Once Spectra swung the Hellstaff, a slash of deep magenta light erupted from the weapon's head, carving forward with the sound of a thousand shrieking souls.
It struck the oncoming wall of red smoke and Demon flesh, and the charging horde of Purgatory Demons were instantly divided.
Bodies launched sideways in broken clusters, limbs still clawed at air, and torsos spun like discarded refuse. The dense Gloom that rode with them split open like the Red Sea, its edges boiling and curling back upon itself as if even the darkness feared her.
Spectra beat her wings once and glided forward into that wound in the world.
The Gloom closed behind her, swallowing the path she had made, but she was already within it, at the pulsing heart of the massacre-to-be.
She stopped in the center of the parted tide, still floating, the Hellstaff resting on her clawed hand. The stench here was heaven to her, even though the Gloom was so thick the air felt solid, Spectra basked in it.
