Golden light punched through the fractured sky like a spear driven by a vengeful god. Not the warm radiance of creation, but something colder—sterile, absolute, the kind of holiness that demanded obedience first and asked questions never. Metatron's avatar descended at the head of his host, wings of razor-edged scripture trailing verses that burned the air itself. Behind him came ranks of angels, their faces blank slates of divine purpose.
They had come to collect.
The souls that had spilled from Hades' realm didn't stand a chance. Chains of golden scripture lashed out, wrapping around confused shades and dragging them into formation. A mother's ghost reached for her child one final time before the light swallowed her whole. A fallen warrior's shade roared defiance only to have his voice rewritten into hymns of submission.
Hades felt every theft like a scalpel across his soul.
