The world bent.

  Not shattered—bent, as if reality itself had been seized and folded by a higher will.

  Light swallowed them whole.

  A teleportation sigil burned itself into existence, lines of ancient geometry flaring white before collapsing inward.

  Kazane and Elric materialized within its fading glow.

  Stone stretched endlessly in all directions.

  A vast underground expanse revealed itself—an enormous dungeon hall supported by colossal pillars that rose like petrified giants, each etched with age-worn carvings long eroded by time. The ceiling vanished into shadow, far above even enhanced mortal sight, while the ground beneath their feet vibrated faintly, as though the city itself breathed overhead.

  The air was damp. Cold. Old.

  Kazane’s hand went instinctively to his sword.

  “Where are we?”

  Elric closed his eyes briefly, senses expanding outward like a ripple through water.

  “Some sort of dungeon, I think… but not far from the city,” he said. “I can still hear the sound of footsteps afar.”

  Kazane frowned, gaze sweeping the pillars.

  “Then this must be some hidden underground dungeon… and it size is endless....just how much more are the Vatican hiding?”

  The answer came unspoken.

  Both men felt it at the same instant.

  Pressure.

  Not oppressive—but sharp, like a blade pressed against the soul.

  They turned together.

  From behind one of the giant pillars, a figure emerged slowly.

  Tall.

  Broad-shouldered.

  Wings unfurled partially, white feathers streaked with gold veins that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Though similar to the other Archangels they had seen, there were differences—his presence was denser, heavier, as if every step carried centuries of honed violence.

  The Archangel stopped at a distance, posture relaxed, face utterly emotionless.

  “Human,” he spoke calmly, voice echoing through the hall, “I heard of you two to be the most proficient in your sword skill.”

  Kazane raised an eyebrow.

  “Hah. To be complimented by a mighty being like you. Am truely honored.”

  The Archangel was not amused.

  “That was no compliment,” he said flatly. “For I do not praise those who are unworthy.”

  He lifted one hand.

  “You two… are merely here to keep me company until my brothers are finished with their goal.”

  Steel rang softly as Elric adjusted his stance.

  “As a courtesy of killing you in battle,” the Archangel continued, “I shall introduce myself.”

  Light condensed around him.

  One sword appeared.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Soon, dozens of pristine blades floated around him—white steel engraved with golden sigils, humming faintly with divine resonance.

  “I am Samael,” he declared.

  “The Sword Saint.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Show me how strong humans have grown after so many ages.”

  A pause.

  “I hope it is not disappointing.”

  The swords trembled.

  The dungeon sang with impending slaughter.

  A second teleportation circle ignited.

  Cold air rushed inward as Theoren and Mereth appeared within a massive stone chamber—wide, tall, and sealed, with only one visible entrance and exit. The walls were smooth, unnaturally so, as if shaped rather than carved.

  “This place…” Mereth muttered, scanning the surroundings. “To be teleported into an enclosed space this deep—it shouldn’t be far from the city.”

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Theoren did not respond.

  His grip tightened on his warhammer.

  “Mereth,” he said quietly, “we have more pressing matters.”

  She turned.

  The Archangel stood behind them, hands clasped behind his back, posture calm, almost regal.

  He lifted his head.

  “I am Anathiel,” he spoke.

  “The Winter King.”

  A chill spread through the chamber.

  “Let us get to know each other from here onwards.”

  Mereth scoffed.

  “Know each other? More like destroy each other.”

  Anathiel inclined his head slightly.

  “They say only through battle do we truly understand one another,” he replied. “That is why we must fight... with our lives on the line.”

  “True,” Theoren said coldly, “But only the victor decides the outcome of that understanding.”

  Anathiel’s lips curved faintly.

  “Hmm. It is rare for a mortal to align with my thoughts so well.”

  His gaze shifted—locked onto Theoren.

  “And you… I can sense a strong cold aura.”

  He pointed casually.

  “Which means we are alike. Though, of course, I am superior in every way.”

  Theoren said nothing.

  But the air around him dropped several degrees.

  Anathiel continued, tone almost conversational.

  “I was skeptical at first when that human told us about each of yours information,” he said. “And to be truthful… I was rather interested.”

  A sideways glance.

  “In that human daughter of yours.”

  The chamber froze—not metaphorically, but literally.

  Theoren’s warhammer surged with violent ice energy.

  “You will be dead,” he growled, “before you ever get to see her.”

  Anathiel laughed.

  One casual stomp.

  The floor crystallized outward instantly, frost racing across stone, walls, ceiling—turning the chamber into a frozen hellscape.

  Mereth cursed.

  “Damn it! He changed the surroundings to his advantage! His attack could come from anywhere!”

  The ice answered immediately.

  A massive spike erupted from the frozen ground toward her.

  Just before impact—

  It stopped.

  Cracked.

  Shattered.

  Theoren stood between them, frost rolling off his shoulders.

  Anathiel’s eyes widened slightly.

  “Well, well…” he said, delighted. “Isn’t that wonderful?”

  His grin widened unnaturally.

  “Now this is going to be fun.” with a smile.

  “Let us see,” Anathiel declared, frost swirling violently, “how much of a contender you are in the game of ice!”

  The world shimmered again.

