The sky was bleeding.
Crimson streaks ripped through the heavens, trailing behind shattered clouds like the wounds of a god. The air crackled with divine tension, so dense that even the winds dared not move. The battlefield was a broken wasteland—charred soil, ruptured earth, floating debris suspended in unnatural silence. Time itself seemed to hold its breath.
From Heaven's edge, seven radiant figures descended like falling stars Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raguel, Jeremiel, Zadkiel, and Raphael. The Archangels. Warriors of divine law. Their celestial armor shimmered with ancient grace, etched with the laws of creation itself. Each of them walked with purpose, wings unfurled like banners of judgment. Every step scorched the earth beneath.
The earth groaned.
A chasm erupted open, deep and black, as if the world itself was coughing up its sins. From within it emerged the Eight Princes of Hell, lords of damnation and living avatars of sin:
Beelzebub, Lord of Gluttony, his grotesque form perpetually devouring his surroundings with insatiable hunger;
Mammon, Greed incarnate, cloaked in flowing robes of cursed gold that melted into madness;
Abaddon, Prince of Death, his corpse-like body trailing whispers of souls consumed;
Asmodeus, the Desecrated Flame, Prince of Lust, once known as Samael, whose beauty had twisted into cruel seduction;
Belphegor, Sloth's Abyss, his bloated form pulsing with apathy and decaying luxury;
Aamon, the Wrath of the Inferno, whose body burned with the screams of the damned;
Azazil, the Shadow of Lies, a deceiver swathed in veils of ever-shifting darkness;
Zariel, the Enigma, cloaked in mystery—unknown to all but the princes and Lucifer himself. None among the angels had ever seen or heard of him before this day.
Lucifer was absent—but his will lingered like a virus in every breath the demons took.
The air warped with the weight of fate. One by one, divine order paired with unholy blasphemy:
Michael stood against Azazil, angel of war versus the deceiver, blades thirsting for truth.
Gabriel marched to confront Beelzebub, the voice of God against the devourer of flesh.
Uriel clashed with Mammon, fire of wisdom against insidious greed.
Raguel faced Abaddon, heaven's justice against living death.
*Jeremiel opposed Aamon, bearer of mercy against fire-born wrath.
Zadkiel stood against Zariel, mercy clashing with unknowable mystery.
Raphael faced Asmodeus, the healer against his fallen brother.
And as the divine standoff ensued, Belphegor detached himself from the circle of chaos.
He turned toward a different force—a different kind of threat.
Five figures stood at the cliff's edge, not angels, but something else entirely.
The Archons.
Avile, Kael, Vale, Elyen, and Mael. Divine fragments born from God's regret after the Flood. Mortal in form, eternal in spirit. They bore no halos, no wings—but the air around them shimmered with something older than heaven. They were the afterthoughts of a god who had destroyed too much.
Belphegor's sagging lips curled into something resembling amusement.
"Broken little gods, pretending to be humans. You wouldn't even be here if not for the demonic power flowing within you."
"I smell it on you the flesh and blood of god" he said with a cynical Smile.
"I want to crack it open, eat it and give you the most painful death possible. Then, will my hunger be satiated."
His clawed hand pointed toward Avile.
He muttered. "I want to taste the marrow of god."
Avile's eyes did not blink. He stepped forward calmly.
As Belphegor began his slow descent, the final face-off was set. The Princes of Hell versus the warriors of Heaven.
The heavens burned as steel met claw, and divine wings tore through corrupted skies.
But in one corner of this divine battlefield, silence settled.
Raphael stood across from Asmodeus.
Two angels who had once flown as brothers. Two hearts once tethered in love and duty, now divided by war and betrayal.
Before the Fall, Asmodeus had been known as Samuel—the angel of joy, of song, of beauty. Raphael, the angel of healing and purity, had loved him as a brother more than any other.
But then Samuel chose Lucifer. And Raphael, horrified, tried to stop him—not with wrath, but desperation.
In the rebellion, Raphael had sought him out before the battle began. He pleaded. Cried. Tried to change his mind.
Samuel refused.
