The tunnels stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of stone
and shadow. Maxwell and Anthony pressed deeper, the faint glow of the priest's
flashlight throwing long, trembling shapes across the walls. Bones lay
scattered underfoot, crunching faintly with each step.
The silence pressed on Maxwell's nerves like a
physical weight. He gripped his sword tighter, every sense alive. His Nephilim
blood itched—warning him. Something was wrong. Something watched them.
Anthony's voice cut through the stillness. "You feel
it too, don't you?"
Maxwell didn't answer at first. He only nodded, eyes
scanning the endless darkness. "Yeah. Like we're being herded."
The priest exhaled, lips pressing into a thin line.
"Demons are predators, but cultists… they're architects. They lure, they build,
they prepare. If they know we're here, we'll be walking straight into their
hands."
"Then let's make sure we don't die in them," Maxwell
muttered, though his chest tightened at the thought.
They came to a set of carved stone doors, massive and
ancient. Strange symbols were etched into the surface—half Latin, half
something darker, unrecognizable. The doors were ajar. A low flicker of light
bled from within.
Anthony raised his crucifix and whispered a prayer
before pushing them open.
The chamber beyond was vast, cathedral-like. Torches
lined the walls, burning with an eerie, green-tinged flame that gave no warmth.
Dozens of hooded figures stood in a circle, chanting in unison, their voices
deep and guttural. At the center of the circle lay a massive stone altar,
blackened with dried blood.
Maxwell froze. The chanting wasn't random—it was
ritual.
Anthony's face went pale. "They're invoking
something."
The cultists' chant grew louder, echoing like thunder
through the chamber. Their leader, robed in crimson, raised a dagger high above
his head. Symbols carved into the blade pulsed faintly, dripping with fresh
blood.
"Stop them!" Anthony hissed.
But even as Maxwell moved, the ritual climaxed.
The altar cracked down the middle, a blast of energy
surging upward. Shadows exploded outward like wings unfurling. The torches
flickered violently, almost snuffing out.
And then—he stepped through.
Tall. Broad. A figure draped in black armor that
seemed forged of living shadow. His wings, tattered and dark, stretched across
the chamber. His eyes burned with a cold, merciless fire—once angelic, now
corrupted. His presence was suffocating, bending the air itself around him.
Maxwell felt the blood in his veins shudder. He knew
instantly who it was. He didn't need Anthony to say the name.
Samael.
The Fallen One. Archdemon. Betrayer.
The cultists dropped to their knees as one, chanting
his name like a hymn.
Samael's gaze swept the room, lingering finally on
Maxwell. A slow smile curved across his lips. "Nephilim…" His voice was like
silk over steel, smooth and venomous, echoing against the stone. "The
half-blood spawn of Heaven's arrogance. How delightful."
Maxwell forced himself to lift his sword, though his
hands trembled slightly. "You're not taking that vial."
The archdemon tilted his head, as though amused. "You
think you have a choice? The end has been written since the dawn, boy. I am the
hand that will turn the page.
Anthony stepped forward, crucifix raised, his voice
strong despite the tremor in his hands. "Samael, you are bound by the laws of
Heaven. You cannot walk freely upon the Earth!"
Samael laughed, the sound low and chilling. "Laws?
Heaven abandoned me long ago. And now, I will show you the cost of their
hypocrisy."
He extended his hand. Darkness pulsed outward,
knocking Anthony off his feet and slamming him against the wall. The priest
coughed blood, his crucifix clattering across the floor.
"Anthony!" Maxwell shouted, surging forward.
But the cultists moved first. They surged from the
circle, blades drawn, eyes gleaming with fanatic fire.
Maxwell's sword blazed as he struck the first, blade
slicing through both flesh and the shadow that clung to their souls. Another
lunged, and Maxwell ducked, driving his sword upward. His Nephilim strength
flared, pushing them back—but there were too many.
The chamber became chaos. Chanting turned to screams.
Blades clashed, sparks flying in the torchlight. Maxwell fought like a storm,
every swing of his sword cutting down another, but each cultist seemed fueled
by something beyond human.
From the corner of his eye, Maxwell saw Samael
watching, arms folded, a smile never leaving his face. He wasn't intervening.
He was enjoying the show.
Maxwell's chest burned with exertion. His blade
cleaved another cultist, ichor spraying across the altar. He spun, deflecting a
strike, but another caught him in the side. Pain seared through him. He
staggered but kept fighting.
Anthony dragged himself to his knees, clutching his
ribs. He reached for the Codex, muttering broken prayers. Holy light flickered,
weak but enough to scorch two cultists that rushed him.
"Maxwell!" Anthony gasped. "Don't fight them all—go
for Samael!"
Maxwell's gaze snapped to the archdemon, who still
hadn't moved. Rage flared in his chest. His sword blazed brighter, responding
to his will. With a roar, he cut through the last cultist between them and
charged.
Samael didn't move until the blade was inches from his
chest. Then, with casual ease, he raised a single hand and caught the strike.
Steel met shadow, the clash sending a shockwave through the chamber.
Maxwell's eyes widened. His strength—his Nephilim
blood—meant nothing. Samael held the blade like it was nothing more than a
twig.
The archdemon leaned closer, his breath cold against
Maxwell's ear. "You're not ready."
And then he flung Maxwell across the room.
Maxwell's body slammed into the stone wall, the impact
stealing his breath. His sword clattered across the floor. Pain exploded in his
ribs. He tried to rise, but his body wouldn't respond.
Samael straightened, his wings stretching wide,
casting the chamber in darkness. He looked at Anthony, then back at Maxwell.
"This is only the beginning," he said, voice deep and
final. "When next we meet, you will kneel—or you will burn."
With a sweep of his wings, shadows surged upward,
extinguishing every torch. The chamber plunged into darkness.
When the light returned—he was gone. The cultists lay
dead, their bodies twisted and lifeless. The altar was shattered.
Maxwell lay gasping, Anthony stumbling toward him.
The priest knelt, helping him sit. "Are you?"
Maxwell cut him off with a ragged breath. His
storm-gray eyes burned with fury and fear.
"We just met the end of the world," he whispered.