Framed by the vast, open sky, the Archon Leader stood, the weapon in his hand a screaming testament to purity. Veritas. Its light was blinding, unforgiving, a divine blade forged from the absolute truth of Heaven. It was the perfect counter to Sanctus, the Executioner's sword of necessary sin.
"The time for your betrayal is over, Azael," the Archon leader stated. His face was obscured by his helmet, but the synthesised voice held the cold, sterile judgment of Seraphiel himself.
The Saint felt the pressure building: not just the weight of the moment, but the physical reality of the blade before him. Veritas was designed to cleave the soul from its mortal casing; it would find the crack in his core and expose his millennia of guilt.
He ignored the pain. He ignored the light. He looked at Lyra, who was crouched behind a rusted control panel, her eyes wide, maintaining the fragile Ghost Lure. She was his anchor, his sin, and his singular, necessary truth.
He raised Sanctus. The blade's crimson light was duller than Veritas, heavy with the weight of consequence, but it was honest.
For her.
The Saint charged. He moved with the sudden, terrible speed of a divine engine, closing the distance in a single blurring stride.
The clash of the two blades was not a sound; it was an event.
Sanctus met Veritas in the heart of the windswept platform, and a shockwave of spiritual force erupted. The Annexe shook miles below, and the wind was momentarily flattened. The raw power of the Judgment Wave met the surgical precision of Truth, and for a fraction of a second, the two blades were locked in a stalemate, two opposing ideals fighting for supremacy.
"You taught me to fight, Master," the Archon leader hissed, his voice momentarily slipping the synthesiser. The familiar cadence hit the Saint like a physical blow.
"Xiel," the Saint rasped, the name of his former apprentice tasting like ash. "You chose the lie."
"I chose Order!" Xiel retorted, pressing the attack. "Veritas sees the rot in your core, Azael! The mortal woman is the source of your damnation!"
Xiel slammed Veritas against Sanctus, not with physical force, but with a sudden, overwhelming release of spiritual purity. The effect was immediate and devastating. The Archon leader was channelling Seraphiel's own grace through the blade, focusing it directly on the Saint's greatest weakness.
A profound, blinding Doubt flooded the Saint's mind. You are tainted. Your love is sin. You deserve the Fall.
The paralysis was not physical; it was spiritual. The crack in his core flared, threatening to rip wide open. His vision tunnelled, the power of Sanctus faltering, the crimson light dimming. He was sinking, caught in the undertow of his own guilt.
I failed her. I failed Heaven. I deserve this.
"The blade of Truth never lies, Fallen!" Xiel screamed, pressing the advantage, the white light of Veritas inches from the Saint's throat.
But Lyra was watching. She saw the light falter, the pain rip across his face. She knew the spiritual attack was winning.
She slammed her fist down on the comms unit, overriding the elegant Ghost Lure with a deafening burst of static—a raw, ugly frequency of pure, disruptive noise. Then, she broadcast a loop: a cacophony of mortal rebellion—fragments of punk rock, protest chants, and digitised screams of defiance.
The raw, human chaos was anathema to the sterile purity of Veritas. The spiritual assault faltered, the noise of sin and dissent breaking the Archon's perfect focus.
The Saint's vision cleared. The spiritual paralysis broke, fueled by the raw, defiant noise of Lyra's intervention, and it stabilised his core just enough for one decisive blow.
"You chose a tool, Xiel," the Saint growled, meeting his apprentice's eyes. "I chose a Truth."
The Saint channelled every available fragment of energy into Sanctus. He did not use the full Judgment Wave, which would risk the core. He unleashed a precise, tactical burst of crimson power—a kinetic punch of sin and fury—that slammed against Xiel's armour.
The Archon leader cried out, the perfect purity of his defence momentarily compromised by the sheer chaotic force of the attack. He stumbled back, the divine focus needed to wield Veritas broken.
This was the opening.
The Saint surged forward, twisting Sanctus with the brutal efficiency of the Executioner. He did not aim for Xiel's body; he aimed for the weapon. The two blades clashed one final time—crimson on white—and with a terrible, grinding sound, the Saint ripped Veritas from Xiel's grasp.
The Archon leader, weaponless and stripped of his divine focus, staggered back, his spirit momentarily shattered.
The Saint stood over him, holding both blades. Veritas hummed and struggled in his grasp, its pure white light trying to repel the touch of the Fallen.
I am the killer. And the truth is mine.
CRACK. The core screamed again, pushed past its limit by the combined resistance of Veritas and the massive energy drain.
Lyra was at his side instantly, her small hands grabbing his massive arm, steadying him. The forbidden flame erupted, followed by the stabilising pulse. He leaned on her, accepting the searing, agonising life support.
"Take the comms," the Saint rasped, his voice heavy with the fresh pain. "We need to go. Now."
Lyra grabbed Xiel's wrist, ripping the Archon's personal comms unit from his armour. As she did, the unit crackled to life, not with static, but with a deep, chilling voice.
"A tempting prize, Executioner. You kill Seraphiel's hound. And I kill your hope."
The Saint went rigid. The voice belonged to the Black Cardinal.
"You will meet me at the Threshold before dawn. Bring the Fragment. Or watch the mortal's history turn to ash."
The Archon's comms unit went silent. The threat was clear: the Black Cardinal had been watching, waiting, and now he was moving to seize control of the situation. He was challenging the Saint to a direct exchange—Lyra for his ultimate, dark ambition.
"He knows about the Fragment," Lyra whispered, her face pale, clinging to the Saint. "He knows everything."
"He knows about us," the Saint corrected, looking down at her, silver eyes blazing with a fierce, terrible resolution. "He knows you are my weakness. And my only strength."
The Saint looked at the two blades in his hand. He channelled the raw, struggling power of Veritas into Sanctus. The crimson blade devoured the white light, absorbing its truth, making the Judgment his own. The blades fused, and Sanctus settled, its crimson light now bearing faint, shimmering lines of white—a more terrible, complex power.
He lifted Lyra into his arms. "The duel is over. The war begins now. We go to the Threshold."