Fearing what God might do, Raphael had done the unthinkable. As they spoke, he had struck him. Not to kill—but to cripple. To keep him from joining the battle. A strike of mercy, not rage.
But it had changed nothing.
God knew. Samuel still fell.
And in Hell, his name rotted. He became Asmodeus.
Now, they stood again—on opposite sides of eternity.
Raphael spoke first, voice barely above the howling winds.
"You still wear that face. Even after everything."
Asmodeus smiled, cruel and cold.
"Do you miss it?"
"I miss the one who didn't betray everything we were."
"We were blind," Asmodeus snapped. "Lucifer saw what you refused to see. You still kneel to a tyrant."
"I still believe in what we were meant to be. You chose chains."
Asmodeus snarled, "You mean the chains you put me in? That night before the gates opened—you stabbed me. You crippled me."
"To save you!" Raphael thundered. "I thought if you couldn't fight, He might spare you."
"HE DIDN'T!" Asmodeus screamed. "And you—my brother—betrayed me before the war even began."
Raphael's eyes shimmered. "You left me no choice."
The silence cracked.
Asmodeus lunged.
Their blades collided with a force that made the earth scream. Divine light clashed against unholy fire. Raphael's spear burned like mercy incarnate. Asmodeus' twin blades dripped with twisted desire. Their movements were poetry stained with blood.
They danced the Butcher's Waltz.
Strike. Parry. Wings crashing. Words exchanged in snarled breaths. Raphael bled from a gash across his brow. Asmodeus' armor splintered along his ribs.
Still, neither stopped.
"Why didn't you just follow me?" Asmodeus roared.
"Why didn't you listen to me?!" Raphael shouted.
They clashed again.
A storm broke above them.
Asmodeus's movement was a blur of dark energy, a storm of black flame that danced around his body like the shadows of Hell itself. Raphael reacted instinctively, raising his hand to deflect the blow. His divine power surged, light breaking through the suffocating darkness. He met Asmodeus's fist with a shield of radiant energy, the impact sending shockwaves through the air, reverberating in the space between them.
Raphael gritted his teeth, his eyes locked on the demon's cold, calculating gaze. "You've changed. You were never like this."
Asmodeus's response was nothing more than a sharp slash through the air, his fingers forming an intricate sigil that twisted the space between them, sending a barrage of ethereal daggers toward Raphael. The attack was swift and unpredictable, no pattern, just raw aggression. Raphael was forced to dive to the side, his wings flaring to catch him mid-air as the daggers sliced through the air where he had just been.
He landed on his feet, his gaze not leaving Asmodeus for a second. The demon's movements were chaotic—like the fury of a storm, unpredictable and wild. Yet there was an undeniable strategy behind every blow, every attack calculated to break Raphael's defense.
Raphael adjusted his stance, shifting into a defensive position. "You've become a creature of destruction," he murmured, his voice betraying a hint of sadness, but his body brimming with purpose. "But I won't let you destroy everything we once fought for."
Asmodeus responded with a battle cry, his aura flaring, and suddenly the ground beneath their feet cracked open, spilling molten lava onto the battlefield. Raphael's eyes widened for a split second as Asmodeus used the environment itself to his advantage—turning the terrain into a weapon. The air heated with the intensity of the demon's rage as fire and brimstone twisted around him.
But Raphael wasn't thrown off. His wings flapped once, twice, and then with divine speed, he dove into the heart of the storm. His sword, a beam of pure light, manifested in his hands. It was the instrument of Heaven's justice, a weapon forged from the purity of the cosmos.
He slashed at Asmodeus, the light of the sword burning through the air, aiming for the demon's heart. But Asmodeus was fast, shifting to the side with a sickening crack of bones, his body distorting and reforming with unnatural fluidity. He grinned, his movements mocking Raphael's precision.
"You're predictable," Asmodeus taunted, his voice like a poison dripping from his tongue. He thrust his hand forward, and the earth itself cracked open beneath Raphael's feet, sending a wave of stone and debris hurtling toward him. Raphael deflected the attack, but it was a distraction, just long enough for Asmodeus to move in.
