Rain hammered the Shattered City's underbelly like divine retribution, turning alleyways into rivers of neon-streaked filth. The Saint of Killers—nameless now, a shadow stripped of glory—clawed his way from the muck of a forgotten sewer grate, his body reforming from ash and ether. Pain lanced through him—a symphony of scorched wings and shattered oaths. His silver-veined eyes snapped open to the chaos above.
Demons skittered in the gloom, low-level vermin with jagged fangs and oily hides, drawn by the faint pulse of his cursed essence. One lunged, claws raking for his throat. He moved like wrath incarnate, summoning ethereal blades from the void. The scythe hissed, judging sins in a flash of indigo fire. The creature dissolved into screaming embers that lit the storm-slick walls.
He shook off the last of the ash, muscles coiling like forged obsidian under rain-lashed skin. Four centuries buried in oblivion, erased from the Book of Life for a sin that still burned hotter than hellfire—loving her. Elara. The name echoed in his fractured soul, a ghost of flame-kissed nights and stake-bound screams. But this world was no medieval pyre; it was a cyber-noir nightmare, spires piercing the smog-choked sky, holographic angels hawking black-market relics to desperate souls. He had no wings, only jagged scars hidden beneath illusion tattoos that flickered with residual power. His Commanding Aura stirred the air, bending shadows to his will, but it faltered against the pure-hearted—useless here, where innocence was a myth.
The demons circled closer, three more slinking from the grates, their eyes glowing like faulty circuit boards. "Fallen meat," one hissed, voice a rasp of static and sulfur. "Heaven's trash, ripe for the taking." They pounced as one, tails whipping through the downpour. The Saint's rage ignited, cracking his divine core with a jolt that made his vision blur. He swung the scythe in a wide arc, flames erupting along its edge—Judgment Inferno, devouring their petty sins of greed and murder. One burst into ash mid-leap, another screamed as its essence unravelled, threads of black smoke coiling back to Hell. The last clung to his arm, fangs sinking deep, drawing blood that sizzled on the pavement.
He tore it free with a growl, crushing its skull against the wall. Pain bloomed in his chest, the curse accelerating—each kill fed his power but eroded his existence, a slow unravelling toward nothingness. Gasping, he leaned against the alley's rusted bulkhead, the rain washing demon ichor from his skin. Disoriented, he scanned the labyrinthine streets: Limbo District's underpass, where the forgotten scraped by on stolen grace. A distant siren wailed, corporate enforcers patrolling for relic runners. He needed cover, answers—why now? Why this pull, like a tether yanking him from the void?
Footsteps echoed from the adjacent tunnel, hurried and human. He melted into the shadows, aura dampening his presence. A woman emerged, cloaked in a hooded trench coat, her emerald eyes scanning the gloom with predatory focus. Lyra Voss—though he didn't know her name yet, her scent hit him like a thunderbolt, stirring memories of wild heather fields and forbidden embraces. She clutched a data-slate, fingers flying over holographic keys, muttering curses under her breath. "Damn it, Mira, the heist's trace leads here. If these angel myths are real, this relic could blow the lid off everything."
Behind her, unseen by mortal eyes, assassins materialised—two spectral killers, hellspawn cloaked in human guise, blades dripping with venom that could corrode souls. They were no low-level fodder; these bore Lilithar's mark, crimson runes pulsing on their wrists. Lyra froze, sensing the shift in the air, her hand dipping toward a concealed pistol. But they were too fast, one lunging with a snarl that exposed fangs beneath a corporate suit.
The Saint exploded from hiding, his scythe manifesting in a blaze that lit the alley like a fallen star. He cleaved the first assassin in half, flames judging its betrayal and lust, reducing it to writhing cinders. The second whirled, blade clashing against his ethereal edge in a shower of sparks. "Who dares—" it began, but his free hand gripped its throat, Commanding Aura forcing truth from its lips even as it resisted. "The girl... her blood calls. The Shard awakens." He crushed its windpipe, incinerating the rest with a surge that made his own scars throb.
