The field behind the Citadel stretched wide, a sea of bone-white grass soaked in moonlight. The sky overhead churned with low clouds, streaked red from the fires still smoldering in the colonies below. The earth itself seemed to hold its breath.
At the far edge stood Michael.
Armor gleaming, wings spread wide—not white, but a blinding gold that pulsed with divine rhythm. In one hand, he held the blade of judgmental fire, its flames licking the air, inscribed with prayers etched in celestial script. The ground beneath his feet didn't burn, it glowed.
Opposite him walked Asmodeus.
No longer limping. No longer shrouded in pain.
He had left humanity behind.
The shadows surrounding him weren't cloaks anymore. They were limbs. Tendrils. Horns and fangs made flesh. His body stretched tall, his shoulders wide, claws glinting black as oil. Smoke poured from his mouth with each breath, and his eyes burned with ancient purple flame.
Once, he had been a man.
Now, he was what Hell feared.
They said nothing.
The wind howled once between them.
Then they charged.
The first clash shattered the ground.
Asmodeus met Michael midair, claw against flaming blade. The impact sent rings of dust outward in waves. The grass ignited. The sky shook.
They crashed again.
Michael's sword cleaved through the dark, scorching a trail of divine fire that bisected the battlefield. Asmodeus twisted away, his wings now leathery and massive, launching him overhead. He dropped down with both fists and cratered the ground, narrowly missing Michael, who teleported with a flash of golden light.
Blades of light and fire rained from above.
Asmodeus raised a shield of bone and brimstone, letting them pierce his shoulders, his back, his chest—then used their own momentum to charge through. He slammed into Michael, dragging him across the field like a comet.
They rolled through broken stone, fists slamming into ribs and jaw and temple. Each punch from Michael cracked the land. Each strike from Asmodeus left craters in the air itself.
Fire rained from Heaven.
Lucifer, tall and radiant, stood defiant before the Gates. Asmodeus stood behind him, clutching a sword of darkness. Around them, angels and demons screamed in a chorus of death.
Michael descended, golden blade raised.
"You do not belong here."
Lucifer replied, "Then cast me out."
He did.
And Asmodeus watched.
Watched Michael drag his father into the void.
Watched the light swallow the Morning Star.
Watched himself... do nothing.
Back in the field, Asmodeus howled.
"You cast my father into Hell, then killed him eons later!"
Michael didn't flinch.
"He defied the Will."
"And I will end the Will!"
They collided again.
Michael raised his blade.
"Heaven! Hear me now! Grant me strength to finish this Prince of Darkness!"
From the sky, light poured down in a column.
Michael's blade grew brighter. His wings extended, now ten in number, wrapped in scripture and flame. His form expanded, his face hardening into something no longer mortal—not even angelic. Judgment made flesh.
Asmodeus staggered.
He dropped to one knee.
Michael charged.
The flaming blade drove through his shoulder.
Through his chest.
He screamed.
The fire tore through every nerve. Divine judgment licked his bones.
Michael leaned close.
"You are your father's son."
Asmodeus looked up.
His face changed.
No longer Hiro.
No longer half-human.
Two curling horns twisted from his forehead. His teeth jagged and white. His wings burned black.
His voice changed.
"You're right. I am."
He reached up.
Grabbed the blade.
And broke it.
The fire scattered like shrapnel across the sky.
Michael recoiled.
Asmodeus rose.
Fully.
Completely.
He became the Devil.
The earth split beneath his feet.
Columns of bloodied flame rose from the soil.
Demons howled from the cracks, spectral images of the fallen rising behind him—not summoned, but remembered.
He slammed his claw into Michael's chest, sending the Archangel flying. Asmodeus followed, striking again and again, until bone cracked and blood spilled from golden veins.
Michael summoned a spear of starlight—Asmodeus caught it mid-throw and hurled it back, embedding it through Michael's thigh.
They screamed in unison—the sound not of men, but of gods at war.
The battlefield flooded with light and dark.
Wings torn.
Blood spilled.
Skulls shattered.
"You will fall, my son. But rise again. Never stop rising."
Asmodeus had cried.
His father burned.
Michael fell to one knee.
He bled. Divine blood. Liquid gold.
He raised one trembling hand.
"God... give me the strength..."
Asmodeus towered above him.
"He's not listening."
He raised his claw.
Michael looked up.
And smiled.
"He never needed to."
A final surge of fire burst from the Archangel—engulfing them both.
When the flames cleared—
Only one stood.
Asmodeus.
Barely.
Burned. Bleeding. Breathing.
Michael lay broken.
Still.
Asmodeus looked to the sky.
The stars watched.
No salvation. No applause.
Only silence.
He dropped to one knee.
The world held its breath.
And Hell rose in triumph.
YOU ARE READING
The Originals
FantasyIn a world reborn from the ashes of war, Hiro Wu, a once-powerful Original, now lives a life of quiet desperation as a teacher, haunted by nightmares of his past and a lost love, Claire. After decades of peace, shadows from the past resurface when H...
