The explosion from the vault door threw the Saint backward, slamming him against the far wall of the Annex corridor. His divine core, already strained to its breaking point, shrieked. The crack widened with a sickening, audible pop. His silver eyes, already dim, flickered almost to black.
Too much. Too fast.
He barely registered the seven figures in sleek, black, heavily armored suits that materialized through the dissipating smoke. The Archon Squad. Seraphiel's elite. They moved with chilling, synchronized precision, each armed with a gleaming Veritas-class energy rifle. They were here for the killing blow.
"Fallen Angel Azael detected. Termination protocols initiated," a cold, synthesized voice announced from the Archon leader.
Before the Saint could even fully regain his footing, two of the Archons moved to his flanks, slamming slim, glowing devices into the floor. Containment Pylons. They immediately began to hum, emitting a high-frequency field that pressed in on him, draining his grace, restricting his movement, and amplifying the agony in his core.
They know my weakness.
He gripped Sanctus, forcing the massive blade up. The crimson light flickered, mirroring his weakening resolve. The Archons formed a semi-circle, their rifles locked onto his vital points.
"You have compromised Heaven's dominion, Azael," the leader continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "Surrender the Anomaly, and your termination will be swift and clean."
Lyra, still reeling from the concussive blast, was struggling to rise from the debris. Her face was pale, but her eyes were fixed on him, a fierce light burning in their depths.
No surrender.
The Saint lunged, not at the Archon leader, but at the nearest Containment Pylon. He moved with a speed that defied his failing grace, Sanctus a crimson blur. The blade struck the pylon, and a surge of celestial energy erupted, blasting it into fragmented sparks.
One down. Six to go. The core screamed in protest, another invisible fissure forming.
The Archons opened fire. Their Veritas-class rifles spat bolts of pure, focused energy, designed to sever angelic connection to grace. The Saint met the volley with Sanctus, using the flat of the blade to deflect, spinning and weaving through the corridor, each deflection costing him precious, dying energy.
He was the greatest warrior Heaven had ever forged, but he was a dying ember against an inferno.
"Lyra!" the Saint roared, his voice raw, struggling against the draining field. "The vault! The celestial energy cells! Now!"
Lyra didn't hesitate. Even as the Annex quaked from the Archon's fire, she scrambled over the debris, past the ruined vault door. She vanished into the shattered remains of the Cathedra's energy storage.
The Saint, now fully caught in the Pylons' field, felt his strength abandoning him. His movements became sluggish. An Archon's energy bolt grazed his side, burning through the duster and scorching his skin, but his Celestial Regenesis was too slow, too weak to fully counter the damage.
He watched Lyra vanish into the vault, knowing he was gambling everything on her speed. He couldn't sustain this fight.
I need power. Now.
He made a desperate, agonizing decision. It was a maneuver that went against every principle of angelic combat, a violent act of self-preservation that could easily shatter his essence permanently.
He slammed the tip of Sanctus directly into the corridor floor, not to strike an enemy, but to pierce the Cathedra's power grid. The blade, designed to channel divine will, began to absorb the raw, sanctified energy flowing beneath the Annex.
A violent, shaking tremor ran through the Saint's body. His eyes rolled back, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips. The process was agonizing, ripping through his form, drawing energy directly into his unstable core, forcing it to accept a chaotic influx of power it was not designed to contain.
The Archons paused their attack, confused by the Saint's self-destructive ferocity. Their Pylons pulsed erratically, their draining fields disrupted by the raw energy surge.
Lyra, in the vault, saw it. She saw the Saint convulsing, his body a conduit for a force that could either save him or destroy him. She knew what he was doing—he was siphoning life from the very enemy that sought to kill them.
Her hands moved with frantic speed. The celestial energy cells were massive, glowing crystalline containers filled with pure, concentrated grace. She grabbed two—enough, she hoped, to make a difference—and raced back toward the corridor.
She pushed past the remaining, sputtering Chorale Ward defenses, ignoring the remnants of the psychic assault. The only thing that mattered was reaching him, giving him the power he needed. Her own physical pain, the residual hum of the forbidden flame from their earlier touch, was a dull ache compared to the sight of him.
Mutual sacrifice. She risked her mind for him; he risked his very existence for her. This was their bond, forged in fire and defiance.
She burst out of the vault, the two glowing energy cells clutched in her arms. The Archons, now aware of her, redirected their Veritas rifles, aiming not to kill, but to cripple and retrieve the precious cells.
"Azael!" Lyra screamed, throwing the cells at him.
The Saint, still convulsing, barely conscious, forced his hand out, catching one of the cells. The sheer influx of energy was overwhelming. His muscles locked, his eyes snapped open, blazing with an unnatural, furious silver light—no longer dim, but the full, terrible power of the Executioner, barely contained. The cracking of his core reached a crescendo, then, with a sharp, POP, the core sealed. Not healed, but stabilized—fully charged and capable of unleashing a catastrophic amount of power.
He gripped the second cell Lyra threw, absorbing it fully. His form solidified; the raw energy flowed through him, making Sanctus hum with renewed, devastating power.
The Archons, seeing his sudden, terrifying resurgence, shifted their tactics. They tightened their perimeter, their rifles now aimed for his head—a true killing blow.
"Surrender, Fallen Angel," the Archon leader commanded, his voice cold. "Your power is temporary. Our numbers are not."
The Saint slowly lowered Sanctus, planting the tip of the blade into the debris. His silver eyes, now burning with the full, merciless power of a restored Archangel, fixed on Lyra. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The raw power thrumming through him was a single, terrifying promise: You are safe.
Then he turned his gaze to the Archon Squad, his face utterly devoid of mercy. He was the Executioner again, and for the woman he loved, he would carve a path through Heaven itself.