The clash only worsened.
Maximilian's greatsword gleamed like a star with aura, Aurelius's daggers ripped seams through existence, the Pope's staff rained divine light, the Patriarch's relic blazed with angels, and Luther cursed and swung the hammer of Saint Joseph with raw fury, sending cracks of light through the night. Together, they held the line—barely.
But it was not enough.
The five lords of Hell still towered above them, their true forms warping the garden into a battlefield that bled into nightmare. Their voices carried over the din like bells tolling damnation. Raum's broken wings regenerated into jagged blades, black feathers now barbed with poison. Andras, even with hearts severed, howled with bloodlust, his gaping helm-jaw dripping fire. Kimaris's shadow tide kept spreading, swallowing corpses and birthing more horrors in forms of arms, legs, swords consisting of darkness. Aim laughed, molten iron spilling from his three mouths as he pressed with raw power. Valefar was more cunning, moved unseen, daggers of betrayal piercing knights' and nobles' backs before vanishing again.
And around them swarmed legions of lesser demons.
The knights who still stood were dragged into the dirt by fangs and claws. Priests screamed prayers as they were torn apart. The air itself stank of blood and sulfur. Even Aurelius, Maximilian, and the three leaders of the churches could not stop the tide.
Azazel fired until the pistols clicked dry, reloaded, fired again. His arms burned, his lungs heaved. He looked across the chaos and saw nothing but corpses piling higher. His stomach turned.
We can't win.
Moreover, he was running out of bullets.
The thought pierced through him like one of Raum's black feathers.
And then—
A voice cut through the battlefield.
"—Oi! You didn't think you'd fight the apocalypse without us, did you?"
Azazel whipped his head toward the ruined archway of the garden.
Figures poured through. Dozens of them, young but armed, their eyes blazing with fear and fire both. Disciples. The participants of the initiation trials.
Juan, his water-forged saber gleaming under moonlight, led the charge. Matteo followed, bow strung and already glowing with blessed light. Ino sprinted at their side, blade raised. Behind them came teams Azazel recognized and some he didn't—men and women from every corner of Europe, initiates in training, now baptized by fire.
They slammed into the ranks of lesser demons like a second wave. Blessed steel clashed with corrupted flesh. Arrows lit with holy oil streaked the night.
Juan shouted over the chaos, his grin wild:
"The Wardens sent us!"
Azazel's chest tightened with something he hadn't felt since start of this hell. Hope. He involuntarily smiled.
Juan threw Lucien's daggers and Azazel's bag.
"I thought you'd need it."
Azazel caught them with a surprised expression, quickly taking out a new box of bullets for pistols.
Matteo loosed an arrow, piercing a demon clean through its eye. "Looks like they were right!"
Ino, blade dripping, turned and smirked beneath the blood. "Guess initiation came early, eh?"
The arrival shifted the balance.
Azazel's smile dropped.
The sabre hit the floor loudly.
The world seemed to quiet itself.
Dull sounds of Hypathia's screams barely resounded in Azazel's ears.
"It's already nighttime, kids. Time to sleep," Valefar appeared from the underground, his tongue licking the cheek of trembling Juan, giggling.
Its demonic hand stretched out of Juan's chest.
But there was something the demon had overlooked.
Juan laughed, choking on his own blood:
"You foolish demon!"
Juan grabbed demons hand that was holding his heart.