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Two figures floated above Kuoh Academy. One was a normal Fallen Angel. Rank and file. The tattered cloak that hung over his shoulders was the only outstanding feature that distinguished him from his brethren. The other was a full head taller than the first, and possessed five pairs of wings compared to one.
Kokabiel glared down in contempt at destruction he had wrought.
"Go to the second wave. I want to know why they have not yet attacked. If it is Gadreel being his usual slow self, you have my permission to kill him. Tell the others to act in haste. Forget subtlety. Volleys of spears immediately after they arrive. Saturate this place. I want their bodies to look like pincushions after we're done."
"With all due respect, my lord," the lesser angel hesitated, "our forces are engaged all over the battlefield. Some of them will have difficulties in withdrawing. Your order, when it is obeyed, will have our second wave hurling their spears as soon as they arrive. Won't that hit our own men?"
Kokabiel turned to his subordinate, the motion almost lazy in its casualness.
"Why yes," cruel lips parted in a grisly smile, "but it will hit theirs as well."
A shudder went down the underling's spine.
"I see…"
His superior noticed, and the fanged smile stretched wider.
"You are too used to Azazel's kindness, Sorath. He has grown weak and pitiful in his lax state," the Grigori spread his arms wide, encompassing the scene of devastation below him, "This is how war is meant to be waged. Brutal and unmerciful. But that is why you are here, aren't you? You and the rest of your flock. All of you abandoned Azazel to be at my side because you desire the glory that should have been ours. If you serve well, this glory and more shall be yours."
The lesser angel nodded eagerly, his earlier hesitation forgotten.
"I live to serve, sire."
"As long as you understand that," Kokabiel gestured airily, "Tell those in the second wave to watch where they throw their spears. The two high-class devils. I want them alive. Everything else though. They can die."
"And if they are dead? The two devils?"
The Grigori frowned.
"If they are dead, then I will be most displeased. But some things cannot be prevented. If they are dead, find their bodies and crucify them to the walls," bloodshot eyes gleamed with insanity, "I believe Sirzechs will appreciate the irony."
Another shudder passed, filled with equal dread.
"It shall be done, my lord."
Kokabiel's crimson gaze continued to bore into the lesser angel's back well after he turned to leave.
"Oh, and Sorath?"
The lesser angel halted in midair, shoulders stiffening.
"Don't ask such worthless questions in the future."
He had more than stalled the attack. He had stopped it completely. His cannon had the range, and its merest touch was death. Like flak the arcane shells burst into the Fallen Angels' midst, threatening to bring them down with bursts of cackling electricity. Yet he could not keep this up forever. His power was a finite resource, and already he was nearing its limit. Each shot he sent barreling towards his foes was weaker than the last, and where once the cannon boomed with thunderous retort it now whined in protest with every discharge, as though demanding respite.
Nor had the Fallen been idle in the exchange. Like a disturbed nest of hornets they buzzed around him, filling the air with twisted shapes. They had already tried to flank him twice. First from behind, then from above. Both times he was saved by his cover. The outcrop he had chosen purely by chance nullified such avenues of attack. They could only come from the front, yet they did not rush him. These were not the foolhardy warriors that fell for every ambush within the school. These were veterans, soldiers well-versed in their craft, and their experience could not be more finely displayed than it was now. They constantly danced out of the range of his cannon, forcing him to expend his shots and consequently drain his power. When his attention was elsewhere they probed at his blind spots, and when he swung his weapon to bear on them, they retreated, replaced by a new squad that came from another vulnerable side. Attack. Feint. Retreat. Repeat. Over and over again.
Such was the confidence of prepared hunters cornering their prey.
A sizzling sound confirmed what he had already felt. The cannon fell limply by his side, power all but spent. Issei stared down at it, thought for a second on a multitude of words that could express his current predicament, and managed only one.
"Fuck."
A light spear hissed past him and buried itself into the rock between him and the still comatose form of Saji. More followed, sinking into his cover with ease. Without the cannon to menace them, the Fallen Angels were closing the distance, finding the range.
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