The battlefield was in shambles.
Shattered land. Splintered trees. Pools of blood—most of it theirs. And at the center of it all, that monstrous corrupted devil, its scales gleaming like dark chrome, bleeding from one ruined eye but still very much alive.
Hope knelt on one knee, gasping for breath. His ribs were a furnace of pain, each inhale like broken glass scraping his lungs. His fingers trembled as he tried to lift his sword again, but his muscles screamed in protest. Nefer was sprawled against a rock, half-conscious, her leg twisted unnaturally, face smeared with blood and dirt. Massa was on her knees nearby, her shoulder dangling uselessly and mouth agape with silent cries—she had passed the point of screaming.
And yet the serpent was still standing, its long body coiled and uncoiling like a spring, blood gushing from one eye but fury radiating from its every movement.
They had given everything.
And it wasn't enough.
Hope's eyes blurred. His vision was tunnelled, muscles locked between exhaustion and collapse. He knew it. Massa knew it. Even Nefer, though she tried to lift her blade again, knew it.
They were about to die.
But then—just as the serpent reared back for one final, killing strike—something changed.
The world stilled.
It wasn't a sound or a movement that caught Hope's attention.
It was the sensation.
Like the sudden hush before a storm, the air itself seemed to bow. The oppressive weight of the corrupted devil's presence, that suffocating dread they'd all been struggling under—broke.
Hope's eyes, half-lidded from fatigue, snapped open.
And there he stood.
A figure—no, not just a man. Not anymore.
The same man who had led them through the ancient building. His clean blue suit seemed untouched by the chaos, crisp as if it had been ironed a moment ago. Not a speck of blood, not a wrinkle. His hair neatly combed back, posture effortless, composed. Impossibly out of place in the bloodstained battlefield.
He didn't walk onto the scene. He simply was there. Like reality had adjusted around him without fanfare.
He stood between them and the wounded snake, hands behind his back, his presence calm and almost underwhelming—until you felt it. The pressure. The power. Hope had felt something dangerous in the man earlier, yes, but this… this was something else entirely.
The corrupted devil hesitated. Even through its bestial madness, it sensed it too.
Then it hissed—a brutal, defiant roar—and charged.
Hope saw it happen in slow motion. The ground cracked under the serpent's forceful push. Its body was a blur of scale and muscle, closing the distance in a heartbeat, fangs bared wide enough to devour a man whole. The sheer momentum made the air scream.
But the man simply raised his right hand, keeping the left one calmly folded behind his back.
And made a sweeping gesture.
No energy surged. No light. No sound.
Just a wave of his palm, like brushing dust off a table.
The serpent froze mid-lunge.
Then it was hurled—launched—as if the hand of a god had scooped it from the air and slammed it back into the earth.
The corrupted devil smashed into the ground with a thunderous crack that sent tremors racing in all directions. A crater formed beneath it, dust and debris flying outward like a bomb had gone off.
Hope's jaw slackened.
The creature writhed for a moment, disoriented, its massive head sluggishly rising from the crater.
And again it charged.
Fury boiled in its lone eye. It came straight at the man, this time fangs first, twisting its body midair for a vicious strike. The sheer speed of it tore trees apart as it passed.
But the man remained still. A statue in the wind.
And then…
He slapped it.
Not a punch. Not a blast. Just the back of his palm.
Wham.
Time seemed to pause.
The snake's body bent unnaturally mid-air, its entire form compressed like clay beneath a hammer. The speed of its charge worked against it, magnifying the sheer impact. Its body twisted, coiled against itself violently as bones shattered and internal organs liquified under the force.
It hit the ground like a demolished tower.
And didn't move.
The corrupted devil—one of probably the apex terrors of the Ashlands—lay still.
Dead.
Hope stared.
He couldn't speak. Couldn't move.
That… that was a slap?
Nefer gawked from where she was sprawled. Massa looked like she was seeing a deity descend from the heavens. And Hope—he just tried to comprehend what he'd witnessed.
The man turned, slowly, casually. His pristine shoes stepped gently over broken earth and blood. His expression hadn't changed—calm, kind, almost serene. There was no pride in his face. No arrogance. No cruelty.
Just… gentleness.
Then he raised both hands.
A light—pure, soft, and white—blossomed around him.
Like morning dew catching sunlight.
The light fell over the three of them like snowfall.
Hope gasped softly. His ribs reset with a pop, his bruises fading away into warmth. The pain dissolved, swept away like fog under sun. Nefer groaned as her broken leg straightened, flesh knitting back together. Massa's shoulder clicked back into place with a soft crack, and her breath returned to her lungs.
They weren't just healed—they were restored. Their fatigue drained, their strength renewed, their minds cleared.
Hope let out a long exhale, shivering.
Then the man approached him.
He bent down slightly, offering a hand.
Hope hesitated, then took it.
The grip was warm. Solid.
"My name is Michael," the man said with a soft, pleasant smile. "You may enter the water now. Farewell."
And before Hope could say a word—before he could ask who he really was, or what he'd just done—Michael vanished.
No flash. No wind. No noise.
Just… gone.
Hope stood there, staring at the empty space where the man had been.
Dumbstruck.
As were the others.
They hadn't survived this battle.
They had been saved.
By a man who moved like a myth… and struck like a god.