The world didn't snap back to normal. It bled back, piece by piece, the screaming colors fading to the familiar, grim red of Hell. The shockwave left a crater where Azazel had stood, the ground fused into a glassy, smoking pit.
In the center, there was nothing. No body. No dust.
Ares leaned on his spear, breathing hard. "Did we get him?"
Kratos stood silent, his blades still smoking, his eyes scanning the empty air. He knew better.
Michael's golden sword was still raised, his expression grim. "No."
A flicker of movement, like a heat haze, shimmered at the far edge of the crater. It pulled itself together, coagulating into a faint, grey outline. Azazel's form was translucent, flickering, barely there. One of his arms was gone, sheared away at the shoulder. The sand in his single remaining eye socket swirled slowly, weakly.
He was broken. But he was not gone.
