Vale stood amidst the wreckage, surrounded by the remaining cultists who had converged upon him. Their eyes gleamed with malice, weapons drawn, eager to end the fight. But Vale had other plans.
His sclera turned black, and the crimson cracks around his eyes pulsed with dark power. He could feel the demonic energy surging within him, an unholy force that he had come to understand more intimately in recent moments. His power grew, his very essence thickening with the weight of it, and he smiled darkly.
"Is this all?" Vale muttered, his voice cold and laced with disdain.
The cultists, relentless and numerous, charged. Their weapons were varied—swords, spears, daggers, and axes—each one imbued with the fervor of those who believed in their cause. They attacked from all sides, but Vale moved like a storm, cutting through their ranks with an ease that came from complete immersion in the demonic force. His movements were a blur—sword slashes, punches infused with dark energy, and kicks that sent bodies flying.
Blood and screams filled the air as Vale dispatched the cultists one by one, his demonic blade carving through flesh and bone, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. The ground cracked beneath his feet as the demonic energy clung to the earth, darkening everything it touched.
But there was no end to them.
More and more cultists flooded into the fray, their numbers seemingly endless. With each wave, Vale's frustration grew, his anger rising like a tide that threatened to drown him. His strikes became more ferocious, more violent, until the bodies piled high around him, their fallen forms marking his path of destruction.
Then, from the back of the horde, a group of figures stepped forward, their presence cutting through the chaos.These new cultists were no ordinary foes—Vale could feel their power resonating with a divine energy, distinct and ancient. They moved with precision, a calm menace in their every step, unlike the frenzied horde that had attacked him before. Their eyes gleamed with the confidence of those who had been granted something more than mortal strength. They were of high rank in the cult, trusted by even obil, touched by his divine power, and wielding the powers that had been gifted to them.
One of them stepped forward, his gaze locking onto Vale.
"I was getting bored," he said, his voice smooth, laced with venom. "It's a pity Lord Obil didn't allow us to join in his fight, but you'll do just fine."
Vale's eyes narrowed. Disgust rippled through him as he sensed the divine energy flowing through these cultists, an energy twisted by Obil's influence. It was unnatural. Worthless. The very sight of it repulsed him.
Without warning, the cultists vanished from view, their forms moving with terrifying speed. Before Vale could react, they reappeared behind him, each wielding weapons forged in divine power.
Vale spun, his blade raised to deflect their strikes, but they were too fast. The curved blade slashed across his chest, cutting through his dark armor and leaving a shallow wound. The whip cracked, wrapping around his arm, pulling him off balance. The spear thrust forward, aiming directly for his heart.
But Vale wasn't helpless. His body pulsed with demonic energy, and in a surge of power, he tore himself free from the whip, thrusting his sword through the air in a wide arc, deflecting the spear and knocking the blades of the cultists aside. He was fast, but the sheer force of their attack was overwhelming, and they kept pushing him back.
His anger grew, his body trembling with rage. How could they be this strong? His mind flashed to the image of Obil, and a sense of powerless dread flooded him. He remembered their last confrontation, how Obil had been untouchable, divine in every way, and Vale had been little more than a blip on his radar.
His fists clenched, the weight of his own inadequacy threatening to crush him. But then, something inside him snapped. He could feel the demonic power coursing through him, an uncontrollable force that had been with him since the beginning of this battle. It was hungry. It demanded to be released.
Vale let go.
The dark energy inside him swelled, expanding outward. His eyes glowed with blackened fire, the crimson cracks around them deepening. The demonic power fused with his body, becoming a part of him, and he trusted it completely. He could feel his power multiplying, his strength growing, and with it came a new clarity—a sense of purpose that had eluded him until now.
In a single fluid motion, Vale's demonic power coalesced into a sword—a blade forged purely from the essence of the darkness within him. It was unlike anything he had ever wielded before—no divine light, no celestial fire, just raw, unrestrained demonic fury.
The moment he held it, the world around him seemed to pause. The air grew thick, heavy with the weight of his transformation.
Vale lifted the sword, and with a roar, he charged at the cultists.
The fight intensified.
His demonic sword cleaved through the air like a blade through water. With every swing, the cultists faltered, their weapons struggling to keep up with the sheer force of his strikes. He moved like a blur, his movements calculated and precise, his power immeasurable. The cultists were no longer in control.
But then, just as Vale began to gain ground, the others arrived.
Kael, Mael, Tovar—the Archons who had arrived to assist him—dropped into the fray with all the power they had gathered. .
