The infernal arena lay like an open tomb, a desolate expanse where eternal flames guttered beneath a rain of golden light. The once-imposing obsidian stands were now heaps of black rubble, their shards glinting like broken stars under a sky streaked with lightning. Charred husks of angels with scorched wings and demons reduced to ash littered the ground, their shattered weapons smoking in the residual heat. At the center stood Mikaël, the Seraph of Justice, radiant in a blazing aura, his six golden wings spread like a bulwark of light. His massive golden lance, etched with celestial glyphs, thrummed with contained energy, aimed at Morningstar, the Fallen Seraph, who rose from a smoldering crater, a black gash streaking his runic armor. Dark blood dripped onto the ground through his ever-shifting, rune-patterned helm, but his eyes burned with icy defiance.
"Your pride will be your ruin, Lucifer," Mikaël declared, his voice resonating like an angelic choir, resolute yet tinged with ancient weariness. He struck the ground with his lance, and a spiral of pure light erupted, hurling golden shards that forced Morningstar back, his tenebrous wings quivering under the assault. Around them, angels—their armor gleaming like dying suns—dispatched the last surviving demons, their spears piercing ash hounds with merciless precision.
Morningstar wiped blood from his chin, a smirk twisting his lips beneath his shifting helm. "My pride?" he retorted, his rasping voice rising like a wind from beyond the grave. "It's your blind faith that makes you weak, Mikaël." He plunged his shadow blade into the earth, and a wave of rippling darkness rose, forming a shifting barrier that swallowed the luminous shards. With an agile leap, he lunged at Mikaël, his blade arcing black toward the Seraph's flank. Mikaël parried with his lance, the clash sending a shockwave that cracked the ground, but Morningstar followed with a sweep of his shadowy wings, unleashing a dark gust that shoved his foe back, snuffing out surrounding flames with a low hiss.
Before Mikaël could counter, the arena quaked violently, a deep rumble echoing like an infernal heartbeat. Two portals tore open, ripping the air apart in bursts of flame and shadow. From the first emerged Abaddon, the Lord of the Abyss, a skeletal colossus towering over the collapsed stands, his full-plate armor—rusted and etched with wailing faces—creaking with each step. Green necrotic fumes seeped from the screaming mouths carved into his breastplate and massive greatsword, a blade adorned with tortured visages. A cape of colossal chains, thick enough to anchor a ship, dragged behind him, clanking like a funeral toll. "The heavens dare defile our lands?" he bellowed, his voice a cavernous rasp. He swung his greatsword, and a necrotic fissure split the ground, releasing his Pit Gravediggers—skeletal specters with howling chains—that coiled around angels, snapping their wings with sinister cracks.
From the second portal stepped Belzebub, the Lord of Flies, an insectoid figure with a glistening black carapace dripping with oozing pustules. His buzzing wings vibrated in a discordant chorus, and his faceted eyes gleamed with cold malice. "May your feathers rot in the mire!" he hissed, unleashing a swarm of Voracides—insectoid creatures with acidic mandibles—that descended on the angels like a living storm. Their corrosive venom ate through celestial armor, turning angelic cries into guttural screams as flesh melted under the onslaught.
Morningstar's lips curled into a dark smile beneath his helm, rising with predatory grace. "You arrive right on time, my brothers," he said, his shadow blade glinting with renewed energy. But before the three Monarchs could consolidate their assault, a third portal opened, smaller, exuding a freezing mist that smothered nearby flames. The Legion of Cania entered the fray—warriors of infernal ice, their crystalline blue armor shimmering like cursed glaciers, mounted on frost wyrms with translucent fangs. Their spears hurled shards of frost that encased angels in icy prisons before shattering them into bloody fragments. At their head stood Cania, a lithe figure in frost armor, wielding a glacial scythe, her blue eyes blazing with lethal cold. "I'll freeze your wings and your powers," she murmured, her voice a chilling hiss, and with a sweep of her scythe, she bisected an angel, its blood freezing mid-flight.
