The corrupted angel snarled, its divine eye widening, its warped wing spasming as the mist it poured shriveled where Azareel's light touched.
The corrupted aura cracked like burning paper, vanishing inch by inch, the ground beneath it trembling as if the Abyss itself feared the glow.
Sylvara stared, her voice trembling with awe.
"H-he's cleansing it… the rot… it can't stay," she whispered, her shriveled vines twitching as if yearning to bloom again.
Nyxsha's golden eyes widened, her massive form stilling, blood dripping from her wounds as she watched, transfixed.
Virelya's coils froze, her four heads falling silent, their masks reflecting the golden light, their golden eyes wide with wonder.
Azareel's entire form gleamed like a walking star, the branch tracing sigils with perfect grace, forming an array in the air that pulsed with a heartbeat not his own—hope, radiant and unyielding, a light that burned brighter than the Abyss's despair.
