Ignaras floated in the dark sky.
His immense wings cast a shadow over the earth, a shadow so vast it covered the entire ruined temple grounds.
His right hand was still extended toward John — the same hand.
John’s breaths were numbered.
His broken bone ached, his burned arm burned, and his brain was calculating: how many seconds until the next attack?
How many seconds until death?
And then — the roar of engines.
Not one engine.
Not two.
Dozens.
From behind the hills, from directions John didn’t even know had roads — helicopters appeared.
Black.
Military.
With insignias that couldn’t be read from a distance but whose meaning was clear: government, army, law.
Fighter jets wheeled in the sky.
Their metal wings gleamed beneath the faint light behind the clouds.
Their sound filled the space — a sound that was neither roar nor howl, but something between the two: the mechanical heartbeat of war.
And on the ground — lights.
Blue and red lights.
Police cars, armored vehicles, ambulances that weren’t blaring their sirens yet but were ready.
Rows of armed forces, black helmets, riot shields, rifles aimed in unison.
The encirclement was complete.
John murmured in his mind — not with sound, with exhaustion: “The police have arrived… but this being is a demon. He moves his hand, half of them are destroyed. Rifles are useless. Ammunition is useless. Strategy… maybe. But these people don’t know strategy.”
But he remained silent.
He didn’t take his eyes off Ignaras.
From the police ranks, a man stepped forward.
He was fat.
But his fatness wasn’t of laziness — it was of dormant power.
Salt-and-pepper hair, short and neat.
Brown eyes, but dark brown, almost black.
Eyes that had seen not one, but hundreds of horrific scenes and had still not lost their sharp gleam.
His name was Henry.
He had his hands clasped behind his back.
He walked calmly, firmly, his shoes making a steady, measured sound on the cracked asphalt.
He looked at Ignaras — directly.
Without trembling.
Without averting his gaze for a single moment.
He stopped.
Right at the center of the encirclement.
Right beneath the shadow of Ignaras’s wings.
He raised his voice.
So loud that it overpowered the roar of engines and helicopters and the chaos still forming in the distance:
“Whoever is in charge here, surrender yourselves!”
A young officer stood beside Henry.
His face was pale, his eyes wide, his hand trembling on the grip of his rifle.
He lowered his voice:
“Sir… do you think…” His gaze went to Ignaras.
To the red skin.
To the twisted horns.
To the wings protruding from his back.
“…his skin is red. He has two wings. He has horns. This… isn’t real, right?”
Henry answered without taking his eyes off Ignaras.
“Of course not. They’re just a group of terrorists in disguise. That man is dangerous, but against all these forces… he’s nothing.”
He raised his voice higher:
“You are nothing against us!”
Silence.
Sudden.
Deep.
Even the helicopter engines, which until a moment ago had been roaring, were now just a distant hum.
Even the wind, which had been blowing all this time, had stopped.
As if nature itself was listening.
Ignaras turned his head.
Slowly.
Too slowly.
In a way that you could hear every vertebra in his neck.
His gaze locked into Henry’s eyes.
Void eyes.
Pure blackness.
There was nothing in them — no pupil, no iris, no reflection of light.
But they had pressure.
Ignaras spoke.
His voice didn’t come from the bottom of his throat — it came from the bottom of Hell:
“What did you say?”
A pause.
Henry’s breath stopped for a second.
“Me… surrender?”
From around Ignaras — from nowhere, from everywhere — an aura of heat burst outward.
But it wasn’t ordinary heat.
It was heat you could see.
You could see how the air began to ripple, how dust particles at a certain distance from his body burned and vanished.
His long white hair — which until a moment ago had rested calmly on his shoulders — suddenly stirred.
Not like wind blowing, like flames dancing.
A fiery halo surrounded his entire body.
Fire that gave no light — only devoured.
All the forces present — police, soldiers, officers — took one step back.
Not by command.
By instinct.
But Henry — Henry didn’t step back. New chapters come out on g.com first.
He didn’t pull his foot back.
He didn’t avert his eyes.
He didn’t even put his hand on the grip of his weapon.
He just stood.
Breathed.
And gave the order.
“Everyone stand ready!”
His voice didn’t tremble.
Perhaps his body trembled — beneath the uniform, where no one could see — but his voice didn’t.
His voice was the same: loud, clear, commanding.
And then — a final warning.
Not a threat.
A warning:
“Demon! Hurry up, surrender!”
The scene froze for a moment.
An image that, if painted, would be titled “The Clash of Wills”: on one side, a being from Hell with black wings and void eyes and hair that burned like fire.
On the other side, a fat man in a police uniform, sweat on his forehead, but eyes that still obeyed command.
Henry’s face had lost all color — but he didn’t pull his foot back.
He raised his hand — not surrender, not a threat — a signal for ceasefire.
“Ceasefire! Ceasefire!”
His voice was being lost in the roar of scorching heat — but not so lost that no one could hear.
