The Ascension Transit Zone was a monument to Heaven's earthly arrogance. A massive, sterile structure of white composite armor and steel, it was encased by a shimmering, invisible field the Sanctified Energy Dome (SED). The barrier was designed to repel divine and demonic entities, locking Heaven's possessions safely away from both his kind and Hell's influence.
The Saint stood in the rain-slicked shadows a block away, watching the patrols. He could pass through mortal security with grace and silence, but the SED was a different matter. It registered his essence as pure contagion, a viral threat to Heaven's carefully curated order.
He felt the familiar, distant throb of Lyra's soul light moving past the barrier, invisible to the SED's protocols. She was human, and therefore, allowed. She was also walking into the single most dangerous spot in the Shattered City.
She is here for the Hilt. Because she knows it is mine, because she heard the name.
The connection between them was a burning wire. He could feel her determined pace, her journalistic focus overriding her fear. He closed his eyes, allowing the forbidden intimacy to wash over him. It was a crippling sensation the love that had cost him his name, his wings, and his place in creation.
I swore I would resist. I am Azael, the Saint of Killers. I have no right to her light.
He took a slow, agonizing breath, the air burning his throat. He had to cross the barrier. He didn't have time for subterfuge.
He reached out, his hand pressed against the invisible, humming energy of the SED. The contact felt like plunging his palm into supercooled acid, the sanctified energy immediately attempting to burn away his residual grace.
He focused his will. He would not crack the core unjustly. But the just use of his power, the necessary use of his power to protect Lyra was the only way.
A sliver of the Judgment Flames just enough to create a precise void in the barrier flickered at his fingertips. It wasn't the roaring celestial inferno he once commanded. It was a focused, sacrificial spark, burning his own meager essence to create a portal.
CRACK.
His divine core protested violently, the pain a paralyzing spike. His silver eyes dimmed completely, turning a flat, mortal silver-grey. He used the pain, forcing it into a single, kinetic thrust, and slipped through the resulting gap in the SED.
The moment he was inside the perimeter, the Cathedra's security alarms began to shriek, recognizing the breach but unable to trace the momentary, internal combustion that caused it.
He ignored the noise and the scrambling mortal guards. He had seconds.
He located the Hilt of Sanctus in the center of the loading bay. It was secured in a magnetically sealed box, prepared for uplift. Two mortal priests, wearing Cathedra insignia, were fussing with the controls.
The Saint moved toward them, not running, but simply moving with the efficient, terrifying speed of purpose. The priests looked up, startled by his silent, terrible approach.
"Stop," the Saint commanded, his voice raw but carrying a faint, undeniable trace of the Voice of Command. The priests froze, paralyzed by the sheer authority they were conditioned to obey, even from a fallen angel.
He reached the box, his attention fixed solely on the relic. It was exactly as Lyra had described: a cold, dull piece of metal, embossed with the celestial runes of his rank. His sealed weapon.
To awaken it, he didn't need a ritual. He needed a decision. The Hilt of Sanctus was sealed by his internal conflict, by the Saint denying the Killer. To wield it, he had to accept the Executioner again.
He reached out and placed his hand on the metal box. The moment his skin touched the proximity field, his senses exploded with a violent, ecstatic surge.
Lyra. She was close. She was moving through the maintenance tunnels beneath the loading bay, a mere twenty meters from his location. The romantic tension, the violent recognition was an almost physical pressure, like being submerged in deep water.
He needed to focus. He needed the blade.
He gripped the box, channeling his will, forcing his fractured grace into the object. He could feel the celestial seal his own divine refusal burning away.
Accept the killer. Accept the damnation.
The Cathedra guards were mobilizing, their weapons locking onto his position. A distant, heavy thud signalled the arrival of a reinforced Aegis team.
Suddenly, a shadow fell over the edge of the loading bay, deep enough to absorb the harsh white light.
The Black Cardinal.
The cult leader was perched high on an adjacent catwalk, his dark robes flowing, his features still obscured by shadow. But the air around him was now thick with an intoxicating, sulfurous menace the signature of Hell. He had been watching, waiting for the Saint to make his move.
The Black Cardinal raised a long, silver staff, adorned with grotesque, serpentine carvings. The silver staff descended, not to kill Lyra, but to collapse the tunnel and force her into the open.
"The Fragment answers only to rebellion, not justice," the Cardinal's voice echoed, resonant and chilling, magnified by his demonic vessel. "Lucifera claims the soul of Eden."
The Saint couldn't wait. He couldn't fight the Cardinal and the Cathedra and reforge the blade sequentially. He had to do it all now.
He abandoned all pretense of restraint. He was the Executioner.
He slammed his will into the hilt, roaring a silent, terrible oath: Let the world burn. Not her.
His blackened wings pulsed with phantom heat. The runes on the hilt suddenly flared, not with gold or white, but with a furious, blood-red light the color of ultimate sacrifice. The sealed box exploded outward, shrapnel flying in every direction. The Hilt of Sanctus shot into the Saint's waiting hand, and in a cataclysmic burst of displaced energy, the blade reformed.
It was not a rapier of light. It was a monstrous, two-handed greatsword, forged of celestial adamant, whispering prayers of the damned radiating an aura of absolute, merciless Judgment.
The energy explosion was catastrophic, throwing the remaining guards back, blinding the surveillance drones, and momentarily cracking the Cathedra's SED entirely. The Saint stood, bathed in the red light of his newfound weapon, his silver eyes blazing with cold, righteous wrath.
He had the blade. But Lyra was exposed, and the Black Cardinal was moving in for the kill.