The King's claw fell like the sky itself—yet the Mask of Saint Cyprian did not crack.
Leader of Protestants, Martin Luther, flinched at the towering figure that appeared near them and Maximilian but closed his eyes and continued praying:
"Lord of mercy, Lord of wrath,
Shut up the destroyers, cast down their prince.
Bless the sons and daughters of Your covenant,
And let no evil shadow remain."
The blow shattered against it, not only blocked but reflected. The force ricocheted outward in a brilliant arc of burning light, smashing into Kimaris. The Marquis of the Shadow Tide screamed, his tide of black water collapsing as the ricochet tore into his essence.
Johann Weyer—his soul incarnated within Azazel—did not hesitate. Even against the full manifestation of Balaam, King of Hell, he pressed forward. Pistols roared, each shot burning scripture into the dark.
Balaam's voice thundered, rattling the marrow of the earth.
"Impossible…! What kind of mask is that?!"
The king's body pulsed with its true corruption—degeneration, unmaking. Wherever his claws touched, matter dissolved into gray ash, splitting into broken fragments of itself. Walls cracked into sand. The marble under his steps warped into dust. Even air trembled, breaking into silence.
Yet still, Johann held him back.
On the other side of the battlefield, Aurelius still stood.
Or what was left of him.
Maximilian's devastating cut had split his body in half, yet the Grandmaster had not fallen. His wounds bled rivers of black flame. From them burst dozens of Eternal Maws—gnashing rifts of teeth that tore endlessly, devouring shadows, swallowing the forms of Andras, Aim, and Kimaris.
The three demons thrashed, their titanic strength colliding against the tide of jaws, howling with rage. Their brother Raum was dead—felled by Maximilian's aura blade, even with 8 of his hearts remaining intact. Such a thing was unthinkable, yet it had happened. Their grief burned into fury.
But the Maws held them. They screamed and clawed, their infinite power locked in an endless meat-grinder of interdimensional teeth.
From each side they were met with a wall of repulsive dimensional maws! Even as Kimaris tried to attack from above maws reacted accordingly.
Aurelius swayed like a ruin about to collapse. His flesh was barely his own anymore, supported only by the dimensional rifts bursting from his wounds. Yet he still raised his voice.
"Johann!"
Azazel—Johann—turned, his pistols blazing. The Codex whirled in the air between them. With one flick of the wrist, Johann hurled it. Aurelius caught it with his dying hands.
His blood fell onto the pages.
"Not for glory nor golden crown
We rise where light and faith break down…"
And the Codex awoke, as the Grandmaster whispered the Oath of Hunters.
At the same time Johann prayed to himself:
"God of Weapon,
Bless me with your grace,
Time of Judgement!"
The sky tore.
The space behind the floating Azazel blazed open like the gates of an execution ground, and hundreds—hundreds—of spectral pistols filled the heavens. They aligned in circles, in spirals, in lines, all pointed at the King of Hell.
They fired.
The battlefield quaked under the sound. Not gunfire—artillery, a thunderstorm of scripture. Each shot tore like a cannon broadside, rattling the marrow of the world.
Azazel's body screamed under the strain. Blood poured from his nose, ears, eyes, and mouth. His veins burned crimson with scripture, his bones trembled like glass. Still—Johann kept the hands steady, the barrels blazing.
Balaam staggered. The storm shredded his wings, tore holes in his void-flesh. His hearts shattered one by one under the hail of ghostly fire. He reeled backward, screeching in hatred.
"IMPOSSIBLE!"
And then—
The Pope, the Patriarch, and Luther raised their relics together, their voices converging into one last prayer. Neither in Latin, Greek nor German. In Hebrew.
"Chains of Heaven, descend!
Light of the Most High, consume!
By Noah's prayer and Christ's blood,
Let demons be bound forever!"
Light.
Not just sunlight.
A sun itself.
It burst across the garden, a holy noon cast down at midnight. A light so pure it seared even the shadows out of existence. The lords of Hell screamed. Their bodies, once unassailable, melted under the blessing. The Maws of Aurelius consumed their writhing forms, swallowing screams into the void.
Knights who had been torn open healed in the radiance. Priests who had bled dry stood again. Disciples whose bones had shattered drew breath anew. Humanity rose.
But Aurelius…
The Grandmaster did not rise.
The Maws had eaten too much of him. His body had gone beyond repair.
Chains lashed from the Codex around his fallen frame. Dozens of spectral links embedded into his soul. With one wrench, the book ripped the Grandmaster's spirit free. His body collapsed, while his soul was devoured, sealed forever within the Codex.
The storm of pistols did not end.
Not until every heart of Balaam was shattered.
The King of Hell screamed in disbelief as his final core burst into ash. His vast body convulsed, torn apart under the hail of cannon-fire and holy flame.
The Judgement consumed him.
And silence followed.
Johann's voice whispered in Azazel's head as his strength ebbed.
[Listen to me, boy. My time is gone. This fragment of my soul will soon vanish.]
[…you must find my ashes. In the suitcase.]
Azazel fell to one knee, drenched in his own blood, pistols still glowing faintly.
The Codex throbbed with chains, whispering in a thousand hunter voices.
And above him, drops of blessed sunlight rained like tears from the heavens.