Lyra spun, pistol raised, her eyes widening at the carnage. "What the hell are you?" she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her stance. Up close, her raven hair clung to rain-slick skin, and faint runes glowed beneath her collar—ancient marks igniting from proximity to his flames. She felt it too, a spark jumping between them, like souls brushing in the ether. He stepped closer, unable to speak his vow, but his silver eyes locked on hers, conveying protection in silence.
She lowered the gun fractionally, drawn by an inexplicable pull, her breath hitching as heat bloomed in her chest. "You just saved my ass from... whatever those were. But I don't trust shadows with scythes." A wry smile tugged her lips, bold even in danger. The air thickened, charged with unspoken hunger—his gaze tracing the curve of her neck, remembering tastes from lifetimes ago. She shivered, runes flaring brighter, an electric promise.
But the conflict wasn't over. More footsteps pounded from the tunnel's mouth—reinforcements, demonic grunts summoned by the dying assassins' wails. The Saint grabbed her arm, pulling her toward a side grate, his touch sending jolts of flame through her veins. She gasped, heat surging where his skin met hers, her body arching instinctively. "Wait—my investigation—" she protested, but he silenced her with a glare, aura bending her will just enough to urge flight.
They dashed into the underpass labyrinth, neon ghosts flickering overhead as pursuers howled behind. He led her through twisting corridors, scythe humming at ready, while she fired questions like bullets: "Who are you? Why help me?" Silence was his only answer, but inside, guilt churned—he'd hesitated against one demon, sensing a redeemable spark, and it had cost precious seconds. His core cracked further, pain lancing his back where wings once soared.
Deeper in, they hit a dead end: a sealed vault door, relic runes pulsing with forbidden energy. Lyra's eyes lit up. "This is it—the heist site. If we crack it, I get proof of celestial smuggling." But the demons closed in, their shadows lengthening like grasping claws. The Saint positioned himself between her and the horde, flames coiling around his form. He unleashed a barrage, scythe whirling in lethal grace, judging and burning three in quick succession. Embers danced, illuminating Lyra as she hacked the door with her slate, runes on her skin syncing with the vault's glow.
One demon slipped past, tackling her to the ground. She fought like a fury, her knee slamming into its groin, her pistol barking to blow half its face away. But it raked her arm, venom searing. The Saint roared silently, diving to her side, his hand pressing over the wound. Judgment Flames surged unbidden, not to kill but to heal—devouring the poison in a rush of heat that made her moan, her body arching against him. Their eyes met in that inferno, souls brushing closer, her defiance melting into something raw, aching.
The vault door hissed open, revealing stacks of glowing artefacts—angel feathers, demon horns, shards of Eden glass. Lyra stumbled in, pulling him along, the door sealing just as the remaining demons slammed against it. Safe for a moment, she turned to him, chest heaving. "You... your touch. It burns, but... God, it feels right." She stepped nearer, fingers tracing his jaw, igniting sparks that danced across his skin. He tensed, core fracturing from the contact, but couldn't pull away—the pull of reincarnated devotion too strong.
In the dim glow, her lips parted, invitation clear. He leaned in, breath mingling, the air crackling with forbidden fire. But as their mouths brushed—a tease of soul-searing ecstasy—the vault trembled. A holographic alert blared: "Intrusion detected. Heavenly enforcers inbound." Worse, from the shadows within, a figure stirred—Father Elias Crowe, grizzled priest with a chain-smoked voice, emerging from hiding with a relic gun levelled. "Who the hell are you two? This is my turf."
The Saint froze, scythe ready, but Lyra's vision blurred—a flash of past-life memory: flames, stakes, a winged lover's scream. She clutched her head, runes blazing. "I... know you," she whispered, her eyes locking on him in dawning horror and desire.
Outside, the door buckled under assault. Demons howled, and above, the whine of seraphim drones approached. The Saint's silver eyes narrowed—protection at any cost, even as his core screamed in decay. But Elias's gun cocked, suspicion hardening his gaze. "Answers, now—or I judge you myself."
And in that suspended breath, the vault's deepest relic pulsed to life: a fragment of the Eden Shard, calling to Lyra's blood like a siren's wail, drawing unseen hunters from the heavens above.