, shapes moved: vast, winged silhouettes descending in perfect formation. Angelic legions—hundreds, thousands—armored in light, swords of pure radiance drawn.
They poured downward like falling stars.
The rift widened.
Wind howled through the cathedral, whipping robes and banners. Candles snuffed out in unison.
Lucifer's wings flared brighter.
"Behold," he said, voice carrying over the gale, "Heaven's descent. The final purification."
The first angels touched ground in the plaza—boots of light cracking stone, wings beating hurricane winds that scattered the crowd. They raised swords toward the cathedral doors.
Inside, Elias felt the pressure change.
Abaddon surged—eager, ravenous.
Now, the demon said. Let me out.
Elias hesitated—one heartbeat.
Then he let go.
Black flames exploded outward—not in a column now, but in every direction. They raced up the walls, across the ceiling, through the broken windows. Where they met the descending angels, light shattered like glass. Winged figures faltered mid-flight, armor cracking, radiance dimming.
Elara moved at the same instant.
Water rose from every font, every baptismal basin, every hidden spring beneath the stone—forming spiraling columns that lashed at the angels like whips of black tide.
Behemoth roared.
Stone surged up from the floor—living rock flowing around the pillars, hardening into barriers that shielded the freed pagans who had pushed inside seeking sanctuary. His club swung in wide arcs; each impact sent shockwaves that cracked angelic breastplates.
Liora laughed—wild, joyous—and shadows erupted from every corner, every crack, every dark place the golden light could not reach. They coiled around wings, around throats, around swords—blinding, binding, suffocating.
The cathedral became a battlefield of primordials against heaven.
Outside, the plaza had become a war zone.
Angels clashed with the growing mob—pilgrims and hidden pagans who had finally seen the truth and chosen a side. Swords of light met improvised weapons; radiance met rage.
Elias stood at the center of it all.
His body trembled as Abaddon pushed harder—wanting more, wanting everything.
Let me finish it, the demon urged. One breath. One command. The city falls. The heavens fall. Everything falls.
Elias looked up—through the torn ceiling, through the rift, at the endless ranks still descending.
Then he looked at Lucian's face—still there, still visible behind the golden mask. A flicker of hazel. A plea.
Elias clenched his fists.
"Not yet," he whispered.
The black flames held—devastating but restrained.
The battle raged.
Heaven descended.
And somewhere far beyond the rift, an indifferent eye watched the spectacle unfold—pleased, patient, still waiting for the truly interesting part.
End of Chapter 20