The noise of Seraphiel's converging forces was a physical thing—a heavy, relentless drumbeat of rotor wash and aerial energy sweeps that echoed across the Outskirts. The successful Paradox Strike against the Black Cardinal had solved one problem, only to immediately trigger a greater one: the full, organised wrath of Heaven.
Lyra ran alongside the Saint, her lungs burning, her mind racing to keep up with the overwhelming data flooding the stolen celestial comms unit. She was no longer just the bait; she was The Navigator.
"Aerial patrols converging on the river delta, three minutes!" Lyra shouted, pulling the Saint sharply left into a narrow, derelict maintenance trench. "They're deploying the Capture Net—a triple cordon of Archons on the ground and Chorale drones in the air! They're sealing all exits."
The Saint moved with a desperate, terrifying grace, the unified Sanctus/Veritas blade sheathed but ready. His core was stable—sealed by her touch after the final duel—but the raw exhaustion from containing Lucifera's Wrath was evident in the rigidity of his jaw.
"Where is the flaw, Lyra?" the Saint demanded, his voice strained: "The net cannot be flawless."
Lyra's fingers flew across the comms unit, utilising the compromised Nexus data to predict the human element of the angelic defence. "Seraphiel's command structure is predictable. The eastern sector is prioritised for surveillance. They leave a narrow blind spot near the old municipal incinerator—a low-value area."
She slammed her hand against a rusted access panel. "Down! We take the subgrid network beneath the incinerator. It's the last clear path toward the city centre."
They plunged into the darkness, the Capture Net closing inexorably above them.
The temporary safety of the Subterranean Grid offered a brief, necessary respite. They paused in a forgotten pump station, the stench of decay thick in the air. The Saint leaned against a corroded pipe, his powerful frame slumped in exhaustion. Lyra stood beside him, her hands still trembling from the adrenaline.
The crushing force of their proximity, the deep, agonising intimacy of their shared survival—hung heavy in the silence. They had stared down Hell and executed a just defence; the emotional exhaustion was greater than any physical strain.
"Your core," Lyra whispered, her voice rough. "It's holding firm. But the Paradox Strike—the conflicting energies—it tore at the seal. You need a permanent fix, Azael."
The Saint looked at his hand, then at the faint, shimmering crimson light of the unified blade. "A permanent fix requires an energy source free of celestial or demonic taint. It does not exist in this city, Lyra."
He looked at her, his silver eyes dark and profound. "We are out of time. The Black Cardinal failed, but he confirmed Lucifera's plan. Seraphiel will only hunt harder, knowing I possess the unified blade. The city is too small for us to hide."
The realisation was a crushing weight. They had disabled the Protocol, defeated the Cardinal, and secured their bond, but the war remained unwinnable.
"There is only one place left to go," the Saint stated, pushing off the wall. "The only place where Seraphiel is vulnerable is because he believes himself to be absolute."
Lyra didn't need him to name it. She pulled up the schematic on her datapad—the final, ultimate target.
"The Zenith Tower," she murmured—"Seraphiel's primary headquarters. The source of all command, control, and celestial power in the city."
The Zenith Tower was the tallest structure in the Shattered City, a gleaming needle of celestial tech that pierced the perpetual smog layer. It was Seraphiel's throne, his sanctuary, and his final fortress.
"We strike at the heart," the Saint confirmed. "It's a frontal assault. A death sentence, Lyra. But if we can reach his control centre, we can force a confrontation that ends the war—one way or another."
Lyra's heart hammered, but her mind was cold, clear, and focused. She was no longer afraid of the end. She was only afraid of failing him.
"The black ledger," Lyra stated, recalling the vast, stolen data. "It details the tower's infrastructure. Seraphiel's security is layered, but complacent. He trusts his power, not his systems. There is a flaw—a primary weakness in the tower's structure."
She scrolled through the data, finding the precise entry. "The tower's foundation is anchored to the city's original pre-Fall power grid. Seraphiel uses that grid for ancillary power. The data shows a massive, unguarded junction box—a place he believes is too mundane to warrant protection."
"A perfect target," the Saint agreed, a grim satisfaction in his voice. "He hides his vulnerability in the mortal world. Your knowledge, Lyra, is the only reason we have a chance."
Their shared future had narrowed to a single, impossible objective. There was no life, no escape, and no redemption left for them—only the final, desperate act of defiance. Their hands met, Lyra placing her small, determined hand into his massive, scarred one. This time, the spark of pain was a confirmation, not a necessity—a reminder of the bond that sustained them both.
"We go to the Zenith Tower," Lyra declared, her voice firm. "I'll be the Navigator. I get you inside the flaw. You do the rest."
They began their final ascent through the forgotten infrastructure, Lyra guiding them through maintenance ducts and dead power lines, expertly dodging the closing pincers of the Capture Net.
They emerged onto a high altitude platform overlooking the city centre, the early morning smog obscuring everything but the single, terrifying structure that dominated the skyline.
The Zenith Tower.
It soared into the sky, a silent, white testament to Seraphiel's absolute rule. It was the place where Heaven met Earth, the final arena for the Executioner.
The Saint stood at the edge of the platform, looking up at the tower, the unified blade ready at his back. He was whole, armed, and focused. He was ready to face his brother.
"The path of no return, Lyra," the Saint murmured, his silver eyes fixed on the zenith.
Lyra stood beside him, placing her hand on his arm, looking not at the impossible height, but at the man who would willingly face a god for her.
"Then let's walk it, Azael," she replied. "Together."
They moved toward the city centre, toward the ultimate confrontation, leaving the wreckage of their past and the finality of their decision behind them.