The garden was no longer a battlefield.
It was Hell itself pulled into Rome.
The ground split and burned under the sheer weight of their presence. The marble fountains cracked, and the statues of saints wept molten stone. Above it all, five monstrosities towered — no longer cloaked in their fragile human disguises, but revealed as the Lords of Damnation.
Kimaris, Marquis of the Shadow Tide, stretched his gaunt frame, his torso woven from the tide itself, his arms a living ocean of black shadows. Waves of shadow crashed with every gesture of his claws.
Valefar, Duke of Treachery, looked almost human save for the endless mouths along his back, whispering lies in every language of men. Chains dangled from him, pulling at invisible necks, like a thousand betrayed souls dragged behind him.
Raum, the Thief of Thrones, spread raven wings that eclipsed the moonlight. His beak dripped black ichor, and his talons clutched invisible crowns, mockeries of kings long dead.
Andras, the Murderer of Angels, appeared like a knight clad in rusted iron, his helm cracked open to reveal a beast's snarling maw. Every step he took carried the sound of clashing wings — wings he had torn off Heaven's soldiers and worn as trophies.
And last — Aim, Serpent of Burning Iron, whose bisected corpse had rebirthed itself into a nightmare: three heads twisting together — the man smiling cruelly, the viper hissing endlessly, and the panther growling low. His body glowed like a forge, veins pulsing molten metal, flames searing the grass where he crawled.
The earth buckled. Knights of the Vatican rallied in a circle, shields raised high, while priests thrust relics forward, beams of sacred light clashing against the overwhelming demonic aura. Aurelius carved lines of reality itself, teleporting in and out, forcing the monsters back, but even his power was strained.
And then — in the midst of chaos — voices of men rose above the screams.
The Patriarch of Constantinople pointed at the Pope, his face red with fury.
"This is your fault! You let Rome become a nest for demons! The Orthodox Church warned of corruption, and now—"
Martin Luther slammed his fist against a column, shouting back,
"No — it's you papists, blinded by gold and indulgences! Your rot opened the gates, not us!"
The Pope himself snarled, spittle flying,
"Heretic! Without the keys of Peter, your kind would have already bowed to Satan's throne! You dare—"
"SHUT UP!" Aurelius's voice roared like a thunderclap.
His daggers split the air, cracks of dimension scattering sparks of light. "If you don't want to be devoured, then PRAY! Use your relics! Use EVERYTHING!— or this night becomes your last!"
The ground shook again, the five demons advancing, their laughter booming across the ruins. Priests faltered, knights trembled, even the bishops hesitated.
And then Martin Luther — pale, sweating, but trembling with a strange sort of resolve — tore open his robes and dragged out a relic from beneath his tunic.
"F*ck it," he muttered, holding it up high.
Everyone froze.
In his hands gleamed… the hammer of Saint Joseph.
A carpenter's hammer, plain and worn with centuries of use, yet shining with holy fire.
The Pope nearly choked on air.
"That… you dare wield—!"
But Luther had already swung it, slamming the relic into the ground. The earth quaked, shockwaves of divine resonance spreading like ripples, blasting back the tide of shadow for a heartbeat. The whispering mouths of Valefar hissed in agony.
The garden fell into a stunned silence — broken only by the inhuman laughter of the devils, who seemed almost amused.
Azazel gripped his pistols tighter, the words of his grandfather still in his mind.
He activated half of the powers of the Codex while reloading his pistols.