The battlefield lay drenched in blood and ash.
Angelo stood at the epicenter of devastation, a maelstrom of fury incarnate. His movements were a blur—each strike a thunderclap, each step a tremor. Angelic forms crumpled under his onslaught, their celestial grace no match for his unbridled wrath. Wings were torn asunder, bones shattered, and golden ichor painted the ruins.
Soldiers paused, their weapons lowering as unease crept in. The unspoken question hung heavy: What if he turns on us next?
Hale's voice crackled through the comms, laced with urgency. "Angelo! Stand down! It's over! Do you hear me?"
No response.
Angelo's blazing eyes locked onto the final angel—a trembling figure, its luminescence dimmed by fear. He seized it by the throat, lifting it effortlessly.
"I gave you a chance to flee," he growled, voice a low rumble. "You chose defiance. Now face oblivion."
With a brutal twist, he severed its head. The body collapsed, lifeless.
Hale's voice pierced the haze. "Angelo! Enough!"
The inferno within him flickered… then extinguished.
His eyes dimmed. Breath hitched. Reality crashed down.
He collapsed onto the scorched earth, gasping. Soldiers hesitated, torn between aiding him and bracing for another onslaught.
One approached cautiously. "Sir… are you alright?"
Angelo groaned, eyes searching the smoke-laden sky. "No. Everything hurts. What… happened?"
"You obliterated them," the soldier replied. "It was like watching a god of war unleashed."
"I don't remember," Angelo murmured. "Just darkness. I'll deal with it later."
A stretcher arrived swiftly. As they secured him, Hale's orders echoed: "Collect the fallen—both ours and theirs. Tag and transport. We're heading back."
The convoy moved under a shroud of silence. Ash clung to boots; dried blood marred armor.
At the base gates, soldiers stood at attention—relief, shock, and confusion etched on their faces. Whispers followed Angelo's stretcher, a mix of reverence and fear.
Within the base, a different chaos unfolded. Infiltrators—angelic sympathizers—had been caught in restricted zones. Their eyes wild, mouths frothing.
"We are the chosen! The light flows through us!" they screamed, restrained. "He will fall! The monster will be purged!"
Security teams intervened, but the damage was done. Secrets had been exposed.
In the infirmary, Angelo lay amidst a symphony of pain. Muscles torn, bones aching. Grant stood beside him, concern shadowing his features.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
"Like hell," Angelo muttered. "Regeneration's slowed… maybe stopped."
Grant's brow furrowed. "What happened out there? One moment you were pinned, the next, you decimated them. No memories?"
Angelo shook his head. "Just a voice, screaming to kill. Then… nothing. I only returned when Hale called."
"You annihilated them," Grant said quietly. "Every single one. The camera I gave you survived. If you want to see…"
"Later," Angelo sighed. "I need rest."
As he settled, a sudden pressure enveloped the base. Walls vibrated. Lights flickered. Conversations ceased. Soldiers froze, weapons forgotten.
Grant's eyes widened. "What… is that?"
Angelo felt it too—a presence, dark and ancient. He didn't need to see to know.
Far away, a tear in reality opened. Through it stepped two figures.
One, a towering being with horns curling like twisted branches. Each step he took made the earth recoil.
Beside him, a pale girl with broken shackles. She walked in tandem, unafraid.
Behind them, an army emerged—twisted creatures, armored wraiths, and beings resembling angels but corrupted. Their wings frayed, faces cracked.
They marched, silent and inevitable.
Angelo remembered them. From when he was fifteen.
His blood ran cold.
Alarms blared. Shouts erupted. But none of it mattered.
The world had changed again.
And something far worse than angels had arrived.