Chapter 16 – Ghosts in Armor
He put away the watch without looking, fingers moving on instinct. Smooth, clean, precise. The kind of motion he only makes when he knows things are about to get dirty.
Then he walked to the minibar, picked the most overpriced champagne bottle from the ice bucket, popped the cork with a lazy flick of his thumb, and poured himself a glass.
He didn't drink it immediately.
He walked to the balcony first, barefoot.
City lights sprawled like spilled jewels across the skyline. Warm. Mortal. Unaware.
Lux sipped slowly.
Then his eyes narrowed.
Far off in the distance—perched between the liminal lines of perception and reality—he saw them.
Three specks of impossible symmetry.
White-winged. Gleaming.
And armed.
Not with trumpets.
Not with scrolls or judgment tablets.
But with spears.
Thick, rune-inscribed lances crackling faintly with the breath of divine fire. Their armor shimmered like marble dipped in starlight—bulky, angular, and twice as massive as it needed to be. Like golems stuffed inside the aesthetic of a holy paladin. Faces hidden behind smooth helms, unreadable.
Lux huffed quietly. "Of course."
[System Notification: Celestial Presence – 50 meters… and closing.]
He took another sip, eyes still locked on them. The city moved behind them, unaware. Mortals passed through those spaces like the angels didn't even exist. That's how it worked. That's how they worked. Invisible power. Shrouded authority. One foot in existence, one in sanctified theory.
Ghosts in armor.
Lux stared at their weapons again. No angel showed up armed unless they were here to escalate.
So much for diplomacy.
"Right," he muttered.
He downed the rest of his glass in a single gulp, set it gently on the balcony's marble rail—
And leapt off the edge.
"Battle form," he said.
The words didn't echo. They rippled.
Power surged.
The clothes he wore split down the middle with a hiss of dissolving silk, melting into molten shadow. Gold threads curled and snapped into smoking lines of black glass. His shirt unraveled midair, flaring into smoke. The slacks darkened into obsidian armor, wrapping tighter around his frame.
And then came the rest.
Horns curled from his skull. Smooth and sharp. His wings burst from his back—sleek, infernal, stretching wide enough to blot out moonlight. His tail snapped into visibility a second later.
Gold and ember threaded beneath the surface like mana veins carved by ancient debts.
[Battle Form Activated – Hellborne Profile Engaged]
[Visibility to Mortals: Obscured – Dark Aura Only]
[Synaptic Signature: Hostile Detection Enabled]
Lux shot forward with a flick of his wings, slicing through the air like a blade through velvet. To mortals below, all they saw was a gust of warm wind. Maybe a shadow they couldn't explain. Maybe a heartbeat skipped for no reason.
But in the higher planes, the real field—the one angels and demons used to keep their bloodshed hidden—he was a missile.
Fast. Controlled.
He hovered thirty meters away from them now. No closer. Hands out. Non-hostile.
"Alright," he called out, voice smooth but sharp. "You want to tell me why three of Heaven's bluntest letter openers are here?"
The middle one didn't answer.
Instead, it raised its spear.
Lux's expression didn't flinch, but inside—yeah. He knew what was coming.
Divine users were predictable that way.
"Here we go—"
The spear twisted once—like it snapped through a lock—and the space around them fractured.
The skyline warped. The ground twisted.
Reality groaned.
In an instant, a white-gold sphere exploded around them, and Lux felt the ground vanish under his feet.
[Warning: Angelic Realm Isolation Barrier Detected – Entering Isolated Conflict Zone]
"Dammit," Lux hissed, wings folding as he adjusted in the new air.
Everything around him was suddenly wrong.
The city was gone. The hotel. The warmth. The sound of Naomi's humming.
Now? Just clouds. Light. And sterile heaven-grade nothingness. They always made it feel so clean. So pure. So… disconnected.
Like a weapon that never had to touch the dirt.
Lux floated as the four of them now stood facing each other—because yeah, the barrier pulled another one in. That's how angels worked.
"So that's how it is," he muttered.
One of them launched forward without even the decency of a warning.
The first spear sliced the air like it wanted to edit it out of existence.
Lux dipped left, narrowly dodging the blow, letting it pass an inch from his ribs.
He twisted midair and landed with a spin, tail snapping back like a whip.
"I was going to talk," he called out, sliding a foot back into a ready stance. "Y'know. Diplomatic stuff. I do have manners."
The angel didn't reply.
Instead, all three dropped into ready formation—two flanking, one ranged. Their helms gave no emotion. Their posture said purge protocol.
[System Notification: Threat Level – Middle]
[Angelic Battle Pattern: Morality Class – Erasure Variant]
[Suggested Action: Stop Holding Back, You Elegant Bastard.]
Lux exhaled sharply through his teeth.
"You always know how to charm me," he muttered silently to his system.
His wings expanded fully, shadow bleeding into the fake sky like an oil spill over light. The space vibrated slightly from the sheer pressure his battle form was putting out—elegant, contained, but unmistakably volatile.
"No more warm-ups then," he whispered.
One of the angels launched again.
Lux met him halfway.
The air between them warped as their bodies collided mid-flight. Divine steel rang against hardened infernal muscle as Lux twisted, dipped, and danced past each strike with precision. The sound of each dodge was like the wind gasping.
-CLANG. SHNK. WHOOSH.
"Okay," Lux snarled as he backflipped over a sweeping spear. "If you think I want the mortal realm—No."
He ducked under another lunge, his body gliding low in the air with predatory grace.
"I was sipping champagne!"
Another spear came screaming at him from the right.
Lux didn't even flinch.
His tail shot out—snakelike and sharp—wrapped around the haft of the weapon mid-thrust and yanked. The angel stumbled, thrown off-balance, and Lux spun midair, planting both boots into the armored chest of the attacker with a grunt.