The golden wall held.
It hummed in the silence, light pulsing outward like breath. Mephisto's scythe pressed against it, grinding sparks into the air, but it didn't break.
Alan stepped forward through the flame.
His boots hit the glass floor without a sound. The sword in his right hand glowed, faint but constant—an older light, quiet and clean, born from a time before gods bled into monsters.
Mephisto stared at him, unreadable.
"Another fool," he said, voice split in two.
Alan didn't answer. He raised his blade and slid into stance, one foot back, knees low. No aura flared. No war cry sounded. He simply waited.
Mephisto moved.
Faster than thought. A blur of black light and divine pressure.
Alan met him.
Their blades clashed—scythe against sword—and golden sparks scattered like fireflies across the dead sky. The force of impact shattered the space beneath them, sending waves across the glass surface. But Alan held his ground. He didn't push. He redirected.
