Despite Archie's injuries, he got to his feet. The Pope backed up in disbelief, the Knights and Mages gasped as Archie stood back up. Back on his feet, Archie took a deep breath, one that reached the depths of his soul, then yelled out a battle cry loud enough to breach the heavens...
"MY NAME IS ARCHIE OF GREATER OTTAWA, AND I AM HERE IN THE NAME OF THE GREAT REDEEMER! THE KING OF KINGS! THE MAN WHO WASHED AWAY OUR SINS!..." The Pope and his Holy Crusaders were frozen in place by the skill known as Blessed Child of the Savior, and it emitted an aura that locked targets who invoked the user's chosen God's name in vain or committed acts of cruelty. Archie's battle cry roared on, "AND I HEREBY... ORDER... YOU... TO REPENT! REPENT YOUR WICKED WAYS AS HE IS ON THE SIDE OF JUSTICE AND YOU ARE ON THE SIDE OF CHAINS!" Archie, having finished his battle cry, yelled as he found back, wounding the Pope, killing several Knights and Mages before the Pope drove his divine blade through Archie's heart... while the Ghost watched helplessly from the sky.
"GRANDPA, NOO!" The Ghost yelled, throwing away regard for his safety and scooping his Grandpa into his arms. The Pope and the other Holy Crusaders were instantly frozen in place. Inferna, Goldbeard, and the King of the Dwarves were frozen without a clue as to what to do or say. As the Ghost cradled Archie, four words slipped through Archie's lips: "I'm coming home, Patricia." Then Archie closed his eyes and died in the arms of the Ghost, his grandson who'd idolized him since the Ghost could remember. At that moment, an aura that was the same color as the darkest corners of space's void erupted from the Ghost of Ottawa. He stood up, body facing away from his Grandpa's killers, but those copper eyes that had once glistened with hope in the sunlight were now glowing the deepest shade of crimson known to mankind. Those eyes, unlike his body, were locked onto the Pope and his dripping divine blade.
At an unseeable and frightening speed, the Ghost was looming over the Pope. "I should have repented..." Mumbled the Pope as the Ghost's hand, barely able to handle the Ghost's rage, curled around the Pope's throat with a grip that death itself couldn't fathom breaking loose. The Ghost's eyes screamed into the Pope's soul that there would be not an ounce of mercy, not a shred of hope, just suffering unlike anything this pathetic excuse for a human being called "The Pope" was about to subject his entire army, his entire clergy, and his entire nation to. The Ghost had spoken not a single word, eyes of wraith locked upon the Pope. As the Knights moved in to try and save the Pope, the Ghost took in a deep breath and screamed. This wasn't the yell of anger or a war cry of any kind. This was the Ghost's already broken soul yelling out of pure, seething pain, and an unrelenting rage froze the entire battlefield out of fear. It was a bloodcurdling yell from the depths of a hell no one knew. As a Knight took a step towards him, the Ghost, with an aura akin to that of the Angel of Death, sent a faster-than-seen uppercut into the knight's jawline, which instantly eviscerated him, leaving nothing but a pile of gore and blood raining down upon the mountainside.
With a bolt of lightning-like speed, the Ghost of Ottawa had turned the entire legion of Crusaders who'd attacked Archie into gore piles and blood rain. He then grabbed the cracked staff and divine blade from the Pope and shattered them both into golden dust. Grabbing the Pope by the collar, the Ghost removed his helmet, allowing the Pope to watch as the four needles injected more adrenaline and noradrenaline into his bloodstream, sending his body into life-or-death overdrive by a factor of ten. The Ghost glared into his eyes before lifting into the sky, but close enough for everyone to hear him. "You, the Church of Humanity, have committed the gravest act of violence against one so bright, cheerful, and helpful that anyone he came across. God may so wastefully attempt to grant you mercy... but... THE WILL BE SOUL LEFT TO ASCEND TO HEAVEN OR BE DAMNED TO A FATE WORSE THAN HELL!" The Ghost overrevved the suit's hydraulic screws, the power core, and his own soul as he grabbed the Pope by the ribcage, only to slam his back flat against the rocky-mountainside. Joint by joint, limb by limb, the Ghost tore the Pope into tiny chunks. He forced adrenaline into the Pope's bloodstream, forcing the Pope to endure every agonizing rip, every bloodcurdling tear, every break, and every single wraith-filled punch.
Once the Pope was nothing but a living bloodied torso and head, the Ghost punched out his heart, making sure the Pope watched as the Ghost crushed it with a force unlike any this world had ever seen.