Enraged, Azazel bellowed words he would regret for life: "It doesn't matter! I enjoy it! Is that okay? Running naked is my hobby! Alright? Let's drop it! Can't you chase me with a bit more focus? Why all this incessant prattle!"
Skarl nodded vigorously, "Of course, I respect your hobbies, which is why I think it's better for you to die. You see, corpses are never bound by the hypocrisy of morality, they never need clothes. So, I'm actually helping you! This is to your benefit in every way. You may not understand now, but you will eventually see that I have your best interests at heart."
As he finished speaking, Skarl began to chant a spell urgently, raising a finger from which a ray shot out.
Azazel recognized the spell from his opponent's incantations and hand movements; he had studied this magic during a period of illness while bedridden—it was a "Petrification Ray." Damn it, Skarl meant to finish him off.
Azazel quickly retrieved an iron shield from his belt and threw it toward the incoming ray, a collectible he had kept from his time collecting the dead.
The Petrification Ray struck the iron shield, turning the solid piece of metal into stone at a visibly rapid pace. Before it even hit the ground, the transformation from iron to stone was complete. With a "snap," the stone shield shattered upon impact.
"Is this how you intend to help me? To shatter into pieces and die? How would my funeral proceed then?" Azazel barely finished speaking before he twisted around, finding his path blocked by a throng of ghosts atop the roof ahead.
Skarl quickly caught up from behind, "Don't worry! The Dustmen have the best necro-surgeons, and our morticians are the finest in the multiverse. Even if you're smashed to bits, we can restore you. Your funeral will be conducted with the utmost dignity." He launched another Petrification Ray at Azazel as he spoke. To dodge the attack, Azazel had to leap sideways fiercely, unfurling a wing and spinning through the air like a top, narrowly crossing half the street to land atop a roof on the opposite side.
"You can't escape, death follows you like a shadow!"
Skarl declared confidently. With the relentless assault of the undead, Azazel was rapidly exhausting, his continuous twists and turns leaving him disoriented, unable to distinguish north from south.
The distance to the portal he sought only grew, a clear sign of his predicament.
Like a hunter corralling its prey, Skarl's relentless pursuit soon had Azazel trapped. The undead had laid a snare in a small plaza along Azazel's path, and like a panicked mouse, he stumbled right into it.
Standing in the center of the plaza, hands on knees, gasping for breath, was Azazel. The area was encircled by layers of zombies and skeletons, their low moans and the creaking of their bones blending with the wails of the ghosts, casting an eerie pall over the square.
Skarl stood alone atop his chariot of bone, like a king among the dead, looking down at the breathless Azazel. His tone changed, rare for him, "What's the point, Azazel? As I've said, you cannot escape, your flight is meaningless. I truly admire you; we share common ideals. Together, we could have expanded the Dustmen, enlightening all to the true nature of death. I just want to help you. Why don't you understand? Killing you is merely a simple process, painless."
Azazel didn't bother to reply; he had no words for this lunatic. "I like you, I want to help you, so die." A fascinating joke, except this madman wasn't kidding—he was dead serious.
Azazel wished he could slap himself. What was the point of quoting renowned sayings, playing the big shot? Now look at the mess he'd made.
"Enough talk. If you want to kill me, just come on. I won't just stand here and wait for it." Saying this, Azazel drew a blade from his belt.
Its former owner had been a madman who attacked a Lady and was subsequently dissected by Azazel and sent to the mortuary, but his equipment was kept by Azazel.
The longsword unsheathed, its cold light glistening, Azazel began to recall the feeling when Gideon had drawn the blade.
"A fight, is it? I might offer some advice," Gideon's voice resonated within Azazel's heart.
The corner of Azazel's mouth twitched upward, "Thanks!" No more words were necessary; two were enough to express his feelings.
Skarl cracked his whip, the sound reverberating as it struck the bone horses, and the chariot slowly circled Azazel.
That crack of the whip was a signal; zombies and skeletons surged like a tide toward Azazel.
There was no formation, no battle cry, just a relentless flood of undead with only faint glimmers of blue light flickering in their hollow eyes, signaling their insatiable desire.
Most low-level undead lacked intelligence, driven only by envy and primal longing. They coveted all that the living possessed, thirsting for the warmth of blood and the touch of flesh.
Only slaughter and destruction could temporarily soothe their ever-empty cravings, giving their hollow souls a moment of satisfaction.
Within Sigil, their masters kept these beasts of desire tightly leashed to avoid trouble. But once unleashed, their long-suppressed ferocity became even more fearsome.
The undead threw themselves into the fray!
Azazel roared back, charging away from Skarl. In dire situations, one's true potential is often revealed. Azazel was now completely different from his past self; not only did he understand dark magic, but he was also a devil. And behind this fearsome devil lay an ancient demon god.
To Azazel's eyes, the oncoming foes suddenly slowed. Ancient chants rose in his heart— chants familiar from the Land of the Divine. He envisioned countless primordial people lighting bonfires in the mountains, slaughtering cattle and sheep, sprinkling holy water and burning incense, their naked bodies swaying to ancient, mystical rhythms. Then, the dancers dispersed, and he saw an army clad in black armor, performing rituals under a billowing Qin banner. Before them, the Yellow Emperor, in his dragon robe, raised his chalice high and cried "God of War," followed by prostrate multitudes shouting, "Long live the First Emperor! May the God of War bless our empire, bless our troops!" Their voices thundered across the heavens. The scene shifted to a man revered as the Duke of Pei, worshipping the Yellow Emperor before battle, but sacrificing to Gideon, stirring the drums of war, and proceeding to vanquish his foes at Ba and unify the empire as the King of Han.
Suddenly, Azazel understood. Perhaps the legends had been distorted over a millennium; people saw Gideon as a demon subdued by the Yellow Emperor, an antagonist in the great battle between good and evil.
They revered the benevolence of the Yellow Emperor but forgot Gideon's "War."
Gideon was never a demon god; he was the God of War from the Land of the Divine, worshipped by the First Emperor, revered by the founding emperor. Gideon was the supreme commander of soldiers, the arbiter of battle!
A surge of pride swelled in Azazel's chest. He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled, his shout was undecipherable to any but those who spoke the language of the Divine Land, written in square characters.
"Victory!" His cry was soul-stirring, deeply moving.
There was no aura, no internal strength, no secret to invincibility on the battlefield—only the courage to press forward, and on the field of slaughter, only destruction. With the blessing of the God of War, a surge of might propelled him onwards.
With his right hand gripping the sword, he raised it diagonally, striking downward with force.
The blade cleaved through a mummy's body, slicing through desiccated flesh and bone without pause, severing it into halves. The top half of the mummy fell backward while the lower half stumbled forward a few steps before collapsing.
A skeleton lunged from the left, and Azazel reached out with his left hand, crushing its skull with a firm squeeze.
Another mummy charged, and he swung his blade again. Enemy after enemy approached, and Azazel kept slashing.
This battle had no blood, no screams, no drums—only the relentless tide of death, never ceasing, never diminishing. Only with the protection of the War God could one muster the spirit to push forward with unyielding bravery.