The demon's fist collided with Raphael's chest, sending him tumbling backward, his wings flaring instinctively to stop his fall. Raphael's breath came out in a strained gasp as the force of the blow left him disoriented for a moment. He could feel it—the shift in power, the growing sense that Asmodeus was getting stronger with every passing moment.
Raphael's mind was working in overdrive. He had been trained for centuries to fight with precision, to outthink his opponents. But Asmodeus wasn't like any other foe he had faced. His brother—no, his former brother—fought with a relentless fury, as if the very act of destruction was a release for him. Every attack was calculated, every move deliberate. And yet, Raphael could still feel it. The subtle cracks in Asmodeus's combat style—the moments where he relied too heavily on power, where his emotions bubbled up and blurred his focus.
Raphael pivoted on his heel, his wings unfurling fully to create a barrier of light around him. He was using his wings not just as shields but as a weapon, striking at Asmodeus with the sheer force of his divine radiance.
But Asmodeus was ready. With a cruel laugh, he summoned a torrent of shadow tendrils that lashed out, entangling Raphael's wings. As the tendrils constricted, the demon pulled Raphael toward him, a sickening grin spreading across his face.
"Your light is nothing," Asmodeus sneered. "It only serves to highlight your weakness."
Raphael grimaced, his sword flashing in the air to sever the tendrils. Asmodeus's laughter echoed as the tendrils dissolved into smoke. The demon stepped forward, shifting his stance, preparing for another onslaught. But this time, Raphael wasn't just going to react. He had a plan.
With a swift motion, Raphael held his sword aloft and, in a split second, condensed his power into a concentrated burst of radiant light that cut through the battlefield like a spear of divinity. The beam collided with Asmodeus's shield of shadow, and for a moment, there was silence. The world seemed to hold its breath as the two powers clashed, light and darkness wrestling in the heart of the storm.
But Raphael had miscalculated. He underestimated Asmodeus's speed. As the light beam weakened, Asmodeus appeared beside him in an instant, his demonic fist slamming into Raphael's side. The impact sent a shockwave of pain through Raphael's body. Blood splattered across the ground as Raphael staggered, barely able to keep his footing.
Raphael's vision blurred. His body was breaking down faster than he could heal. The poison of Asmodeus's dark energy was seeping into his very being, hindering his divine regeneration. It was now or never. Raphael knew this was the moment—he had to end it.
But the mistake had been made. In his desperation, Raphael's divine sword swung too wide, leaving an opening. Asmodeus saw it, and in a single, devastating move, he pierced Raphael's chest with a claw of infernal energy. The pain was unbearable, but Raphael did not cry out. He only looked into the eyes of the brother he had failed to save.
"I'm sorry, Samuel," Raphael whispered, his voice barely a breath in the wind.
And then, in his final act, Raphael channeled all of his divine power, all the light of Heaven that remained within him, into a single, blinding solar flare—a blast of light so pure and so intense that the very air around them warped, the ground cracked beneath the sheer force of it. It was a final judgment, a celestial eruption that threatened to consume everything.
The explosion consumed the battlefield, a light so bright it seemed to tear the very fabric of the universe. For a moment, everything was silence.
And then, as the light faded, the truth became clear. Raphael was gone. His body lay broken in the ruins of the battlefield, his wings no longer moving.
Asmodeus, clinging to life, was still standing—barely. His body was burned, battered, but his eyes remained cold, devoid of any emotion. His grip on his sword faltered, and for a moment, he appeared to contemplate his survival.
But then, from the shadows, Zariel appeared.
Zariel's cold gaze swept over the battlefield, his expression unreadable. Without a word, he moved toward Asmodeus, who stood defiant, yet weak. Without hesitation, Zariel's jaw unhinged, and he devoured the demon alive.
"You were weak," Zariel's voice was a low rumble, almost sadistic. "There is no place for the weak in Hell."
And as the final remnants of Asmodeus were consumed, the battlefield fell still. The Archangels and Archons stood in silence, witnessing the fate of one of their own. For Raphael, the battle was over. But the war was far from finished.
Azazil's voice broke the silence, a smirk crossing his lips as he looked toward the remaining forces. "One down... six more to go."