  Lilith and Camilia appeared within an empty stone district, buildings intact but deserted. The Citadel loomed in the distance, its spires rising above the cityscape.

  “Seems like we were sent somewhere in the city town,” Camilia said. “I can still see the Citadel from afar.”

  “Let’s go, sis—”

  Lilith grabbed her arm.

  “Wait.”

  Wind stirred.

  “Heads up. We have company.”

  The air parted as an Archangel descended gracefully, six wings furling with practiced elegance. Currents of wind spiraled around him, lifting dust and loose debris in gentle arcs.

  He bowed.

  “Greetings, ladies of the darkness,” he said smoothly. “I am Vergil, the Storm King… at your service.”

  Lilith raised an eyebrow.

  “This wasn’t the kind of courtesy I expected from an Archangel.”

  “I expected more on berating,” Camilia added. “Would’ve made the killing easier.”

  Vergil smiled.

  “Though you are beings of darkness,” he said, “it does not change the fact that you are the most beautiful ladies I have ever met.”

  He straightened.

  “Courtesy is necessary.”

  Camilia leaned in, whispering.

  “Sis, he’s a creep. Let’s just kill him and regroup with Kevlar.”

  Lilith nodded.

  Vergil sighed.

  “Unfortunately,” he said calmly, “that will not happen as long as I remain here.”

  “I request,” he continued politely, “that you keep me company first.”

  Lilith sneered.

  “We’re going to destroy you, you cement-faced pervert!”

  “Yeah!” Camilia chimed in. “As if your gentleman act can hide your ugliness!”

  Something twitched behind Vergil’s eyes.

  He inhaled slowly.

  “Taunting methods,” he said. “I see...But they will not work.”

  Lilith’s wings unfurled.

  “Then we’ll just kick your ass.”

  The wind screamed.

  Draculius appeared amidst scorched earth and shattered terrain, the sounds of distant war echoing around him.

  He frowned.

  “Why here of all places?”

  The Archangel before him laughed, flames rippling along his wings.

  “Because the true battlefield is where real warriors belong!” he roared. “The scent of scorched land, burning fire—it invigorates me!”

  Draculius sighed.

  “So I got the battle-crazed type.”

  “I am Israfel!” the Archangel bellowed. “The True Flame! And I shall burn you to dust, old man!”

  “Old?” Draculius replied mildly. “You look older than me. You should be calling me young man instead.”

  He smirked.

  “And ‘True Flame’? How cute.”

  Israfel snarled.

  He tossed a fireball casually.

  Draculius dodged by tilting his head slightly sideway.

  The fireball hit a distant hillside—

  And detonated like a catastrophic bomb.

  Debris erupted skyward.

  Israfel grinned.

  “How about now? Cute enough?”

  “My flame,” he boasted, “is the Origin of Fire! Every flame in existence is but a shallow imitation!”

  “Do not compare mine with those weak copy.”

  Draculius remained unimpressed.

  “It does has power,” he admitted. “But I’ve seen fire that can extinguish yours.”

  “Lies! Nothing surpasses my flame and that is the law!” Israfel roared.

  “Law?” Draculius corrected softly. “That fire is the law itself… and it will burn you.”

  Serena stood among broken marble and shattered divine architecture. Light filtered weakly from cracks above, illuminating remnants of what once floated among the clouds.

  Footsteps approached.

  An Archangel emerged, demeanor gentle.

  “Serafiel…” he called softly.

  She turned.

  “Oh—my apologies,” he said. “You resemble someone I once knew.”

  “I am Sidrien,” he continued. “The Wood Guardian.”

  “Serena,” she replied. “Serena Corvan.”

  She looked around.

  “What is this place?”

  “The ruins of our Heaven Sanctuary,” Sidrien said sadly. “What remains of it.”

  “The sky city that fell…” Serena murmured.

  “Yes, it was our beautiful home and it glory was unmatched”

  His sorrow slowly twisted into rage. “If only the Shadowborn did not exist.”

  “I read the Book of Eternia,” Sidrien hissed. “In every cycle, the Shadowborn emerge from humans.”

  His voice hardened.

  “To prevent history from repeating… we had deemed that humanity must be erased.”

  “That’s insane... what you are speaking of is the annihilation of an entire race!” Serena snapped.

  “Me? Insane?” he roared. “Look around you sister! Does this look like insanity?”

  “We were lucky to survived only because of the capsule! Had we not, we would had been the extinct race instead!”

  She spread her wings.

  “I am not your sister. Do not mistaken who i am and expect me to understand your sentiment, cause i will not.”

  He steadied himself.

  “Apology...i lost myself there...But as our last kin i asked of you”

  “Join us, please” Sidrien pleaded. “Help us rebuild.”

  “At the cost of annihilation?” Serena replied. “Never.”

  His voice turned cold.

  “You will understand us one day. But know this...whether you join us or not”

  “Nothing will stop the end of humanity.”

  She charged at Sidrien at full speed.

  As Sidrien raised his hand to summon giant roots exploding upward from the ground trying to bind her.

  She slipped through the gap effortlessly. As she closes in to Sidrien, he casted his own wood form weapon to counter.

  Their weapons clashed.

  And across the world—

  Every battlefield ignited.

  The war had truly fractured.

  And there would be no turning back.