The vault's relic hummed like a trapped heartbeat, its glow casting fractured shadows across Father Elias Crowe's weathered face. His relic gun—a bastardised fusion of holy silver and black-market circuits—steadied on the Saint's chest. His finger twitched on the trigger etched with faded exorcism runes. Rain drummed overhead, muffled by layers of concrete and sin, but the pounding at the door grew frantic, demonic claws scraping like nails on a coffin lid. Lyra's arm throbbed where the venom had bitten deep, but the Saint's touch lingered, a phantom heat that made her skin prickle with dangerous craving.
The Saint held still, silver-veined eyes flicking between the priest and the horde outside. His scythe thrummed in his grip, ethereal blades coiling like smoke, ready to judge. But Elias's aura flickered with redeemable light—a rogue soul, scarred by hunts but not damned. Hesitation gripped the Saint, guilt from ancient executions twisting like a blade in his core. He couldn't strike first, not without cracking further into oblivion.
Lyra stepped forward, her emerald eyes flashing defiance, runes beneath her skin pulsing in sync with the Eden Shard fragment on the pedestal. "Easy, Father. He's with me—sort of." She glanced at the Saint, that inexplicable pull tightening in her gut, like threads of forgotten fire weaving through her veins. "Those things out there? They're after this." She nodded to the shard, a jagged crystal veined with primordial flame, whispering truths she couldn't yet grasp.
Elias's eyes narrowed, flicking to the glowing marks on her neck. "Voss? You're the journalist poking at celestial shadows. And him..." He tilted his head, recognition dawning like a bad omen. "Christ, you're the one from the old scrolls. The Killer Saint. Thought you were myth." The gun lowered an inch, but tension coiled the air thicker than the smog outside. Demons howled, the door buckling with a metallic groan—reinforcements slithering through vents, their sulfur stink seeping in.
Conflict flared. A vent grate exploded inward, spewing two hellspawn: wiry fiends with circuit-implanted horns and venom-dripping tails, Lilithar's scouts marked by crimson brands. One lunged at Elias, claws raking for his throat, while the other zeroed on Lyra, eyes gleaming with hunger for her blood. "The Shard-bearer," it hissed, voice a digital rasp warped by infernal code. "Queen's prize."
The Saint moved in a blur, his scythe arcing to intercept. Flames erupted along the blade. The Judgment Inferno found the demon's lust and betrayal, incinerating it mid-leap into a swirl of embers that singed the air. Pain lanced his back, core fracturing from the kill—each use of the Inferno devouring a sliver of his essence, accelerating the curse. He spun to the second, but Elias fired first, relic rounds punching holy fire into the fiend's chest. It shrieked, dissolving in a haze of static and smoke, but not before its tail whipped out, slashing Lyra's coat and grazing her side.
She gasped, pressing the wound as blood welled hot and sticky. Visions flooded her—not pain, but flashes: a winged figure in ancient armour, flames wrapping lovers in ecstatic agony, a stake's bite. "What... what is this?" she whispered, staggering toward the shard. Her fingers brushed it instinctively, and the crystal ignited, flooding the vault with warmth that knit her flesh, runes blazing like stars under her skin. But the surge attracted more—the door finally gave, bursting open in a tide of demonic grunts, five strong, armoured in scavenged tech and hellforged plates.
Rising tension coiled through the cramped space, turning the vault into a killbox. The Saint positioned himself as a wall, scythe whirling in lethal patterns, flames licking foes without mercy. One demon charged, cybernetic arms swinging like pistons. He dodged, countering with a slash that unravelled its greed-sins into ash. Another fire shadow bolts from implanted gauntlets—dark energy crackling against his aura, forcing him back. Elias joined the fray, relic gun barking in rhythmic bursts, each shot laced with prayers that burned infernal hides. "Fall back, Voss! Grab what you can!"
Lyra, adrenaline surging, snatched the Eden Shard fragment, tucking it into her coat. Its power hummed through her, granting fleeting clarity: intuitive bursts revealing the demons' weak points—a cracked rune here, a vulnerable circuit there. She drew her pistol, firing precise shots that staggered a fiend long enough for the Saint to finish it. Their eyes met amid the chaos, his silver gaze burning with an unspoken vow, hers widening with that aching familiarity. His presence stirred her, heat pooling low despite the fight.
