Greg simply stood still in mid-air, utterly unbothered.
Not worried in the slightest.
Just calm, profoundly, almost unnaturally calm, like a Buddhist monk deep in meditation, untouched by the storm raging around him.
His wings beat slowly and steadily, holding him suspended with effortless grace.
The wind tugged at his clothes, but his expression remained serene, eyes half-lidded, breathing even.
The concentrated demonic energy finally reached him, a roaring comet of black-violet power that warped the air in its wake and crackled with destructive intent.
It missed.
The blast streaked past Greg by mere inches, close enough that the heat singed the tips of his hair and left a faint ozone smell in its trail, but it never touched him.
The energy exploded harmlessly against the distant ground far below, sending up a plume of shattered rock and dark smoke.
"Hmm. How odd," Azazel muttered, his voice carrying across the distance with genuine puzzlement.
