Bayonetta had just brutally slaughtered the last Dominion Angel, its flesh and blood splattering everywhere beneath its white porcelain skin. Though that blood quickly evaporated into golden motes of light, the scent of rosemary clung to her hair, nearly overpowering the diamond lily perfume she wore. She drove her longsword into the angel's marble face and crushed the decorative gold on its armor with her high heel. "The little boy said he's heading up to the sky?" she asked. "Did he ever ask us to help?"
"I don't think that thing could trouble him," Jeanne replied, rolling her wrist to ease the soreness from blocking the Dominion Angel's attack. "When did you start worrying about him like a mother? I thought that was Miranda's job. Your little boy is crying in the sky—are you going to nurse him?"
Bayonetta laughed. "When did you get so grumpy, Jeanne?"
"Maybe since I didn't get to lop off that Powers Angel's head," Jeanne exhaled. "Thank goodness we didn't take his stupid advice. If we'd used the explosive guns, I'd have more than soft tissue bruises right now."
The head of the serpentine upper-tier angel was nearly ten meters tall. Its exposed, razor-sharp metallic fangs interlocked perfectly, reflecting sunlight above the clouds. Its sleek, elegant body was studded with gemstones and halos, and its geometric metal wings and the intricately patterned ruby-inlaid clock atop its head proclaimed the creature's perfection.
It was a behemoth. Compared to it, Solomon was like a newborn kitten. But the moment the upper-tier angel saw him, it recoiled like prey facing its natural predator, frantically retreating to escape Solomon's pursuit. The only real threats were the accompanying mid-tier Virtue Angels. The jetpack on Solomon's back spewed a scorching cone of flame as he lunged at the serpentine angel. At least five mid-tier angels and a horde of lower-tier angels tried to intercept him, but faced with Solomon—his stigmata unleashed and his Holy Sword igniting—none of them lasted long.
"Stop!" The upper-tier angel had enough intelligence to speak and think.
Its face was located beneath its head, cobra-like in form, raising its upper body upright while fluttering its malformed wings and golden claws. No matter its appearance or the urgency of the moment, the upper-tier angel's voice remained calm and serene, carrying a sense of peace and sanctity, even accompanied by exalted choruses echoing from the void. As Solomon tore through the white ceramic skin and crimson flesh of the mid- and lower-tier angels, pushing through the clouds reeking of rosemary, the upper-tier angel shouted.
"We can talk. We only want the Witch of Umbra!"
Solomon responded with a barrage of explosive rounds.
Unlike the standard ammo used by others, his rounds were alchemical creations of his own making. The runes inscribed upon them enhanced accuracy, and the alloy casings contained trace amounts of vibranium. With high explosives as the core, these rounds could carve tiny puncture wounds into the body of an upper-tier angel, creating cavity effects that turned its innards to mush. Though the angel could quickly regenerate, and though it had natural resistance to elemental damage, the enchanted rounds inflicted a pain that was not so easily purged. Moreover, every shot that struck the serpent angel burst into flames and lightning. The bone dust of dark magical creatures within the rounds was highly toxic to beings from higher planes.
He also carried rounds made from metals of the upper planes, switching as needed. If the witches didn't despise the crudeness of explosive weapons so much, he would've replaced all their gear with these durable firearms. If not for the exorbitant cost of alchemical materials, he would've equipped every Immortal City soldier with them.
The jet engines on his back faithfully did their job, propelling Solomon like a meteor into the angel's marble face.
"Did you see that?"
"Of course I saw it," Bayonetta said, crushing a small angel underfoot as she rose on her toes to look across the river toward Midtown. No one could miss the massive figure descending from the sky, and with the witches' eyesight and magic, they saw even more clearly—the blood spraying from the upper-tier angel. It fell like a fine rain, dispersing into the air, and residents of Brooklyn and Queens were startled to suddenly smell the heavy aroma of rosemary. Anyone comparing the temperatures in Manhattan and Brooklyn would notice at least a two-degree Celsius rise in some Brooklyn neighborhoods—all due to the bleeding of that angel.
"You will pay the price—for the grotesque sins of your kind!"
Solomon slashed again and again, methodically carving through the upper-tier angel's flesh and blood with blade and explosions, stripping skin from muscle. He occasionally activated his jetpack to dodge the angel's massive metal claws, allowing its golden talons to scratch across his porcelain-like armor and blood-red, gold-inlaid plating. He was soaked in the angel's rosemary-scented blood, which evaporated into golden motes. He glowed too, his blazing Holy Sword and activated stigmata casting searing light as he calmly, almost leisurely, killed the upper-tier angel—embedding the very concept of pain into its soul, knowing full well it would never be resurrected, never again descend into the material world.
Some who were splashed with the angel's blood before it could evaporate found their chronic illnesses and old injuries suddenly healed. Others, previously healthy, developed cancer from uncontrollable cell growth. The latter was harder to detect, but the former—like the blind regaining sight or the lame walking again—was more immediate. It wouldn't be long before some fervent believers claimed divine revelation, preaching to "save America, restore Protestant order, and eliminate homosexuals, Blacks, and Mexican immigrants," or "destroy America, restore Protestant order, and eliminate homosexuals, Blacks, and Mexican immigrants."
There wasn't much difference between the two.
But that was for later. For now, those future prophets were running for cover, because the witches' battleground had shifted from Williamsburg to Greenpoint. This neighborhood was mostly Polish immigrants, full of restaurants, bars, and live music venues, with few tall buildings and many warehouses rented by starving artists.
A perfect space for the witches to unleash themselves.
"Looks like he's doing just fine," Bayonetta said, spinning and firing a shot behind her. The bullet struck a high-tier Thrones Angel square in the marble face. Not long ago, another angel of the same type had attempted to ambush the witches, only to be killed by Solomon with its own massive sword. Bayonetta was pleased that these worthy foes hadn't all been wiped out yet. If Solomon took care of all the high-tier angels, how would she play the role of a night-time cowgirl?
Just as the Thrones Angel raised its sword to charge, a massive fist—woven and summoned from black hair—lunged forward and punched it. Bayonetta's contracted demon, Madame Butterfly, urged her once again to summon her, but as usual, the witch ignored the call.
"Now it's our turn."
(End of Chapter)
[Get +20 Extra Chapters On — P@tr3on "Mutter"]
[Every 50 Power Stones = 1 Bonus Chapter Drop]
[Thanks for Reading!]