The battle escalated, bodies piling in acrid heaps. Elias reloaded with a curse, a chain dangling from his pocket like a noose. "These bastards are endless. Limbo's underbelly's crawling with 'em tonight." He kicked a dissolving corpse, revealing a comm-device blinking with coordinates—a trace leading deeper into the Nether Spire, corporate hell-lairs where demons brokered souls under neon facades. The Saint pressed forward, Commanding Aura bending the weakest demon's will; it turned on its kin, claws ripping throats before he judged it clean.
The strain mounted. The Saint's core throbbed. Rage boiled when a demon's bolt grazed Lyra's shoulder, drawing blood. Uncontrollable wrath cracked him wider, power surging in a blaze that immolated two at once—but the backlash hit like lightning, dropping him to one knee, vision blurring. Lyra rushed to him, her hand on his arm. Her touch ignited sparks that mended his fractures briefly—a searing reciprocity that ripped through them both. She moaned softly, body arching as flame danced across her skin without burning. "God, what are you doing to me?" Her voice was breathy, defiant eyes locking on his, the air thickening with raw tension—a near-kiss in the lull, lips inches apart, souls brushing like embers in the wind.
Elias cleared his throat, shattering the moment. "Save the sparks for later. We gotta move." He activated a hidden panel, revealing an escape tunnel lined with warding runes. "This leads to my sanctuary. But they're tracking her—that shard in your blood calls 'em like a beacon."
They fled into the damp passage, demons' roars fading behind as Elias sealed it with a relic charge. The tunnel wound through forgotten sublevels, holographic ghosts flickering from old ads—angels selling eternal youth, demons promising forbidden thrills. Lyra's mind raced, piecing clues: the heist, the assassins, this silent guardian whose touch felt like destiny's cruel joke. "You saved me again," she murmured to the Saint, walking close, their arms brushing with electric heat. "But why? Who are you really?"
He couldn't speak his name—Azrathiel, forbidden by divine curse—but his eyes conveyed fragments: protection, loss, burning love. Elias glanced back, suspicion softening. "He's the Saint of Killers, girl. Heaven's executioner, fallen for loving a mortal. Legends say he was erased for it. If he's here, something big's stirring—heavens silent, gods gone quiet."
The tunnel opened into a hidden chapel, Elias's underground lair: altars cluttered with relic scraps, walls scrawled with Seven Seals diagrams, a cot smelling of whiskey and regret. Safe for now, Lyra collapsed onto a bench, shard pulsing in her pocket. "My investigations... angel smuggling rings, corporate overlords with wings. This proves it." She pulled out her data-slate, fingers flying, but visions hit again—stronger, erotic echoes of past-life passion: bodies entwined in flame, souls merging in sacrificial ecstasy.
The Saint watched her, core aching from the fight, drawn inexorably closer. He reached out, fingers tracing her wound—now healed by the shard's grace—igniting runes that made her gasp, thighs clenching against the rush. The intimacy built, unspoken: her hand on his chest, feeling the obsidian muscle tense, silver eyes blazing with restrained hunger. Elias busied himself with wards, muttering, "Don't mind me, but that spark? It's dangerous. Draws predators."
In the dim light, subtle alliances formed: Elias offered cryptic knowledge, hinting at sealed heavens and a primordial force. "Your blood's key, Voss. Eden's flame, hidden in reincarnates. They want it to heal or destroy gods." But as Lyra leaned into the Saint, breath mingling, a twist shattered the fragile peace: her data-slate beeped, Mira Thorne's voice crackling through. "Lyra? I hacked the heist cams. Those assassins? Sent by Raziel's enforcers. And... there's a vision leak. Your runes are broadcasting—every celestial in the city knows you're awake."
The chapel's wards flickered, straining under sudden assault. Outside, seraphim drones whined closer, golden light piercing cracks—Heaven's scouts, led by whispers of Archangel Raziel. Demons regrouped below, Lilithar's seduction echoing in psychic taunts. The Saint's scythe manifested, ready, but his core screamed—weakened, hesitating against redeemables among the incoming.
Lyra's eyes widened, the shard burning hot against her skin. "They're coming for me." Elias grabbed his gear, face grim. "Run or fight? Your call, Saint."
But as the first drone breached the outer wards, exploding in a shower of light, a deeper omen stirred: the Void Whisperer, ancient darkness beyond realms, murmured in the Saint's mind: "She is the fracture. Claim her, or all unravels." His hand tightened on Lyra's, flames teasing ecstasy that could doom him, poised on the edge of war's inferno.