The moon hung high above the battlefield, cold and unblinking, its silver light spilling across the shattered plains. Dust drifted lazily through the air, settling around two figures who stood at the center of the devastation.
Both were panting.
Both were dimmed.
Both were far from finished.
The Angel King stood first, posture straight despite the strain in his breath. His armor gleamed from neck to toe, a flawless white that reflected the moonlight like polished marble. Every plate was smooth, seamless, crafted with divine precision. A silver blade rested in his hand, radiating a soft white aura that pulsed like a heartbeat. His wings hung behind him, feathers pale and luminous, shifting gently with each breath he took.
Short white hair framed his calm face, and his bright blue pupils glowed faintly, steady even in exhaustion. He looked like a statue carved from light, cracked but unbroken.
Across from him, Yajin steadied himself.
Golden hair fell over his forehead, catching the moonlight in warm flashes. His blue eyes burned with a colder intensity, sharp and unwavering. A white cloak draped over his shoulders, flowing behind him as the wind brushed past. Beneath it, his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, the fabric shifting against his shirtless torso. White pants and boots completed his attire, simple but immaculate, as if untouched by the chaos around him.
And in his hand…
The Sword of Judgement.
The blade was long, impossibly slender, forged from a metal that did not reflect the moonlight so much as swallow it. Its surface was smooth yet unsettling, as though it were made from something that should not exist in the mortal world. Faint lines of pale gold ran along its length, not carved but grown, like veins beneath skin.
The hilt was wrapped in white cloth that fluttered despite the still air, and the guard curved inward in a shape that felt almost organic, like a pair of wings folded too tightly. The blade hummed with a low, uneasy resonance, a sound that seemed to vibrate in the bones rather than the ears.
Looking at it felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Not powerful.
Wrong.
As if the sword itself judged the world around it and found everything lacking.
Yajin tightened his grip, and the blade's faint hum deepened, the air around it bending ever so slightly, as though reality itself recoiled from its presence.
The two kings stood in the moonlit dust, breathing hard, their auras flickering like dying stars.
Yajin exhaled slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"I've gotta say," he began, voice steady despite his breathing, "out of all the people I've fought, you're the first to stand against me this long without being touched by this blade. I'm impressed."
The Angel King's expression didn't shift. His calm face remained firm, his bright blue pupils locked on Yajin with unwavering focus.
"Do not praise me, you devil," he replied. "You have no hatred toward me. No history. No conflict that justifies this. You fight out of delusion."
Yajin circled him, steps slow and deliberate, the Sword of Judgement humming faintly in his hand. The Angel King mirrored him, wings shifting with each measured breath.
"Oh come now, Phsae," Yajin said lightly. "My power was granted by the gods themselves. I was chosen to do the work they would not. I was born to carry out their untouched will and cleanse this world of the wicked."
"Do not speak my name as if we are friends," the Angel King snapped, composure cracking for the first time. "You were not born to carry out some imagined divine mission. You were born to choose your own path. Yet you've spent centuries hunting people who simply wished to live in peace."
Yajin's smile vanished.
"Oh, shut the hell up," he said, voice dropping. "You are one of those 'bad' people, Phsae. So I won't listen to your nonsense."
He lifted the Sword of Judgement slightly, its presence bending the air around it.
"You and the Demon King wiped out the people who once lived on this land. The ones who spoke with the Three Gods. The ones who warned others of danger. The ones who guided the world."
His eyes hardened.
"And I was the only survivor. Why? Because the gods knew I'd find a way to end the ones responsible for my people's extinction."
The Angel King's breath steadied, his grip tightening on his silver blade.
"You spread utter nonsense," the Angel King muttered, voice low but edged with restrained fury.
Yajin tilted his head, amused. "Go ahead. Spill your last words. Because at this rate, I'm about to go all out."
He shifted his stance, gripping the Sword of Judgement with both hands as he angled it outward, the blade humming with that unsettling resonance. The air around it bent, faintly warping the moonlight.
"Rise of—"
He stopped.
His body snapped toward the sky behind him.
High above, silhouettes drifted downward, too dark to see clearly with the moon blazing behind them. They descended fast, cutting through the night like falling stars.
The Angel King glanced up at the same moment.
Both he and Yajin dashed backward, instinct overriding everything else.
Seven figures struck the ground.
Four landed where Yajin had stood. Three landed where the Angel King had been.
Dust exploded upward, rolling across the plains in a thick wave. The moonlight caught the swirling particles, turning them into drifting silver fog.
As the dust thinned, shapes emerged.
Faces.
Auras.
Intent.
Yajin narrowed his eyes… then his lips curled into a wide, hungry grin.
"Well, well, well," he said softly. "The gods have blessed me tonight with a fine meal."
The dust cleared fully.
Standing directly in front of him were Eiden, Vaelus, Selyndra, and Morvath — each poised, each ready, each radiating the resolve of warriors who had already chosen their side.
The night tightened.
The battlefield shifted.
And the balance of power changed in an instant.