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"There are two types of people in the world: those with a gun, and those who dig."
— Blondie (The Good, the Bad and the Ugly)
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<(Omniscient POV)>
"Relax, kid. Those tales about divine angels being tough enough to take us demons on? Just bedtime stories humans cooked up," growled a high-demon, his voice gravelly as his goat-like head twisted toward the trembling young incubus. The bull-bodied monster sneered, ichor still dripping from the claws he had buried in some poor lower demon minutes ago simply because it had looked at him the wrong way.
"Old winged fossils from a dead realm—barely more than a myth. I heard from one of my grandfathers that thousands of years angels did exist, but they were barely more than just overhyped warriors who could even sell their own bodies for a coin or two. So even if these are the same angels of that time, we don't have anything to be afraid of." He chuckled darkly. "Though I think they would make for excellent little toys. I have been getting bored with playing with humans anyway, so this might even be a good change."
The ground trembled as thousands of demons surged forward, their armored feet pounding the scorched terrain. Hell's skies churned with blood-red clouds and winds as hot as fire, but even through all that chaos, the demons saw it—multiple crimson rifts tearing through the fabric of the horizon, spilling radiant golden figures that were coming their way, menacingly flying in their direction with speeds faster than that of sound.
The angels had arrived.
Most demons had heard whispers of Heven before. Old war stories, warnings passed down like rumors among the lower ranks. Tales of mercenaries in celestial armor who fought for the right price. Truth be told, they weren't too different from demons in that way.
However, angels weren't as... versatile as demons—or even gods. Sure, in a straight-up fight, your average angel could drop an Asgardian like a bag of bricks. But when it came to sorcery, demonic manipulation, or bending the rules of reality? Demons ran circles around them. So most demons stayed calm—cocky even—confident in their grip on the supernatural forces of hell.
To be honest, most of them thought the angels were long gone, some extinct race tucked into a dying dimension. And yet here they were—facing down those very angels in open war. There were legions of them, clad in silver and white armor, laced with gold, glowing sigils engraved deep into their plating, their feathered wings flaring with crackling golden light. Even their weapons thrummed with that same kind of golden energy.
"Bring me their heads!" barked one of the demon dukes, his voice like gravel on steel, eyes crazed and sword raised. The infernal horde responded to his command with a roar—feral, proud, bloodthirsty. In their minds, they were Hellspawn—battle-hardened killers forged in fire. Angels? Please. They were merely delicate relics of a bygone age.
But then came the first strike.
It was just a single angel, a towering woman with silver hair and eight glowing pairs of wings who dropped like a bolt of heaven into their ranks. Her lance sliced through six frontliners in a clean arc. They didn't even scream. Just gone as if they were dissolved by her golden light energy. No ash. No blood. Nothing. She didn't slow. Didn't even blink.
The bull-demon who had previously mocked the angels' power flinched—just a little—but it showed.
But before he or the other elite demons could regroup, the full force of the angels slammed into them like judgment day. Blasts of divine energy screamed down from the skies, vaporizing whole swaths of the demon army. Thousands fell in seconds. Some tried shielding spells, desperation clearly audible in their chants—but the golden light shattered them, melted through them like acid on parchment. They never even had a chance.
