Soldiers stood at attention at the gates of Fort Blackspear, their faces carved with relief, shock, and confusion. Whispers trailed after Angelo's stretcher like a shadow—reverence tangled with fear.
Inside the base, a different chaos erupted.
Infiltrators—angelic sympathizers—had been found in restricted sectors. Their eyes were wild, mouths frothing as they thrashed against restraints.
"We are the chosen! The light flows through us!"
"He will fall! The monster will be purged!"
Security teams dragged them away, but the damage was already done. Secrets had been exposed, and the rot ran deeper than anyone wanted to admit.
In the infirmary, Angelo lay enveloped in a symphony of pain—muscles torn, bones screaming, skin still faintly scorched. Grant arrived minutes later, concern shadowing his every step. He moved to Angelo's bedside.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"Like crap," Angelo groaned, trying—and failing—to shift his weight. "I think my regeneration… slowed. Maybe even stopped."
Grant's brow knotted.
"What happened out there? One moment you were pinned, and the next—you tore through every angel on the field."
"I don't remember," Angelo muttered. "Just voices. Screaming to kill. Then… darkness. When I woke up, the Lieutenant was shouting that it was over. And then the pain hit."
"You annihilated them," Grant said quietly. "Every single one. The camera I gave you survived. If you want to see—"
Angelo tried to sit up but flinched as the pain stabbed into him.
"Later," he breathed. "I just need… rest."
He settled back into the pillow—
And the world shifted.
A pressure slammed down on the base, dense and suffocating. The floor trembled. Walls groaned. Lights flickered violently.
Every conversation died mid-word.
Every soldier froze.
Grant grabbed the bedframe as the air itself seemed to tilt.
"What… is this!?"
Angelo felt it too—cold, ancient, unmistakable.
His face drained of color.
He didn't need to see to know.
Far from the base, reality tore open with a sound like steel screaming. From that wound in space stepped two figures.
One—a towering giant with horns curling like twisted branches, each step making the earth recoil.
Beside him—a pale girl with broken shackles dragging at her wrists, walking as if the world itself bowed beneath her feet.
And behind them…
An army.
Twisted creatures. Armored wraiths. Beings that slipped from shadow to shadow like living nightmares.
They marched in silence.
Inevitable.
Angelo's pulse spiked.
He knew this presence.
He had felt it once before—at fifteen.
His blood ran cold.
Alarms erupted across Fort Blackspear. Officers shouted orders. Boots thundered against metal flooring.
None of it mattered.
The pressure didn't fade. It grew thicker, heavier—wrapping the entire base like an invisible shroud. It squeezed breath from lungs and clawed across nerves like barbed wire.
This wasn't fear.
This was dread made manifest.
In the command center, General Pierce's hand trembled as he steadied himself on the table. His voice, though steady, carried the sharp edge of terror as he barked into the radio:
"Everyone to battle stations! This is not a drill! I repeat—this is not a drill! Prepare for the worst!"
Down in the medical wing, despite the lingering pain, Angelo pushed himself into a sitting position. Muscles still burned from the last encounter, but it wasn't the soreness that weighed him down. It was the pressure in his chest—cold, oppressive, ancient. A presence he couldn't ignore.
Grant was already watching. Arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes rare in their expression: unease. The moment Angelo made to stand, Grant stepped forward.
"What are you doing? You need to rest," he said, voice trying to be firm—but the tremor in it betrayed him.
Angelo didn't stop. He moved past him slowly, each step strained yet deliberate.
"You don't get it," he muttered, eyes fixed ahead. "That presence—what you're all feeling—it's not just stronger than the Watchers or the Angels… it's older. Deeper. I don't even think it's alive in a way we understand."
The hallway outside had erupted into chaos. Soldiers sprinted to positions, radios crackled with overlapping orders, alarms blared like warnings from the world itself. Civilians pressed into corners—some sobbing, some praying, most frozen in stunned silence. A child clung to a woman's leg, eyes wide and dry, too terrified to cry.
Angelo passed them like a shadow, their panic brushing against him as he moved. The further he went, the clearer it became—this wasn't just fear. It was hopelessness. Despair hung thick, spreading faster than orders, suffocating instinct. Whatever was coming, they weren't ready. And they wouldn't survive it.
Pain surged with every step, fire in his muscles, but he pressed on.
Finally, he reached the corridor where his family waited—just beyond a security checkpoint. Olivia and Alex were speaking with a guard, voices hushed, movements tense. Both were on edge, eyes flicking toward every sound.
Alex's gaze landed on Angelo first. His face hardened.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he snapped. "I think I told you not to show your face—"
"Shut up and listen!" Angelo's voice erupted through the hallway like a thunderclap. The sheer force silenced his family and nearby guards alike. Even the child's sobs paused.
"What you felt earlier—that pressure—it wasn't me," Angelo said, voice rough with urgency. "I know what you think of me, but this… this is something else. Something worse."
Alex's lip curled.
"You expect us to believe that? After everything? You think we don't see it—what you're becoming?"
"Let me finish!" Angelo snapped again, stepping forward. "Just this once… trust me. I beg you."
Olivia placed a hand gently on Alex's arm, holding it tight.
"Alex… maybe we should listen."
Angelo exhaled slowly. His voice lowered, controlled but heavy with emotion.
"You all need to leave. Hide. Get as far away from this base as you can. Something's coming. They'll be after me—but anyone nearby… anyone who gets in their way… won't survive."
From the next room, the rest of the family emerged. James, Emma, and Sophia stepped into the hall, drawn by the commotion. James approached, furrowing his brow as he looked between Olivia, Alex, and Angelo.
"What's going on?" he asked. "Is it more angels?"
Angelo met his gaze, steadying his voice.
"It's worse. I don't know what they are, but they're coming—and fast. I need to lead them away before it's too late."
Sophia's eyes weren't on him at first. They were distant, focused on something only she could perceive. When she finally spoke, it was quiet but firm.
"He's right," she whispered. "Something terrible has crossed into our world."
A stillness fell. Distant sirens became muffled, as if another reality had pressed against their own. For a heartbeat, all that existed was the tight hallway, the flickering lights, and the unspoken truth—they might never be together again.
"I'm going to draw them away," Angelo said. "I'll head the other direction. If I can keep them chasing me, maybe you can escape."
They said nothing. Fear had silenced all words. He looked at each of them—Alex's clenched fists, Emma's wide, frightened eyes, James's furrowed brow—and then at Olivia's trembling hands, the scar she bore from trying to stop him from hurting himself.
Guilt surged, nearly buckling him.
"This might be the last time I see any of you," he admitted, voice cracking slightly. "I'm sorry. For all of it. For the fear. For the pain… for being the reason this nightmare started."
He turned away, steps slow and staggering, yet deliberate. The silence behind him was unbearable.
Then a soft voice cut through like a blade.
"… I'm sorry, my son."
He stopped cold.
Olivia stepped forward, tears glimmering.
"I should not have feared you," she whispered. "I see that now."
Angelo's head tilted slightly, eyes wet. A fragile smile curled his lips.
"Thank you," he murmured.
Without another glance, he walked away—slowly swallowed by the cold, flickering corridor.
The storm awaited him.
— End of Arc II —