The winds howled through the broken
spires of the Abyssal Cathedral as Azrael stepped forward, his crimson cloak whipping behind him like a banner of vengeance. The once-holy sanctuary, now reduced to a shattered relic of war, was silent save for the echo of his boots on the scorched obsidian floor. His steps were heavy with the burden of countless souls, his eyes glowing faintly with the power of the Reaper God now fully awakened within him.
"This is where it ends," Azrael murmured, not to himself but to the flickering presence of the soul that followed him—Nyx, the Moonshade Assassin, bound to him by fate and fire. She walked beside him silently, her twin daggers pulsing with void energy. Her presence was quiet, but the tension in her movements spoke volumes. She knew what lay ahead. They all did.
The Archons had fallen, one after another, betrayed by the very Creator who made them. Azrael had not only avenged their destruction—he had absorbed their divinity, growing stronger with each death. Now, only one remained. The Creator himself. And he waited beyond the cathedral's altar.
As Azrael and Nyx crossed the threshold of the nave, ethereal flames lit up along the ancient walls. The stained glass, depicting divine myths, cracked and pulsed with an eerie red light, warping the images of saints into demonic shades.
"Do you think he knows we're here?" Nyx whispered, her voice almost reverent in the face of such ancient power.
Azrael didn't answer. He didn't have to. A tremor shook the cathedral, and from the broken altar ahead, a figure began to rise—a being of pure radiant light, wrapped in robes of stars and woven cosmos. The Creator.
"Azrael," the voice echoed, deep and layered, both ancient and young. "You've come far. Further than I had expected."
Azrael's eyes narrowed. "You killed them all. My brothers. My sisters. You erased our existence to reshape the world in your image. Now you act surprised that I found my way back?"
The Creator descended the dais slowly, light radiating from every pore, illuminating the shattered cathedral like the dawn. But that light no longer comforted Azrael—it burned.
"They were flawed," the Creator said, voice filled with divine indifference. "You were flawed. Reapers were never meant to feel. To dream. To rebel."
"And yet, I did all three," Azrael replied, drawing his scythe. The blade shimmered with the power of death incarnate. "And because of that, I became stronger than you ever expected."
Nyx moved to stand beside him, blades drawn. Her face was calm, but a storm churned in her void-touched eyes.
"You trained us to obey," she spat. "You turned us into weapons, then discarded us when we became inconvenient. I was reborn to make sure that never happens again."
The Creator looked at them both, then sighed. It was a sound that shook the cathedral, as if the stars themselves grieved.
"I gave you life," he said. "I can take it away."
And with that, the final battle began.
The air twisted with impossible energy as divine light clashed with the darkness of death and shadow. Azrael lunged forward, his scythe slicing through the air with the weight of ten thousand fallen souls. The Creator countered with a burst of searing light, but Nyx was already there, her daggers dancing in the gaps of the holy radiance, striking where the light thinned.
The battle echoed through realms, shaking the balance between life and death. Azrael called upon the power of the reaped gods, his body alight with fragments of divinity: Chronos's time-slowing field, Elaria's shield of despair, Thorne's infernal chains. Each power surged through him as he fought the being who had once deemed himself untouchable.
"You cannot kill me," the Creator roared. "I am existence itself!"
"Then it's time existence was rewritten," Azrael growled, locking blades with him.
Nyx struck from the shadows, a whirlwind of void magic disrupting the Creator's focus. Her presence, once a whisper, now screamed rebellion. With every strike, the echoes of lost lives empowered her.
The Creator staggered. For the first time, doubt cracked his celestial composure.
Azrael took that moment.
He drove the scythe into the Creator's chest.
Light exploded outward, engulfing the cathedral.
Reality trembled.
The battlefield still reeked of scorched earth and divine blood. As the smoke thinned, silence returned—but not peace. Masaru stood at the center, eyes glowing with a dim red hue, his cloak fluttering in the gust of unnatural wind that still swept across the ruins of the sanctum. Around him, the shattered forms of celestial guardians and divine constructs lay broken, testaments to his unyielding fury.
Adolpha, wounded but alive, limped toward him. Her once-radiant fur was now matted with blood and ash. "Masaru," she said, her voice low, "we've breached the inner sanctum. But this is not the end. The Creator's essence still lingers."
Masaru nodded, his gaze locked on the crystal gate that pulsed at the heart of the divine temple. "No... this is the beginning. I will make him feel every ounce of pain he inflicted."
Suddenly, a tremor shook the ground. The temple quaked violently as the crystal gate split apart. From it emerged a being cloaked in divine gold, eyes shining with an ethereal glow. He hovered above the ground, radiating overwhelming pressure. His voice echoed like a thousand bells.
"You have come far, Masaru Izuku. I am Seraphiel, the last Sentinel of the Creator. You shall go no further."
Masaru clenched his fists. His aura erupted, forming the spectral visage of Death behind him. "Get out of my way. I have no quarrel with you, only with the one who made me suffer."
Seraphiel raised his golden sword. "You seek judgment, yet you act with vengeance. You wish to punish the Creator, but your hatred blinds you. I will show you truth before you perish."
The two forces collided, a clash of divine wrath and mortal despair. Masaru moved like a shadow, his scythe drawn in a flash of violet flame. Seraphiel countered with beams of golden light, his wings shielding him from the infernal assault. Each strike shattered the ground, sending shockwaves through the air.
Adolpha growled, launching toward Seraphiel to break his defense, but the archangel deflected her with a barrier of pure holiness. "You are not worthy," he declared.
Masaru appeared behind him, his scythe inches from Seraphiel's neck. "Then I'll become unworthy enough to destroy everything you believe in."
Seraphiel turned with a grim expression. Their blades collided once more, but Masaru's fury was no longer just rage—it was something ancient, something awakened. The curse that lingered in his soul now burned brighter, refusing to be denied.
As the battle reached its zenith, Masaru roared, his power shaking the heavens. The temple cracked, and for the first time, Seraphiel's golden armor began to fracture. "Your soul burns with injustice," the angel whispered. "But even so, if you slay me, you will be beyond salvation."
Masaru didn't respond. With one final surge, he plunged his scythe through Seraphiel's chest. The archangel gasped, his wings disintegrating into feathers of light. As he faded, he smiled faintly. "Then... go. See your justice done. May you find peace in your ruin."
With Seraphiel's final breath, the last barrier collapsed. The path to the Creator was now open.
Masaru stood still, trembling. Not from exhaustion, but from what awaited him. Adolpha stepped beside him, her gaze weary but loyal.
"Are you ready?" she asked.
He looked forward, his voice hollow. "No. But I have no choice. I have to finish what was started... even if it means becoming Death itself."
The gate to the divine chamber opened slowly, light spilling forth like a sunrise. Masaru took his first step into judgment—not just against the Creator, but against the world that betrayed him.