The battlefield was a gruesome tableau of chaos and destruction. The once serene riverside was now scarred by craters and scorched earth, littered with the fallen bodies of angels. The air was thick with the scent of ozone, smoke, and the metallic tang of blood.
Jormungandr moved like a whirlwind through the ranks of the remaining angels. His small yellow form belied the ferocity of his attacks. Flames erupted from his wings as he soared above, raining down fire and lightning upon his foes. With a flick of his tail, arcs of electricity leaped forth, striking angels and sending them crashing to the ground, their armor sizzling and sparking.
