The heavens tore apart.
A figure descended — a blur of radiance wrapped in gold and silver armor. His great helm shimmered with runes that burned like dying stars. Beneath the armor, no flesh existed — only pure, living flame. White fire.
He moved, and the night barely registered his motion. The air screamed. His sword — engraved with celestial runes that could blind mortal eyes — cut through the darkness like divine judgment.
Appolyth barely saw the strike.
Her left arm vanished.
A spray of black ichor hissed into the sky, burning holes in the clouds.
She screamed, voice layered with agony and defiance. The ichor from her wound twisted in the air, thickening into a living shadow that crawled back toward her. Bone, sinew, and flesh knit themselves anew as her hand regrew from nothing but her will.
Seraph's voice was calm, but it split the night like thunder.
"You have no chance, Fallen. Be cut down in peace… or in pieces, if your pride still dreams."
He vanished again.
The world blurred white.
Appolyth raised her hand — and from the black ichor that dripped off her body, she forged a spear. Long, eerie, alive. The weapon screamed like a trapped soul.
She met his next swing head-on.
White flame clashed with void ichor — divine brilliance against corrupted dusk — and the explosion that followed shattered the stars for miles.
Appolyth staggered, black blood spilling from her lips, yet her grin only widened.
Her voice was low, bitter, but resolute.
"Nothing has changed… The gods are liars."
Seraph scoffed, eyes burning brighter through the helm.
"Then you shall die with your lies, Appolyth."
The battlefield began to burn — heaven and hell converging in one endless, blinding storm.