The soldiers didn’t lower their rifles, but they didn’t pull the trigger either.
They just watched.
They waited.
Henry knew.
In the depths of his being, where uniform and badge and rank had no meaning, where he was just a man with his grandfather’s memories — he knew this was no longer a human conflict.
This was something he had read about in the old church books.
Ignaras tilted his head.
A calm, almost human movement.
Not like a creature examining its prey.
“Commander…”
His voice was deep.
Profound.
As if it came from a well with no bottom.
“I can see that the veins in your body are frozen with fear… but your legs still obey.”
A brief pause.
“Interesting.”
Henry didn’t answer.
He just stood.
One of the young soldiers — so young he still had acne on his face — couldn’t endure it.
His hands trembled.
His finger pressed the trigger — not with intent, but with reflex.
A shot.
The bullet leaped from the barrel.
Its sound echoed through the heavy silence.
Halfway there — about five meters from Ignaras’s chest — the bullet stopped.
Not that it was deflected.
It stopped.
Hovered.
Spun.
And then — evaporated.
Like ice before the sun.
Like a drop of rain on hot iron.
It was, then it wasn’t.
Only a small puff of smoke rose from where the bullet had vanished and scattered in the hot air.
The young soldier looked at his rifle.
At where the bullet had gone.
At Ignaras.
His mouth hung open.
He wasn’t breathing.
Ignaras slowly pointed his index finger at him.
“Courage… or foolishness?”
He turned his head slightly.
The white hair swayed over his red shoulders.
“In your culture, the two are often the same.”
Henry threw himself forward.
He reached toward the young soldier, as if he could shorten the distance by sheer will:
“Don’t! He just —”
But it was too late.
Just a blink.
The young soldier’s eyes — which had been wide with terror, wider than normal — suddenly stared.
Not at anything in particular.
At everything.
At nothing.
There was no pain.
No shot.
No scream.
Just — astonishment.
On the skin of his face, patterns appeared.
Thin, glowing cracks, like glass cracking under pressure, but from within.
From beneath the skin.
A light shone through the cracks — a white light, hot, silent.
His mouth opened.
No sound came.
And then — he crumbled.
Silently.
Like a statue of ash.
Particles.
Only his uniform remained.
Fell to the ground.
Empty.
Silence.
A silence not in the ears, but in the bones.
Even the helicopters — as if their pilots too had forgotten to breathe — made no sound.
The wind didn’t blow.
The earth didn’t tremble.
Even the black fire beneath the cracks in the ground, as if wanting to pay respect — had gone out.
Henry looked at the empty uniform.
At where the young soldier had stood.
At where no one was anymore.
He lowered his hand.
He made no sound.
Gave no command.
He just looked.
And Ignaras — as if enjoying watching Henry — lowered his hand.
Calmly.
Like a caress.
“You see?”
His voice echoed through the silence.
“This is not surrendering. This… is destruction.”
His gaze returned to Henry.
The black voids, pupil-less, lightless — but so heavy that Henry felt his knees beginning to bend.
They didn’t.
“Now, brave commander.”
He raised his index finger.
Not a threat.
An announcement.
“Choose.”
A pause.
“Do you want to become ash…”
He pointed at the empty uniform.
“…or do you want to stay alive and watch how I tear your world apart?”
Henry didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
He didn’t want to.
But he clenched his teeth.
Tight.
So tight that the muscles of his jaw stretched beneath his skin.
His hand became a fist.
In his mind, there was one word — one word his grandfather had whispered to him every night before sleep.
A word written in that old book, under the fourth chapter, in red, trembling handwriting:
Wait.
There is always a weakness.
Even for demons.
And at that moment — the wind changed.
Breaths were still held, hearts were still racing — but the wind changed.
The air that until now had been burning with hellish heat, hotter than fire, suddenly turned cold.
A cold that didn’t come from outside — it came from within.
From the bones.
From the marrow.
A cold that didn’t settle on the skin, but in one’s very being.
A cold reminiscent of a winter that never ends.
And from the sky — from amidst the smoke and ash and clouds still torn apart — light came.
Not sunlight.
Five pillars of light.
Golden.
Cold.
Merciless.
They descended from above, calm, like hands hanging from the sky.
Like spears taking aim.
Like fingers touching the earth.
They had no sound, no warmth.
Only presence.
Ignaras looked up.
The white hair pulled back over his red shoulders.
His wings — which until now had been open and ready — folded in by a single millimeter.
Not from fear.
From caution.
For the first time — he frowned.
Not a frown of anger.
A frown of calculation.
His laughter — that wild, prideful laughter — vanished.
Erased from his lips.
Not that it disappeared, but that it withdrew.
To where it couldn’t be seen.
His void eyes stared at the pillars of light.
One second.
Two seconds.
Five seconds.
And then — he murmured.
A voice only he could hear:
“Ah… uninvited guests…”
His voice no longer held rage.
His voice held understanding.
The understanding that this battle had only just begun.
To be continued…