The city was no longer a city. It had become a graveyard of burning steel and shattered towers. Screams drowned beneath the roars of countless demons clawing through the streets. The ground itself bled black ichor as reality trembled under the weight of despair.
At the center of the devastation stood Pythius, the embodiment of hopelessness. His voice thundered across the world, shaking the air itself.
"I am hopelessness itself. I am fear. I am the end that swallows everything. All battles, all dreams, all lights fade into me."
The shadows around him stretched like serpents, swallowing flames, swallowing sound. People who looked too long into that darkness collapsed where they stood, their minds cracking under despair.
Across from him stood Metatron, Guardian of Light, his wings wide, his face solemn but calm.
Metatron lifted his sword and called out, his voice carrying across the storm.
"Even when there is no hope, I will still fight. Even when despair fills the sky, I will not stop. That is what hope really means."
The air split as both forces collided.
Pythius's red eyes flared like hellfire. From them burst twin beams that erased everything they touched. Skyscrapers fell like paper. The sky itself seemed to shatter.
Metatron crossed his blade before him and deflected the beams, but the impact threw him across the battlefield. He tore through three ruined towers before crashing to the ground in a burst of light and debris.
Pythius's laughter crawled through the air, deep and mocking.
"Pathetic. You really think you can fight inevitability? Every light fades eventually, even suns die."
He raised both hands and unleashed a storm of black spears. Each one screamed through the sky, bending space as it moved.
Metatron roared and formed radiant shields around himself, but they shattered one after another. He pushed forward, wings cutting through the storm. His body glowed with blinding light as he charged.
Their fists met. The world shook.
The shockwave toppled buildings for miles. Fire swallowed entire districts as demons howled and cheered from below. Above them, the sky had turned into a battlefield of clashing light and shadow.
Far away, the Demon Princes watched.
Satan stood tall, his armor glowing with red flame. Even he frowned at the power Metatron displayed.
Beelzebub crouched nearby, his bloated body covered in mouths and eyes. He laughed softly, voice echoing like insects crawling over stone.
"Go on, Metatron… shine brighter. The brighter you burn, the sweeter you'll taste when you fall. The Eater of Worlds is hungry."
Demons flooded the streets, tearing through humans and angels alike. Fire covered everything.
Still, every eye—angel and demon—focused on the duel.
Pythius's shadow stretched again, wrapping around Metatron like chains. They tightened, crushing his wings and dragging him down.
"Do you see now?" Pythius hissed, his voice slithering into every ear on earth. "This is despair. The end. No escape. No salvation. Only me."
The air grew heavy. Angels fell to their knees. Humans stopped praying. Even demons grew silent, awed by the presence of hopelessness itself.
Metatron's head dropped. His wings dimmed. For a moment, it seemed he had lost.
Then a whisper stirred inside him.
He heard the prayers of mortals. The cries of children. The voices of those who still believed in something greater than fear.
Metatron gripped his sword. His voice rose, low but certain.
"Hope isn't pretending despair doesn't exist. Hope is standing anyway. Hope is moving when you have no reason to. That's why I will fight you, even when it's hopeless. Because that is what hope means."
Light erupted from him like a storm. The shadows shattered. Every demon within two kilometers burned to dust.
Pythius staggered back, eyes wide.
"Impossible! You can't fight what's inevitable!"
Metatron stepped forward. His body burned with living fire. Six hundred and fifty eyes opened across him, each glowing with divine clarity. Seven wings unfolded behind him, their light shaking the heavens. A radiant crown formed above his head, endless and bright.
When he spoke, it was not a shout—it was the sound of creation itself.
"I am the guardian. I am the wall that despair cannot pass. I am the living sun. And I will protect them all."
Pythius screamed, his voice breaking into thousands of tones. He unleashed black flames, storms, and shadows, but they all disintegrated before Metatron's light. His red eyes fired again, but Metatron did not even blink.
In his hands formed the Sword of Silence, glowing white and endless.
Metatron looked at his enemy and said quietly, "Enough. This ends now."
He swung once.
The world froze.
Silence fell like snow.
Pythius screamed as his form dissolved, his body collapsing into ash and shadow. His soul was dragged back into the abyss, howling all the way down.
When the light faded, the city burned quietly, but the air no longer reeked of despair.
For the first time in forever, there was peace.
The Princes of Hell watched in silence. Even Satan lowered his gaze.
Beelzebub smiled, his mouths curling wide.
"Delicious," he whispered. "That one will be a feast worth waiting for. The Crown's weapon indeed. Ah, Metatron… you will be mine one day."
The Eater of Worlds licked his lips, and the world trembled.