The blackened space trembled. Not from collapse.
From resistance.
From five beings refusing to yield.
Mephisto's divine form shook beneath their collective assault. Wings, once untouchable, now frayed and trembling. His robe was in tatters. Flesh of godhood peeled back, revealing something older. Uglier.
Not holiness.
Not divinity.
But arrogance rotting from within.
He screamed again, and the sound fractured the false sky, sending a rain of silver ash down upon the battlefield. Symbols danced in the air—holy glyphs, divine chains—but they burned and unravelled the moment they touched Asmodeus's flame.
Asmodeus was no longer roaring.
He was silent.
Utterly focused.
The axe in his hands trembled with restrained violence, its black flame coating his arms, licking his ribs, spiralling into the ground.
One by one, his wives flanked him again, breathing hard, covered in wounds, but their eyes burning.
Mephisto was panting.
Glaring.
Broken—yet not defeated.