Vale, Kael, Mael, Tovar,—together they fought back, but the battle was far from over. The air was thick with the power of their strikes, the air heavy with blood, sweat, and the scent of destruction. Neither side was willing to back down, and the clash between the divine and demonic raged on, no end in sight.
The fate of the world—of the Archons, of the cult—hung in the balance. The war was just beginning.
The four Archons stood as one, a terrifying force of raw power unleashed upon the cultists. They didn't need weapons—each Archon was a weapon in themselves, fueled by demonic energy. Their bodies moved with an inhuman grace, honed by millennia of existence and battle.
Vale, his demonic sword now sheathed in the power of his own being, launched himself into the fray with a savage roar. His fist collided with the nearest cultist, sending him hurtling into a nearby wall. The ground trembled under his blows as his power radiated outward, causing the very air to grow heavy with his malice. His demonic energy surged like an inferno, every strike unleashing a burst of chaos that shattered the earth beneath him.
But despite the overwhelming strength of the Archons, the cultists didn't back down. More and more of them emerged from the shadows, wielding their divine-infused powers and trying to use their numbers to overwhelm the Archons. They were relentless, but the Archons were unfazed. Each cultist who tried to strike was met with a counterattack—Kael's crushing hammer-like fists, Mael's whirlwind strikes, Tovar's precise blows, and Vale's savage power.
But then, something changed. The cultists who had been infused with divine power began to fight back with greater coordination.
Vale felt the force of the punch before it even landed—demonic power clashed with divine energy, creating a shockwave that shattered the ground beneath him. He turned just in time to block, but the impact still sent him reeling.
The ruins of the church were bathed in a sick red light. The air pulsed with clashing energies—**divine radiance against demonic fury**—as the Archons faced off against the **eight chosen descendants of Cain**, the most elite of the cult. Their bodies burned with divine power gifted by Obil himself. Each wielded a unique weapon forged from holy energy—living symbols of their god's favor.
Vale stood at the head of the Archons, the **demonic sword** in his hand screaming for blood. Beside him were Kael, Mael, an d Tovar, the others already wounded—bruised, bleeding, barely holding together. But they stood.
They fought.
The first clash was thunder. The battlefield became a blur of movement and light and pain.
Mael slammed into his opponent, his fists cloaked in flickering demonic flame, but it wasn't enough. His strikes were powerful, but unrefined. He fought like a man still chained by doubt, and it showed. The descendant he faced moved with discipline, wielding a radiant **axe of silence** that seemed to devour sound with each swing. One blow sent Mael reeling. Another split his shoulder open to the bone.
Kael moved like liquid shadow, weaving between sword strikes, his **demonic energy** manifesting as a shifting veil across his skin, barely catching the edge of each divine weapon that threatened to rip him apart. He managed to kill one, not cleanly but with desperation—a shard of demonic energy driven through a throat, a body twitching, light sputtering out like a candle in rain.
Tovar was slower. Injured already. His body refused to obey him completely. But he fought with the quiet rage of one who refused to fall. He killed a descendant with his bare hands, the sheer pressure of his demonic strength crushing divine ribs like paper. But the wound he took in return—divine steel across his gut—was bleeding fast, and the demonic energy in his blood was failing to knit it shut.
Three of the descendants fell—**three gods in human skin undone by force and fury**.
That's when the fight changed.
Vale stood alone before **five of them**, his demonic sword drenched in light that no longer shimmered. It boiled. He cut one down with a scream of violence, steel through soul. Another raised a glaive of golden fire—and Vale caught it in his bare hand, letting the divine energy sear into his palm. He didn't care. He drove his blade upward, carving through spine and skull in one motion.
The others hesitated.
That was when **Kael rejoined him**, barely standing but eyes sharpened by rage. Together, they faced the remaining three.
"We end this now," Vale said.
They moved like beasts. No elegance. No glory. Just **grinding violence**. The ground cracked beneath their feet. Divine blood sprayed in the air like rain. **Two more descendants died**—one torn apart by Kael's focused will, the other impaled by Vale's sword with enough force to bury the tip into the stone beneath them.
Only **two descendants remained**.
Vale stepped back, breath ragged. He looked at Kael.
"You need to focus," he growled. "Trust the fury. Let it eat everything that makes you human. That's the only way we survive this."
Mael, hearing him, turned from where he was slumped against a broken pillar. His arms trembled. Blood stained his chest. His demonic power flared—dim, uncertain.
