It was the cry of the weak that halted Alice in her tracks. She burst from the corridor, sprinting through the grand hall, and flew out the main doors. Scaling the fortress walls, she finally saw the evil—abundant, teeming evil.
A horde of lesser devils, at least a few hundred strong, swarmed before her. Alice paid them little mind; no matter their numbers, they were merely lesser devils and posed no threat to an Archangel. The true danger lay before the devils—a mid-rank demon with a backward-sloping horn atop his head, like an adornment on a knight's helmet. His bat-like wings unfurled behind him, and even his hair and eyes bore the sinister color of the abyss.
They were in pursuit of two figures—a pointed-eared being clad in a blood-stained white robe, angelic wings stiff upon her back, but she seemed to be wounded, unable to fly, stumbling as she ran. Behind her, a knight in silver armor valiantly defended her, his sword and shield repelling the demon's onslaught.
With just two swings of his sharp blade, the demon cleaved the knight's shield into three pieces. The knight, stunned, could scarcely believe the brute force of his adversary.
The demon's laughter echoed as he leapt into the air and delivered a spinning kick directly to the knight's face, sending him flying.
Landing gracefully, the demon raised his blade and chased after the fleeing angel.
The angel dodged frantically, while the lesser devils screeched behind her, seemingly warning those within the fortress not to interfere.
As Alice leaped from the fortress walls, the side gate burst open, and two knights on swift steeds charged out from within.
They were Templars, rushing to aid, so hastily that they hadn't even donned their armor. They charged toward the embodiment of evil without a second thought.
Even the mightiest of angels would falter before a full charge of armored Templars.
Now, before an Archangel and two Templars, what evil could dare to stand? Alice's voice rang out, "Evil, cease your assault!" She spread her wings and dove like an eagle towards her foe.
But the demon, named Azazel, did not relent. His attacks grew even fiercer. The fragile angel could not withstand his fury and fell as her wings were severed by his blade. Blood sprayed from her back as she screamed in agony and collapsed.
The silver-armored knight, driven by madness, scrambled up and lunged at the demon, but to no avail. The demon's blade plunged into the knight's side, his blood gushing forth. With a kick, the demon sent the knight's lifeless body flying, standing tall amidst the chaos, his laughter mocking the oncoming trio.
"Foul beast!" Alice's face flushed with rage. This demon's arrogance was too much. Not only did he ignore her command, but he slaughtered a righteous angel and knight before her very eyes. Was this not a slap to her face?
The two Templars rode in silence, their fury unspoken. They needed no words; their holy charge would inflict pain enough. They spurred their steeds and chanted holy names, golden light enveloping them as they charged the demonic foe.
The hooves thundered, lances leveled.
The foolish demon seemed to realize too late. He turned to flee in panic.
But it was all too late.
Just as the Templars thought their lances would pierce the demon in the next moment, their mounts' legs snapped, and they tumbled to the ground. The knights were flung from their steeds before they could cry out, and Azazel's blade flashed in the air, severing their heads in a single, graceful arc. As their headless bodies fell, blood spurted like fountains.
Alice's sword, fueled by wrath, clashed with Azazel's. Neither yielded as blade met blade.
"Evil! State your name!" Alice gritted her teeth, her eyes locked on the black-haired demon.
"Azazel! Remember that name, for I am to be your master henceforth."
As the demon spoke, Alice felt a hand on her back. A numbing sensation spread from the touch, paralyzing her entire body. A wave of nausea overwhelmed her as a green miasma erupted from her pores. Azazel, shouting "It stinks! It stinks!" pinched his nose and retreated from the stench engulfing the Archangel.
Realizing she was stricken with the spell "Touch of the Ghoul," one of the most nauseating spells in a mage's arsenal, Alice wanted to scream and weep. The Touch of the Ghoul was a spell that attacked through touch, affecting only those the mage made contact with. Hence, mages, who often used distance as their best defense, seldom prepared this spell.
But once hit, the victim's plight was dire. First, the spell paralyzed the victim, leaving them vulnerable to attack. Next, a sickening green cloud spewed from every pore, and the afflicted could do nothing but lay surrounded by their own foul stench, their miserable state beyond description.
Which damned mage had ambushed her from behind with such a vile spell? How despicable!
The wingless angel, previously feigning death, now stood up as if nothing had happened and moved in front of Alice, aligning herself with the demon Azazel.
"Is that enough?" she asked.
Azazel, smugly looking upon the Archangel, said, "Now, only one Templar and one Archangel remain inside my fortress, and the rest are mere humans, scarcely worth concern. Falling Star, do you think the others inside the fortress will come to rescue their comrades?"
Falling Star, the elven mage who had ambushed Archangel Alice, had played the part of the wingless female angel in Azazel's ruse. Azazel's plan had fooled the Archangel in the Bloody Fortress, a mental trap where most would first notice an angel's wings, the best proof of their celestial origin. The genuine angelic wings on Falling Star's back belonged to Valis, the former Archangel, severed in the previous battle and discovered by Azazel as he scoured the battlefield. As a former mortician, professional habit prompted Azazel to store the wings in his belt.
For the ruse, Falling Star donned a white robe and attached the wings Valis had lost, with blood bags fitted at the junction with her back. When the blade fell, her wings appeared severed, blood spraying wildly, creating a convincingly real effect from afar. Coupled with Falling Star's delicate elven beauty, most would first think to rescue and protect her, leaving little room for suspicion of a trap. As for the source of the blood, the streams of the First Hell flowed with the blood of innocents.
Falling Star pondered for a moment, reluctant to see Azazel's triumphant look, but curious about his question; she too wondered whether those in the fortress would come to their companions' aid. Yet, she was confident she could ensure a singular outcome. Lifting her head, she proposed, "For added fun, shall we wager? I doubt they'll be foolish enough to leave such a stronghold and rush out."
"Thirty calamity coins say they'll come out."
"Deal!" Falling Star and Azazel's palms met in mid-air. "The bet is on."
"Poor Falling Star, you've lost for sure. Don't blame me," Azazel said, signaling Ganzaleth with a gesture. Ganzaleth understood, and moments later, the raucous horde of lesser devils behind them vanished without a trace.
The hundreds of lesser devils were nothing but Ganzaleth's illusion spell. Now, outside the Bloody Fortress, only four stood: Azazel, Falling Star, the minor devil Ganzaleth, and the motionless, stench-ridden Archangel Alice.
"Do you think, when the enemy sees there's only a handful of us, they won't come out to save their friends?" Azazel sighed contentedly before adding, "Remember, they are righteous warriors; they can't abandon their comrades."