Ramiel moved like a blade through wind, alone beneath a crimson sky. The Choir of Blades watched silently from the gates beyond, barred by ancient oaths. Each step he took left sparks on the stone. His presence twisted the sulfur-laden air—Hell itself resisting him.
He walked deeper—where no pure Djinn had walked since the war.
Then the ground trembled.
Above him, flame coalesced into wings—dark and massive.
The Cadre had made their move.
They weren't going to let him pass.
Three shapes formed before him:
Baelgor, the Sin of Wrath, fire-armored and broad as a siege tower. His fists burned like meteors barely contained.
Lucarion, the mirror-saint of Pride, gliding with illusionary elegance, every motion a lie, every word a snare.
And Ghazriel, Sin of Greed, with gilded bone claws and hoarded souls swirling like a storm about his body.
Lucarion tilted his head, smiling.
"Back so soon, Ash-Walker? Wouldn't it have been better if you chose another part."
Ramiel's eyes crackled. His voice eerily calm.
"I'm not here for riddles."
Baelgor stomped once. The ground shook. Flame peeled away from the walls and hovered in fists ready to fall.
Lucarion's smile didn't fade. "No riddles then, let us make the first move then."
Baelgor lunged first—flame-punch arcing across the gorge. Ramiel blink-stepped, avoiding the worst of it, but the aftershock threw him across the battlefield. Few could dodge the Sin of Wrath's punch. Mid-flight, he twisted, sending three lightning-laced bolts into Ghazriel's shield of soul-armor, scattering screaming specters into the void.
Lucarion struck next—blades formed from reflections themselves, mirages turned deadly. Ramiel dodged two, caught the third on his forearm, wincing as it sliced through both flesh and memory.
Baelgor came again—this time connecting. The ground cratered. Ramiel's body sank half a meter into shattered brimstone.
Blood. Real blood.
The three closed in.
Ghazriel closed in, clawing at his ribs. Lucarion's illusions warped space again. Ramiel faltered. Even his stamina, his will, had limits.
They were whittling him.
His stance grew sloppier. His bolt strikes fewer. Each blink-step left a scorch scar behind.
And then the sky opened—
Lucifer descended.
In silence so elegant mortals almost prayed to him.
He hovered just above the battleground, robes black as collapsed stars, his presence alone enough to mute fire.
Lucarion stepped back.
Baelgor's fists lowered.
Lucifer looked at Ramiel—bleeding, panting, one knee down.
"You should have stayed dead."
Ramiel coughed blood but stood.
"You should have stayed worthy."
Lucifer's gaze flared like collapsed suns.
Then—light, but not holy—erupted from his hand, a blade forged of punishment.
Ramiel raised a bolt.
Too late.
The strike hit his chest.
Not cleanly. But deep.
The world cracked.
Ramiel collapsed forward, smoke rising from the wound. He hit the stone. Unmoving.
A Sudden Silence
Lucifer stared down, unreadable.
Then the sound came—
A portal tore open behind the Cadre.
And from it stepped Michael, commander of the Valkyries—elegant golden seraph wings, armor humming with a melody older than war.
He looked at Ramiel.
Then at Lucifer.
His voice carried finality.
"You've broken Elyon's word."
Baelgor raised his fists again, but Lucarion's hand stopped him.
Even the both of them were a bit insufficient against the prince of the heavenly armies.
Michael walked forward unbothered, bent down, and gently lifted Ramiel's broken body.
To the Cadre, he said:
"When next we meet... it will not be in parley."
Lucifer watched but said nothing.
Michael turned, wings unfolding—and vanished into the Netherealm.