The angels, caught in a vise, began to falter under this triple onslaught. Mikaël, his golden wings streaked with frost and acid burns, drove his lance into the ground, a fierce glint in his eyes. "You will not break divine will!" he shouted, summoning a light barrier that briefly repelled Belzebub's Voracides. But Abaddon advanced, his greatsword carving a necrotic arc that fractured the barrier, green fumes creeping toward Mikaël. Cania unleashed a frost storm that froze the feet of several angels, leaving them prey to the Gravediggers' chains. Morningstar lunged again, his blade aimed at the Seraph's heart, but Mikaël dodged narrowly, retaliating with a lance strike that gashed the Fallen's shoulder, forcing him back with a pained grunt.
As Mikaël seemed cornered, a clear, majestic sound cut through the chaos—celestial trumpets, vibrant as a divine call, rang out from the white portal above the arena. Two towering figures emerged, followed by regiments of archangels in gleaming silver armor. Uriel, the Seraphine of Fire, descended in an aura of white flames, her four incandescent wings casting waves of heat that consumed Voracides in a furious crackle. Her blazing sword, Ignis Sanctus, shone like a miniature sun, and with a precise strike, she cleaved a High Gravedigger—a massive specter with skull-adorned chains—in two, its ashes scattering in the wind. Beside her, Zakiel, the Seraph of Storms, hovered in a tempest of silver lightning, his six wings streaked with rumbling thunder. His staff, Tonitrus Divinae, summoned bolts that struck Cania's frost wyrms, their crystalline husks exploding into glittering shards.
"Brothers, hold fast!" Uriel cried, her warm, cutting voice carrying across the battlefield as she dove at Belzebub, her white flames driving back his swarm in a shower of ash. Zakiel, with a fluid gesture, unleashed an electric gust that forced Abaddon to stagger, his rusted chains lashing the air like broken whips. The archangels, armed with shining spears and swords, deployed in tight formation, their precise strikes leveling the odds. One drove a spear into a wyrm, while another parried Cania's scythe, his silver armor resisting the biting frost.
Morningstar, panting, let out a hoarse laugh from beneath his shifting helm. "Your champions change nothing, Mikaël," he taunted, his shadow blade trembling with energy. Abaddon swung his greatsword, unleashing a necrotic wave that engulfed a group of archangels, their armor melting under the green fumes. Belzebub emitted a deafening buzz, his Voracides reforming into a denser swarm, while Cania summoned a frost storm that encased an entire regiment, their cries muffled by crystalline prisons. The battle balanced in bloody chaos, light and darkness clashing in a cacophony of screams and blasts.
But as both sides wore thin, a deeper rumble shook the arena, a suffocating heat sweeping over the flickering flames. A portal of fire and sulfur tore open at the crater's base, and the first wave of Satan's legion surged forth—Crimson Legionnaires, demons in scarlet armor studded with spikes, their red eyes glowing beneath horned helms. Their spears spat infernal flames, and their guttural roars unnerved even the archangels. At their head stood Brazh'Furia, a mid-sized demoness in scarlet armor etched with pulsing runes, wielding a double-headed axe. Her black hair, streaked with flames, flowed like a living banner, and her aura—a crushing, almost tangible pressure—imposed a fleeting silence on the battlefield. Her glowing red eyes swept over the angels, a cruel smile curling her lips. "Tremble, golden feathers," she murmured, her low voice thrumming with power that seemed to bend the air itself.
Brazh'Furia raised her axe, and a wave of infernal flames erupted, consuming a cluster of archangels in a scream of molten metal. The horde charged behind her, their spears igniting the ground, and the arena became a furnace where light and darkness danced in mortal combat. Mikaël gripped his lance, a defiant gleam in his eyes, while Morningstar, a dark smile on his lips beneath his helm, whispered, "The master comes… and your heavens will quake."