The abandoned districts sped by, a blur of rust and ruined architecture. The Saint carried Lyra across the rooftops, moving with the preternatural speed and silence of a predator. He was focused, deadly, his grip unyielding. The unified blades of Sanctus and Veritas now one, terrifyingly complex weapon, radiating a turbulent mix of crimson and white light—were sheathed at his back.
The Black Cardinal's challenge was a cruel, precise strike. He had used the chaos of the Veritas Protocol to track their distinct energy signatures, confirming their vulnerability and setting the stage for a final exchange.
"He wants the Fragment because it's the key to the next phase of the war," Lyra analysed, her mind running at a fever pitch as she monitored the stolen comms unit for any traps. "The 'Threshold' must be a nexus point—a location conducive to soul extraction rituals."
"He knows my weakness," the Saint repeated, his voice tight. "He is betting on my love being greater than my caution. He is betting on my inevitable damnation."
Lyra reached up and clamped her hand firmly over his shoulder. He flinched, the familiar, searing flare of the forbidden flame igniting their bond, followed by the stabilising flow of her Fragment into his core. The pain was immediate and violent, but necessary.
"Stop. You need the energy," she commanded, not asking. "The exertion of merging the blades and fighting Xiel drained you again. You are stable, but not fully healed. You need this."
The Saint did not shake her off. He submitted to the agony, the grim acknowledgement of his dependence etched onto his exhausted face. "I cannot focus on the ritual while you are in pain, Lyra. The cost—"
"The cost is what saves us," she interrupted, her eyes locking onto his. The wind tore at her hair, but her absolute resolve remained. "Your full power, Azael, is fueled by this pain, by the fact that you risked Heaven for me. The pain is the price of my survival. And I accept it."
It was the most honest, brutal exchange of their entire journey. Lyra was no longer just the woman he loved, the victim, or the reason for his Fall. She was his co-conspirator, embracing the paradox of their destructive, life-giving bond.
"If he takes you," the Saint whispered, his jaw clenched against the agonising flare of their contact. "If he touches the Fragment—"
"Then you strike," Lyra finished for him. "You don't hesitate. You strike through him, through the ritual, through the entire world if you have to. But you don't surrender the blade. You don't surrender your judgment."
He nodded once, a terrible promise in his silver eyes, accepting the command. He was her weapon, and she was his guide.
The Threshold was a monument to the city's failed ambition: a colossal, unfinished bridge that jutted out over the toxic, abandoned wastelands of the outskirts. It was a place where light met shadow, and the civilised world ended.
In the centre of the bridge, the Black Cardinal waited.
He was no longer the shadowy figure of the Archway. He stood beside a grotesque structure—the Serpent's Altar—a dais built from scavenged bones, rusted rebar, and arcane sigils etched in dried blood. The air around the altar was thick and vibrating with raw, unfiltered demonic energy.
The Cardinal himself was unveiled. Beneath the black clerical robes, his face was gaunt, his eyes burning with an intense, fanatical red light. His long, pale hands were adorned with thick, silver rings of unknown origin. He was the highest mortal servant of the Fallen Queen, Lucifera, and he radiated a chilling, focused malice.
He was not alone. Flanking the altar were two dozen of his cultists, the Bone Scavengers, their eyes wide with drug-induced fanaticism, armed with crude weapons and arcane talismans.
The Saint landed silently at the bridge entrance, Lyra still in his arms. He set her down, releasing the agony of her touch.
"Stay behind me," the Saint commanded, the simple words a plea as much as an order.
"I am the bait," Lyra reminded him, stepping slightly in front of him, toward the centre of the bridge. "He needs me to focus the power."
The Black Cardinal raised his serpentine staff in greeting. "Welcome, Fallen one. I am Marius, and you are late for your final judgment."
Marius looked directly at Lyra, a hungry, terrible smile twisting his lips. "The little mortal who carries the sun in her soul. A terrible power for such a fragile vessel. Come, little Fragment. Submit to the Queen."
Lyra ignored the terror that gripped her gut. She focused on the anger, the defiance. She kept her posture steady, walking toward the altar, knowing the moment she drew close enough, the ritual would begin.
"You won't get the Fragment, Marius," Lyra challenged, her voice clear despite the wind. "You'll die trying to steal it."
"Such arrogance," Marius chuckled, his eyes fixed on the pure energy radiating from her soul. "The Queen has waited millennia for Eden's Flame. I only need to separate the fire from the ash."
He gestured to the altar. The cultists began a low, droning chant, the sound scraping against the Saint's senses. The demonic energy pulsed, forming an invisible, shimmering barrier around the altar, preventing a sudden, violent charge.
The Saint raised his fused blade. The Sanctus/Veritas weapon hummed, the mixed light of crimson and white swirling in a turbulent storm on its surface.
"I will not let you take her," the Saint stated, moving with slow, deliberate steps toward the barrier. "Step away from the Fragment, Marius."
"You are welcome to try, Azael," the Cardinal sneered. "But Lucifera demands a price. Cross this Threshold, and I tear the Fragment from the mortal woman. Remain, and the purity of her sacrifice will damn you forever. What is your choice, Executioner?"
The Saint stopped before the barrier, the full weight of the decision settling on his shoulders. He was faced with the ultimate choice: his own soul, or Lyra's.
He looked at Lyra, who stood bravely near the altar, then at the demonic power radiating from the cultists. He knew the drill. He could not kill the cultists unjustly. He had to maintain his balance, even here, at the edge of the world.
He focused on the two blades now fused within his grasp. The pure truth of Veritas and the necessary sin of Sanctus.
"My judgment is final," the Saint declared, his voice ringing with absolute certainty.
He did not charge. He did not fire a Judgment Wave. He slammed the blade's tip into the metal deck of the bridge, directly beneath the demonic barrier. He channelled every ounce of his focused, unified power into a single, localised burst of energy.
The force was not explosive; it was disruptive. The turbulent, combined power of Truth and Sin tore through the demonic energy field, ripping the very foundation of the Serpent's Altar from beneath the cultists' feet.
The chanting stopped. The cultists shrieked as the raw, antispiritual force of the unified blades slammed into them.
"You chose both!" the Cardinal screamed in fury, realising the Saint had refused the false choice.
"I chose her," the Saint corrected, pulling the blade from the ground and charging past the broken barrier, a creature of absolute purpose.
The final battle had begun. The Executioner, fueled by the agonising love of the woman who held his salvation, rushed toward the servant of Hell. The fate of the city, and the balance of the eternal war, rested on the edge of a fusion of two divine blades.