The sudden, catastrophic surge of power radiating from the Saint hit Lyra like a physical blow. It was the absolute, unbridled strength of an archangel, now free of human pain or forced restraint. His silver eyes, now burning with the incandescent, terrifying light of judgment, lasered onto the Archon Squad.
He was the Executioner. And he was beautiful.
"Fire!" the Archon leader screamed, his voice laced with sudden panic.
The remaining Archons unleashed a devastating, coordinated barrage of Veritas bolts. They knew they couldn't afford to let him fully recover.
The Saint didn't flinch. He didn't move to dodge. He lifted Sanctus.
The greatsword responded instantly, its crimson light roaring to life. The massive blade was no longer just a weapon; it was a conduit of pure, sacrificial power.
With a single, terrible roar that tore the air from Lyra's lungs, the Saint unleashed his power.
It was not a directed strike; it was an omnidirectional wave of focused, purifying energy—the Judgment Wave. A blinding wall of pulsating, crimson force erupted from the Saint and the blade, rushing outward in a devastating circle.
The effect was instantaneous and absolute.
The Archons' Veritas bolts evaporated on contact with the wave. Three of the Archon soldiers, caught at the edge of the blast radius, were instantly paralysed, their advanced suits smoking as the energy short-circuited their sanctified core processors.
The remaining four Archons quickly slammed their shields together, forming a shimmering, temporary Aegis Wall, a desperate defence against the overwhelming assault. The crimson wave slammed into the wall, and the entire Annexe shuddered violently, the very structure groaning in protest. The ceiling cracked, and the remaining support columns began to splinter.
Lyra, thrown against the vault wall by the sheer force of the Judgment Wave, watched through half-lidded eyes. The Saint was a pillar of pure, consuming energy, his dark cloak swirling around him, the embodiment of divine fury. He was fighting the entire force of Heaven, and he was winning.
This is why they called him Azael.
She forced herself to move, ignoring the ringing in her ears and the debris raining down around her. She was not a witness; she was a partner.
Ignoring the glow of the stored energy cells, she scrambled back into the vault, located the secure storage locker, and punched in the prepared code, her fingers moving with the precise, detached focus of survival.
Inside, she found what they truly needed: a high-power, encrypted celestial comms unit—a device designed to bypass Seraphiel's grid—and a data module containing the Cathedra's black ledger, detailing their covert operations and financial transactions.
Information is the ultimate weapon.
She secured the items just as the Judgment Wave subsided. The corridor was a wreck. Three Archons were smoking, inert shells. The remaining four were still standing, but their Aegis Wall was fractured, their energy reserves nearly spent.
"Retrieve the Fallen!" the Archon leader commanded, his voice shaking with unexpected fear. "Tactical retreat! The subject is unstable!"
The Archons didn't fight. They activated emergency jump jets and retreated through the breached outer perimeter, leaving the Annexe in total ruin. Seraphiel's elite was broken.
The Saint stood in the wreckage, Sanctus resting on his shoulder, his silver eyes blazing with residual power. He looked utterly exhausted, but whole. The core was stable. The gamble had paid off.
Lyra stepped out of the vault, clutching the comms unit and the data module. The air was thick with smoke and the smell of ozone, but the silence between them was profound, humming with the shared, overwhelming intensity of their survival.
She walked toward him, the adrenaline making her movements clumsy. She stopped directly in front of him, looking up at the killer who had just defied an archangel for her.
"You should not have exposed yourself to that," Lyra whispered, the words trembling with a mixture of terror and possessive, fierce love. "You could have shattered your core permanently."
The Saint looked down at her, the crimson light of Sanctus reflected in his eyes. The warrior's mask was back in place, but a profound, dangerous honesty lay beneath it.
"I needed the power to ensure your safety," he stated, his voice a low rasp. "And I needed to know if I could still afford to live. I can. Because of you."
He didn't touch her. He didn't need to. The connection between them—the shared trauma, the witnessed sacrifice, the intimate knowledge of his core—was more binding than any kiss.
"Now, we move," the Saint commanded, stepping over the debris. "The entire district will be on lockdown within minutes. Seraphiel will send the next wave—something far worse than these puppets."
Lyra nodded, her own obsession cementing into absolute resolve. He needed her to navigate the city, to understand the data, to keep him alive. And she needed him to be the Executioner who would defy the universe for her.
"The roof," Lyra said, pointing up through a gaping hole in the ceiling caused by the Judgment Wave. "We can use the corporate maintenance ladder system. It bypasses the lower street grid."
The Saint looked at the destroyed Annexe, then at the comms unit in Lyra's hands. He had his weapon, his energy, and his information. He had survived the first major assault.
He didn't need to ask her again if she would leave. He knew she wouldn't. She was as addicted to the danger and to him as he was to the agonising, stabilising fire of her touch.
He sheathed Sanctus across his back—the massive blade vanishing beneath the folds of the dark duster—and nodded toward the ceiling. "Lead the way, Lyra."
Together, they climbed out of the wreckage, leaving behind the devastation and the silent promise of a war that had just begun.