The air around Azazel didn't just crackle; it screamed. The combined assault was a storm of pure, focused intent.
Kratos hit first. There was no finesse. The Blades of Chaos, wreathed in the fire of a personal hell, slammed into a wall of shifting darkness Azazel had thrown up. The impact didn't sound like metal. It sounded like a mountain being dropped on a tomb. The darkness held, but it shuddered, rippling like black water.
Before the ripple could settle, Ares was there. His spear, now a lance of pure, crimson wrath, struck the same spot. Not the mindless rage of before, but a cold, sharp hatred for the thing that had made him a puppet. The spear tip ground against the dark barrier, spraying sparks of black and red energy.
Azazel's head twitched. The sand in his sockets swirled faster. He made a pushing motion with his left hand.
