Mephisto stood at the centre of the broken world he'd made.
His chest heaved. His scythe hung low. His wings dragged behind him like torn banners. Divine ichor oozed from the rents in his skin, each breath a rasp through teeth clenched with rage.
But his aura hadn't faded.
It burned darker now, purer, like death refined into something leaner, sharper, ready to kill without beauty.
"You don't understand," he growled, voice rasping like a knife across stone. "This is divinity. It doesn't care about your bonds. It doesn't yield to hope. It doesn't answer to love."
Alan's sword pointed toward him, barely steady in his grip.
"You talk too much."
Mephisto raised his scythe again. The void warped behind it, black veins running through the air like cracks in glass. Reality trembled at the edges.
Then they moved.
All three.
Mephisto swung first—an overhead slash, wide enough to split a mountain.
