*Morpheus pov*
Azrathos's head rolled on the floor where it belonged, a grin split my lips at the sight. He was far more troublesome than I first imagined.
"Drop the ward," I commanded after they didn't drop the anti-magic ward immediately
It still didn't drop.
Turning I looked at my 'allies', "You think you can kill me?" I asked looking around, "Betray me?" I questioned briefly
"You have doomed our entire race!" Maximillius spat, "Millions of innocents, and for what!"
I looked impassively at the man, "So what? Now are you going to step into the ward and try to kill me or are you going to drop the ward and maybe you can die fighting the angels."
One of the hit wizards sneered while stabbing his wand, "Avada Kedavra!" the green bolt of death dissipated immediately after it passed the ward line
I grinned brightly while spreading my arms wide a dagger in each hand, "Please, come and kill me."
*Narrator pov*
The battlefield above was eerily still for a moment. They didn't see Azrathos's massive form crumpled to the ground, the jagged remains of his severed head rolling to the side. The demon's blood soaked into the cracked earth, steaming with an unnatural heat.
But they couldn't feel it.
Then it hit them.
Across the canyon, demons staggered as a wave of emptiness washed over them. Their connection to Azrathos, once a constant thrum of power and command, had been severed. The lesser demons howled in confusion. The more intelligent ones snarled, their fury mingling with the sharp sting of panic. Azrathos was gone. Their leader, their pillar of strength, had been struck down.
At first, they kept fighting — driven by instinct and rage — but the rhythm of their assault faltered. Their cohesion cracked. Without Azrathos's presence, the sharp edge of their resolve dulled. Human forces, battered and exhausted, began to notice.
"They're slowing," a witch panted, clutching her scorched wand tightly. "They're not fighting like they were before."
An ICW commander, his robes torn and stained with soot, narrowed his eyes at the writhing mass of demons. "Azrathos," he said, realization dawning. "They felt him die."
"Push forward!" another shouted. "Break their line before they recover!"
The humans surged. Wizards and witches cast with renewed determination. Gouts of flame and sharpened stone rained down. Ice shards impaled demons, while golden shields shimmered to deflect the desperate return fire. Tactical squads moved like clockwork — hit wizards leading charges with devastating combat magic while battlecasters held defensive lines.
Healers dragged the wounded back from the chaos, their hands glowing with restorative spells. Cries of pain echoed through the canyon, but so too did the roar of defiance. The humans had endured.
Above, the angels' presence remained a constant, brilliant force. They streaked through the air in formation, gleaming wings cutting across the sky. Bolts of golden energy rained down from their hands, illuminating the blood-streaked earth. Yet without the relentless pressure of the demons bolstering their advance, even the celestial warriors found themselves struggling.
"Where is their command now?" one of the enforcers barked. "Who leads them?"
As if summoned by the very question, a ripple of divine energy surged through the air. The sky parted, and a figure descended — radiant and commanding.
Zackariah.
He hovered with an almost careless grace, his golden robes flowing with a breeze that did not touch the battlefield below. His short silver hair gleamed, and his eyes gleamed with amusement. Even the blood-stained sky seemed to brighten in his presence. But beneath the polished veneer was something unnerving — a mischievous gleam, a cunning sharpness that lingered in the curve of his smile.
"Well, well," Zackariah called, his voice carrying unnaturally through the canyon. "It seems the mighty Azrathos has fallen. What a shame. He had such… passion."
He clapped his hands together mockingly. "But, fear not, my dear friends. I'm more than happy to step in."
The demons stirred, their confusion giving way to something dangerous. They felt the power radiating from Zackariah, not the raw strength of Azrathos, but something more calculated. Controlled. Slowly, as if guided by invisible strings, the disjointed hordes aligned themselves.
"Good," Zackariah whispered, his grin widening. "Now let's see how much fun we can have."
With a flick of his wrist, the air rippled. The angels surged forward, their blades igniting with divine flame. Zackariah's voice rang out like a chorus. "Drive them into the depths! Tear down their wards! Let them feel the heavens break upon them!"
The battle reignited.
But this time, it was different.
The angels moved with surgical precision, their tactics shifting mid-air. Wings flared as they dove into the fray, weaving through the sky in perfect synchronization. Light burst from their weapons, forcing defensive spells to strain under the relentless assault.
Zackariah directed the demons with sharp, calculated orders. Where Azrathos had been a force of unstoppable destruction, Zackariah was a strategist. He used the terrain against the humans, commanding the demons to collapse rock formations and send avalanches crashing down. Dust storms blinded the defenders, breaking apart their lines.
Spellfire erupted from the canyon walls, but the demons, under Zackariah's guidance, adapted. They twisted through the chaos, overwhelming squads before they could regroup. Every hesitation, every slight misstep, was exploited without mercy.
Zackariah chuckled softly. "Oh, how delightful! Struggle for me, little mortals. Show me your resolve."
But then, the ground trembled.
A guttural hiss echoed through the canyon, it was primal in a sense. The shadows twisted unnaturally. From the jagged depths of the ravine, a massive form slithered into view. Emerald scales gleamed, each the size of a shield. Its yellow eyes burned with malice, and the air grew thick with the weight of its presence.
A basilisk.
It struck with terrifying speed. Massive fangs gleamed as it lunged, aiming directly at Zachariah.
The angel's laughter died. His wings flared, and he twisted mid-air, vanishing just as the serpent's jaws clamped shut. For a moment, it seemed as though the great beast had succeeded, the basilisk's fangs sinking into nothing but air.
Then, further above, Zackariah reappeared, a jagged tear in his once-immaculate robes. Blood trickled from his side, staining the golden fabric. He touched the wound, inspecting it with a curious smile.
"That was rude," he murmured, though his voice carried a twisted amusement.
Then his gaze flicked toward the basilisk. "But I must saying well played."
The basilisk coiled around blocking off a wide section of the canyon.
Zachariah's grin widened. "Welcome to the battle, Herpo."