Angel Raphael shot to his feet on the angel side of the arena, wings flaring wide enough to cast golden light across half the stands.
"This has gone on for long enough!" His voice cracked like breaking marble. "Humans—mortals—should not be defeating angels the way they are! This mockery ends now!"
Before anyone could speak, he swept his hand forward. His own avatar stepped onto the battlefield—seven wings blazing, armor forged of condensed sunlight, a spear of pure judgment already humming in its grip. The air around it warped with healing light, ready to mend any wound the moment it appeared.
Gabriel's frown deepened instantly. He glided forward, voice low but sharp.
"Raphael, stand down. This is not how the order proceeds. The ranks are sacred. You cannot simply—"
Raphael didn't even look at him.
Michael rose next, slower, more deliberate. His flaming sword was already drawn, tip resting against the cloud bench.
