The pure white sword and the Seraph's blade imbued with blue flames crossed paths, thrusting downward. Saint Laurence gripped both swords tightly, like a bolt of white lightning, plunging from the sky straight toward Valis's heart.
The strike was thunderous, bearing an irresistible force.
Valis could only look up, his Sword of Dawn discarded at his side, dimmed and lightless.
In the final moment, Valis closed his eyes.
What more could he lose? Just the little life he had left. What did it matter if a sword pierced his chest? Compared to Terial's words, such pain was a mere caress.
But the anticipated pain never came. Instead, Valis heard a violent crash near his ears. Opening his eyes, he saw a figure standing before him.
Azazel's back.
No matter how much time passed, this image would remain etched in Valis's memory as clearly as if it had been carved into sacred stone, unaffected by the passage of time.
Azazel clenched his jaw, his hands gripping the sword, spinning and slashing upward. Dark energy swirled around the blade, a sinister aura amidst the scorching flames that encircled him. Below his feet, the cracked earth of Hell shattered, lava and the hidden inferno threatening to burst forth as if Azazel intended to cleave the very sky.
Saint Laurence descended from above, the white Sword of Judgment and the blue-flamed Holy Cross Sword intersecting as they fell. The angel, his body drenched in blood, seemed unaware of his wounds. His expression was one of sanctity, his four wings raised, the golden cross borne upon his back like a sword thrust from the bleeding heavens, almost piercing through Hell itself.
At the moment of impact, Azazel's frame visibly sank.
"Valis!" Valis stared dumbfounded at Azazel's back, not broad, but reassuring nonetheless. Without a word, Azazel had positioned himself between Valis and the descending angel—even though one was a devil from Hell and the other an Archangel from Mount Celestia.
What did this mean? Foolishness?
"Fool! Stand up!" Azazel bellowed. Above him, Saint Laurence pressed down with both swords upon Azazel's blade, and Azazel could only feel the increasing pressure transmitted through the sword.
Am I the fool? What does that make a devil who so readily exposes his back to an angel? A colossal idiot? In a daze, Valis rose to his feet.
"Sissy! Crybaby! If you're still a man, pick up your sword and help!" Azazel's back began to bend under the pressure. "Idiot! Pick up your sword! As long as you're alive, you can reclaim everything! What does it matter if you've lost it all? Take it back! Don't cower behind me! You coward!"
The Dawn's light erupted, thrusting from below at Saint Laurence.
The Seraph merely furrowed his brow, effortlessly deflecting the attack with one sword.
As the pressure eased, Azazel seized the chance to swing upward, pushing Saint Laurence away.
"It should've been like this from the start. Both of you, come at me together." The Seraph merely circled in the air before diving back down, his swords moving with agility—thrusting, slashing. The three men, three swords, and a knife clanged incessantly. With both swords in his hands, Laurence alternated between the white glow and the annoying blue fire, forcing Azazel and Valis to desperately defend, retreating continuously.
"Sissy, can't you go up and fight? Let's do a pincer move!" Azazel said as he aimed a treacherous slash at the underbelly of the hovering Saint Laurence, targeting a man's weak spot. Laurence, undeterred, countered with a direct thrust at Azazel's throat. Azazel had no choice but to dodge awkwardly and parry with his sword.
"I've lost my wings; I can't ascend for the moment. Maybe you should go up. Or use your tail?" Valis said with a wry smile.
Azazel knew his flight path was unpredictable—not because the enemy couldn't foresee it, but because he hadn't used his wings much and hadn't mastered flying. Thus, he wouldn't risk going up. His tail's venom was also depleted and would take at least a week to refill.
"Sorry, my tail—both the front and the back—is reserved for ladies only. As for your wings, no worries, if they're cut off, they'll grow back!" Azazel launched several slashes, but Saint Laurence, spinning like a top, easily parried both men's attacks with his twin swords.
"My woman has run away," Valis said with a light chuckle.
"No worries, if one woman runs away, we can always capture many more!" Azazel ducked low, skimming just above the ground and suddenly leaped from under Saint Laurence, slashing upward.
Saint Laurence flew over Azazel, his twin swords aiming straight for Valis.
Valis cried out, "My honor is gone!"
Azazel whirled and struck fiercely, "Then chop off countless enemy heads and build a big pile of honor from their corpses. Stop whining! As long as you're alive, losing everything means nothing. Just take it all back!"
The two men coordinated their assault from front and back, but no matter how they attacked, they couldn't gain the upper hand against Saint Laurence. In the last stretch of his life, the Seraph shone with unmatched brilliance, growing stronger as he fought, the force behind his twin swords ever increasing. Azazel felt himself weakening under the onslaught.
Suddenly, Saint Laurence ceased his attack, descending from his levitated state to stand firmly on the ground. The golden cross that had been behind him rose, rotated, and then impaled him. The massive golden cross penetrated through Saint Laurence's back and emerged from his front.
Saint Laurence still clutched the swords in his hands, maintaining a standing posture, the golden cross transfixing his chest. His eyes slowly closed and, after a moment, the Seraph's head drooped.
"What's happening? A sudden suicide?" Azazel gasped for breath, the recent battle having taken a significant toll on him, but what frightened him more was this eerie spectacle.
"His time for sacrifice has come," Valis exhaled, not daring to take his eyes off the body even though Saint Laurence was dead.
The blood-soaked, relentlessly battling Seraph, the noble angel willing to sacrifice himself to save Terial, the betrayer who was betrayed. Whichever Laurence it was, he instilled fear in Valis.
"This man, maybe I truly am not his equal," Valis sighed deeply.
"But he has lost his life. Maybe you've lost more than him, but he has no more chances. He has nothing left," Azazel said, panting as he approached the body of Saint Laurence, examining the powerful foe while speaking.
"What if he had a little more time? If only the sacrifice lasted a bit longer?" Valis gazed at the still-standing corpse, his voice trembling with emotion. "Just thinking about such a scene makes me shudder..."
"Shudder then. Unfortunately, I still have some time left." Saint Laurence's eyes suddenly snapped open, and he brought down his swords fiercely on the two men in front of him. His tone, however, was unexpectedly gentle, "As I said, even if I am to sacrifice myself, I will take you with me."
Azazel blocked with his sword, and Valis did the same, barely managing to fend off the sudden strike.
"Idiot, idiot, idiot, his strength is immense!" Azazel roared, yet he couldn't resist the force of the single-handed sword blow.
"Hold on! This is his last..." Valis could no longer speak, his face turning red with the strain.
Saint Laurence, impaled by the massive golden cross, remained standing, not moving an inch. His hands each held a sword, seemingly just resting atop Azazel and Valis, who were now unable to stand, crouching under the weight, struggling to endure.
It was a contest of who would give in first.
The punishment for the loser was death; the reward for the victor was life.
Every muscle in Azazel's body trembled violently, from his feet to his face, his grunts meaningless as he stared fixedly at the descending blade edge.
The strike was too fast, too sudden, too fierce, devoid of tricks, schemes, or subtlety—just a raw contest of strength.
Defeat loomed; even with his capable blade, the opponent was too strong. This might be it.
The sword inched closer to Azazel's throat, blood spurting from his bulging muscles. Valis screamed, but it did nothing to stop the sword.
Suddenly, Azazel realized—this was Laurence's only strike. He wouldn't die without piercing our throats. Maybe he was already dead.