Anton moved first.
He surged forward, demonic power flooding his limbs as his fist tore through the air and crashed into the god's divine guard. The impact detonated with a sound like thunder ripping through stone, sending shockwaves across the realm. Cracks spider-webbed beneath the god's feet as golden light flickered, unstable.
The god laughed—briefly.
"That strength…" he muttered, steadying himself. "So the rumors were true."
Anton did not answer. He struck again, and again—each blow heavier than the last, fists blazing with power born not of Hell alone, but something deeper, more defiant. The air screamed under the weight of their collision, heaven's light grinding violently against infernal force.
Far below, Cecily heard it.
The sound reached her like distant thunder, yet she felt it in her bones. The clash of god and demon shook the walls around her, dust raining from the ceiling as reality itself trembled. Her heart raced—not from fear for herself, but for the child in her arms.
Elvis.
She looked down at him, at the way his eyes shimmered faintly even in sleep, unaware of the war being waged for his existence.
There was no time.
Cecily turned and pressed the child into the arms of a waiting figure—a man cloaked in shadow and sigils, human, yet bound by ancient marks burned into his skin. One of Anton's followers. Loyal. Silent.
"Take him," she whispered fiercely. "Run. Hide him where neither heaven nor hell will ever look."
The man bowed his head, understanding the weight of the command. Without a word, he vanished into the passages beyond, carrying Elvis away from gods, demons, and destiny itself.
Above them, the god staggered back, wiping radiant blood from his lip. His expression darkened.
"So," he said coldly, raising his hand, "you force my hand."
Light condensed in his grasp, forming a blade of blinding brilliance. Its edge gleamed with holy metal—consecrated, purified, forged for one purpose alone.
To slay demons.
Anton rushed forward, closing the distance in a blur of shadow and flame. His blade struck true—steel meeting divine light in a shower of sparks. Yet the moment the sword connected, Anton felt it.
Resistance.
His sword struck, but only shallowly.
The god barely staggered.
Golden light rippled across the wound and sealed it almost instantly, as if the strike had been little more than an inconvenience. The god laughed, the sound sharp and cruel, echoing across the shattered expanse.
Their battle grew louder, more violent. Each collision sent shockwaves tearing through the realm, ripping through stone and sky alike. The echoes carried far, powerful enough to draw the attention of other beings lurking at the edges of creation—watchers, predators, things that fed on war between gods and demons.
The god did not notice.
He had never known what the child truly was.
To him, the boy was nothing more than an obstacle. An inconvenience.
His gaze slid past Anton, toward where Cecily had been moments before, and a cold, indulgent smile touched his lips.
"She was beautiful," he said casually, almost bored. "I thought to keep her. But the child?" He shrugged. "Both of you are better off dead."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
Anton felt something inside him snap.
Rage surged, blinding and absolute, drowning out caution, reason—everything. Without hesitation, he reached inward, past his strength, past his power, to something far more dangerous.
His life force.
Infernal flames erupted around him, darker and heavier than before, burning not the air, but him. His veins glowed like molten cracks, his breath turning ragged as his very existence began to fuel the fire.
The god's expression finally changed.
Anton roared and struck again—each blow now carrying the weight of his own life, each impact tearing through divine defences that moments ago had seemed unbreakable. Blood—golden and radiant—spilt into the void as the god was driven back, shock written plainly across his face.
The tide of battle began to turn.
Anton's flames burned brighter, fed by his own life force, each strike heavier than the last. The god staggered under the assault, divine radiance flickering wildly as cracks spread across his once-flawless form. For the first time, fear bled into his golden eyes.
Victory was within reach.
Then—
A blade of pure light pierced Anton's chest from behind.
Time seemed to fracture.
The angel stood there, wings vast and blinding, his expression cold and absolute as judgment itself. "For defiling a consecrated servant," he declared, voice echoing across the void, "you are sentenced."
Anton coughed, dark blood spilling from his lips, disbelief flashing across his face—not at the angel, but at the betrayal that had summoned him.
Cecily.
She had called for help. Not to kill Anton—but to stop the fight.
She had not known.
The angel had never intended peace.
Rage unlike anything Anton had ever known erupted within him. Pain vanished, replaced by fury so immense it drowned even death. If this was how it would end, then he would not fall alone.
Anton laughed—a broken, furious sound—and released everything.
His remaining life force detonated outward in a catastrophic explosion of infernal and forbidden power. The shockwave tore through reality itself, engulfing both the god and the angel, shredding their divine wings and hurling their radiant bodies into the abyss. Both survived—but barely. Broken. Burned, scarred by a power that should not have existed.
Far away, Cecily ran.
She did not look back.
Clutching a bundle of cloth tightly against her chest—small, warm, and breathing—she fled through shadowed paths, her heart pounding with terror and resolve. She knew the explosion would be felt across realms. She knew other beings would sense it. Hunters. Gods. Demons.
So, she ran faster. She wanted then to believe whatever was being fought for was with her