He didn't trust it.
But he stood. He faced one of the remaining two descendants, the one with the axe, the one who'd cut him before. They clashed again—and Mael fought harder, faster, but still restrained. Still human. Within seconds, the axe found his side again—deep, brutal, crushing a rib—and Mael collapsed, choking on his own blood.
Mael was on the ground, coughing blood, his hands trembling against the dirt. He tried to stand, but his knees buckled. The descendant before him—**Saurel**—grinned like a jackal. His weapon, a axe forged from divine energy, pulsed with violent light.
Tovar, still limping from his own injuries, stepped forward without hesitation.
"Get back, Mael," he said, voice hoarse.
Mael turned to him. "Tovar, don't—"
Too late.
Saurel appeared behind him in an instant, a blur of divine movement, and the axe tore through **Tovar's side**, then back across his chest in one clean, final arc.
Tovar collapsed—eyes still open, breath escaping in a final, short gasp.
Just like that, he was gone.
There was no heroism in it. No divine flash. Just a body. Broken. Lifeless.
Mael stared, frozen. His breath hitched. Everything felt slow, as if the world had dipped underwater. His limbs trembled—not from pain, but from fear. Rage. Guilt. Grief.
And something inside him—**something ancient and furious**—answered.
He stopped thinking.
He let it in.
The demonic energy, once something wild and uncontrollable, now **flooded his veins like fire**, not rejected but accepted. Embraced.
Black veins pulsed across his arms, his skin cracked and steamed. His eyes turned void-dark.
And from the ground, his blood lifted—coiling, twisting—**forming around his arm and solidifying into a jagged, grotesque blade**. Not crafted. Not forged.
**Born.**
Saurel laughed, not realizing what had just happened. "You're next, little beast."
Mael didn't speak.
He charged.
The impact sent shockwaves through the rubble. The axe met the demonic blade—and snapped in two. Saurel staggered, surprised. That moment of hesitation was all Mael needed.
He drove his blade through Saurel's thigh. Pinned him to the ground. Then he stepped forward, fist glowing with burning crimson, and **punched**.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
And again.
Until **Saurel's face caved in completely**, his skull reduced to splinters, divine blood mixing with black.
Mael's hands bled from the knuckles. He kept going. Until there was **nothing left to break**.
And then he collapsed.
The demonic power flickered and faded—leaving him unconscious, broken, but victorious
"This Ends with Me."
Vale was already drenched in blood, his demonic sword dragging behind him like a curse.
He stood across from **Razakel**—the strongest of the eight. His divine weapon was a twisted sword, long and serrated, forged from generations of rituals lost to time. He was no noble warrior. Just a **fanatic**, a butcher dressed in godlight.
Razakel stepped forward, smiling through the carnage.
"You killed them," he said. "All of them. Impressive."
Vale didn't respond.
"But I'm not like them," Razakel continued. "Obil gave me something special. Said I'd be the last one standing if you ever made it this far."
Vale's grip tightened.
"I always hated God," Razakel spat. "And now, I get to erase a piece of Him."
Still, Vale didn't move.
He was thinking of Tovar.
Not his death—but his life. They had once wandered a desert together, barefoot and human. They had lived and died beside each other. Tovar was the kind of soul who held onto hope even after all hope was dead.
Now he was gone.
And Vale still had blood on his hands.
Razakel lunged.
The clash was thunderous. Vale was strong, precise—but his focus was fractured. The grief sat in his spine like lead. Razakel noticed. He smiled through the fight, taunting, slashing, forcing Vale back.
"Look at you," he laughed. "You fight like a mourner. Not a killer."
Vale stumbled
Razakel raised his blade for the final blow—
—and stopped.
Vale looked up.
Eyes cold. Unfeeling. No more hesitation. No more grief.
He stepped forward, swung his sword in a single arc—and **cleaved through Razakel's weapon**, the demonic blade shrieking with the sound of splintered godlight.
Razakel's smile faltered.
"That's more like it," he whispered.
Vale didn't speak.
He drove his blade through Razakel's chest.
And then lifted it.
The divine descendant's body twisted, spine cracking under the weight. Blood splattered across Vale's face as he stepped in, whispering something only Razakel could hear.
Razakel choked—then died.
His corpse fell. Silent.
The battlefield was quiet once more.
Kael knelt beside Mael. The two surviving Archons—both bleeding, both changed. Their brother was gone. Their enemies were ashes.