The earth — the same scorched, split earth drowned in black magma — was once again beneath Ignaras’s feet.
He appeared from nothing.
From the void.
From a place where there was no space and no time and only pure will reigned.
One moment he wasn’t there, the next moment — he was.
His knees bent, but he didn’t fall.
His wings folded, his horns gleamed in the faint light remaining from the hellish fires.
The last angel was there.
Alone, exhausted, his armor cracked in several places, light dripping through the cracks, falling to the ground and hissing — one flame was out, the other flickered, about to go out at any moment.
But he stood.
And he looked at Ignaras.
Not with fear, not with anger, not with contempt.
With something like…
expectation.
Ignaras breathed.
The scorched, ash-filled air entered his mortal lungs and cut like a knife.
But he breathed.
He stood straight.
He didn’t pull back his horns, didn’t spread his wings — he just stood.
His voice was calm.
Tired.
But there was satisfaction in it.
“Only you remain?”
A brief pause.
He raised his hand slightly — not a threat, not a gesture — just habit.
“I’ll destroy you too.”
The angel didn’t answer.
He only watched.
And Ignaras — suddenly — couldn’t move.
Not like before, when Sofia’s threads had bound him.
Not like physical chains.
This was a lock.
A lock from within.
A lock that didn’t bind his hands and feet, didn’t bind his wings — it bound his will.
His command.
Himself.
He clenched his fist.
It wouldn’t open.
He tried to step forward.
He couldn’t.
He wanted to scream — no sound came.
His void eyes — those two holes into nothingness — swept over his body.
Over the red lava-like skin, over the veins pulsing beneath the skin, over his heart — where the chain still was.
“What is this…”
His voice was no longer a roar.
No longer rage.
It was calm.
Calmer than ever before.
As if he were talking to himself, not to the angel.
“…That mortal human… has he taken control of his body?”
The angel didn’t answer.
There was no need.
It started from Ignaras’s fingertips.
The red skin turned back to human color.
From the fingers to the wrist, from the wrist to the forearm, from the forearm to the upper arm.
The long white hair — turned black.
Not white to black — the white faded away.
The horns — cracked.
— Shattered.
They fell to the ground.
Onto the black magma.
And sank into the magma, disappearing with a hiss.
The wings vanished.
Bone by bone, membrane by membrane, so forcefully that the sound of bone shattering could be heard.
Then they shrank.
Pulled back.
Into the back.
To the place they had come from.
His height decreased.
The first step — the height of a sixteen-year-old boy.
The bones that had stretched beneath the skin settled.
The muscles that had been compressed beneath the red skin softened.
And the skin — was no longer red.
No longer burned.
It was the skin of a sixteen-year-old boy.
It was Lloyd.
He was unconscious.
His eyes closed, his hands limp, his breathing calm.
And he was falling from the sky.
The wind whistled in his ears.
He was reaching the ground.
The magma.
The fire.
Destruction.
But he didn’t reach it.
John was there.
Where had he come from?
It didn’t matter.
From amidst the smoke, from amidst the fire, from amidst the cracks that had split the earth in two.
He had two horns on his forehead and two wings like bat wings.
He had come.
He reached out his hand.
He opened his arms.
And caught Lloyd.
In his embrace.
John was gasping.
His hands trembled.
His broken bone screamed under Lloyd’s weight, but he didn’t let go.
He only held tighter.
In his mind, the words arranged themselves.
Fast.
Cold.
“Those two specters I sent… they managed to seal the Prince of Hell.”
His gaze fell on Lloyd’s face.
On the short black hair.
On the pale skin.
On the closed eyes.
“Because Ignaras had been weakened. That battle… those swords… those angels… drained his energy. If it had been his own body, this would never have happened. But this body… was a mortal’s body. It didn’t have the capacity.”
The fire around them blazed.
The ground beneath John’s feet was hot — his shoes were melting.
But he didn’t fall.
He only held Lloyd tighter.
“And from what I understand… the Prince of Hell is the embodiment of wrath. Pure, unadulterated rage. Those two specters sealed Lloyd’s emotions.”
John drew a difficult breath.
“Which means Lloyd’s emotions… have diminished.”
His gaze went to the sky — to where the angel still stood.
The angel was watching.
His face — that same uniform white radiance — had faded. New chapters come out on g.com first.
Now beneath that radiance, something could be seen.
Not eyes, not a mouth.
John raised his voice.
Not a shout, not a scream.
A question:
“You see us. You can attack. Why don’t you?”
The angel paused.
And then — he spoke.
His voice was no longer a whisper and a roar.
His voice was a murmur.
“That’s a good question, mortal… I must say, I’m still standing by force now.”
He raised his hand.
It trembled.
The tips of his fingers — where light dripped from his armor — were fading.
“But my time is short. Because of the limitations of the mortal world, I cannot remain.”
He lowered his hand.
His gaze went to Lloyd — to the limp, bloodied hands, to the chest rising and falling gently.
“So before I leave… let me tell you something. Not as a threat, not as a warning.”
A pause.
“As truth.”
The light around the angel grew dimmer.
The cold flames behind his shoulders — one went out, the second flickered.
“From this day forward, that boy — Lloyd Smith — is an enemy of Heaven.”
John said nothing.
He only listened.
“From this day forward… none of his good deeds will be recorded. No blessing will be given to him. He will not be protected by any angel.”
The words came heavy.
Not like a threat — like law.
A law that had been written before the earth was made, before humans drew breath, before Heaven and Hell were separated.
“And his soul… is not permitted entry into Heaven.”
The angel was silent for a moment.
He was spending his last strength to remain standing.
“And he cannot go to Hell either. Hell has its own laws — and he has made a contract with it, but after death, even Hell will not want him.”
The angel’s gaze fixed on John.
One last time.
“Only oblivion. After death… only oblivion awaits him. No light, no fire. Nothing. Only non-being. A non-being that even vanishes from memory.”
John stood motionless.
Lloyd was heavy in his arms — the weight of a sixteen-year-old boy, the weight of a condemned soul, the weight of something that was slipping away without even knowing it.
He raised his voice.
It didn’t tremble.
“Why don’t you attack us now? Are you so weakened you can’t? Or is there another law?”
The angel — the last pieces of light were dripping from his armor, falling to the ground and going out.
The angel’s body cracked.
Not surface cracks — cracks that came from within, from where his luminous soul was.
Light burst through these cracks — but not gently, like water breaking through a dam.
And he faded.
Only John remained, with the unconscious Lloyd in his arms.
Only the remaining fire, only the magma slowly cooling and turning black, only a wind that no longer blew.
John looked at Lloyd.
At his pale face, at his closed eyes, at the black hair stuck to his forehead.
And in his mind, in a tired, quiet voice, he murmured:
“We have to go somewhere safe… somewhere neither Heaven can find us, nor Hell, nor the organization. Somewhere it’s just us… until we figure out what comes after this.”
He held Lloyd tighter.
He took a step.
Onto the black magma that was no longer so hot.
Toward a place no one knew.
Perhaps toward a place where no one was.
To be continued…