The first to be taken out was the Cardinal himself.

  As Ethan crashed through the Undercroft, he shattered the stained-glass windows depicting Krea’s weeping image, throwing the entire edifice of the Cathedral into disarray.

  The world broke apart. Marble cracked. Glass shattered into a thousand prismatic shards. From beneath the hallowed chamber of the Conclave, the very ground tore itself apart as though struck by a god’s hammer. Dust and black fire erupted upward in a single blast that drowned out all human screams in an avalanche of stone and flame.

  Through the storm of rubble came the Dark Angel himself.

  Four wings of midnight burst wide, scattering pews and chandeliers like children’s toys. His hair streamed black fire, his eyes burned violet, and in both hands he bore blades of living flame. Twin longswords—shadows wreathed in violet radiance, their edges screaming with caged annihilation.

  Ethan Hawke. The Archon.

  He landed on the oval table of the Conclave, crushing it into splinters beneath his armored boots. Before High Cardinal Remiel could draw breath for prayer or curse, both swords came down in a crossing arc.

  The chamber filled with light and horror.

  Remiel was split apart, body and soul, carved clean in two before his fellow the Greycloaks, and gathered Elders. His scream ended in a wet, silenced gurgle as violet fire consumed him, erasing both flesh and memory.

  Gasps and roars erupted around the ruined chamber. Manus Raava staggered back, animal eyes wide. Tangeon, King of the Gobrin giants, bared his teeth in disbelief. Even Garviel, Lord Commander of the Greycloaks, faltered as his blade shook in his gauntleted fist.

  Ethan spread his wings, ash and violet fire hissing around him. His crimson eye swept the hall like a predator weighing prey.

  “Your weapon,” he said, voice echoing from stone and shadow alike, “wasn’t enough.”

  Then he raised one sword high, its edge shivering with cold black luminescence.

  Twilight Edge (Grade S)

  [Gale of Darkness]

  Twilight Edge + Aura of Madness can now affect up to 10 targets at once.

  The skill’s invocation tore through the air like a scream. Shadows boiled outward from the angel’s blade, black winds howling through every crack and broken wall. Tendrils of night lashed and split, each one seeking a target, until the ruined cathedral became a suffocating storm of darkness.

  Ten shapes were immediately caught in it—Greycloaks, Cardinals, servants, even fragments of the Elder titans themselves. The inky gale coiled around them like strangling chains, pinning them in place as the chamber drowned in shadow.

  The holy lights of Kaedmon’s cathedral guttered and died.

  Now there was only the storm. And in its center stood Ethan, both flaming blades crossed, staring down at the inert body of the fallen Cardinal.

  Then: an inky abyss crept over the world.

  …

  It all happened in a matter of seconds.

  Once, there had been order. There had been the fleeting hope that they had a plan to stop the madness.

  Now – there was nothing but dust and desolation.

  Lord Commander Garviel had seen battlefields drown in blood. He had fought Archons before—stood at the edge of the abyss when Westerweald fell. His armor still bore the stains of that war, scars that no healer could wash away. He had endured, always endured, because Greycloaks were bred for one purpose: to stand as humanity’s last shield against monsters.

  But never—never—had he seen this.

  The darkness was not mere shadow. It was alive. It breathed. It whispered. It clawed at his mind like icy fingers prying open his skull. His men screamed all around him, a cacophony that bled into the shrieking gale.

  “Commander!” one cried—then lunged at him.

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  Garviel spun, reflex hammering harder than thought. His blade cleaved the Greycloak’s helm clean in two, spraying blood and teeth across the dais. The corpse stumbled backward, violet chains of shadow still coiling round its body like puppeteer’s strings.

  Only on reaction did he summon up an Appraisal and see how the Archon was slowly poisoning them all:

  Status Effect [CONFUSION] nullified.

  Effect Locus: [Aura of Madness]

  “Kaedmon preserve us—”

  Another voice. Another soldier. Garviel didn’t even register which brother it was before he was forced to cut him down too, his blade shuddering as it split mail and bone.

  They were all turning.

  The [Confused] status wasn’t just muddling them—it was enslaving them. The twilight chains lashed around their limbs and minds alike, and in the storm-light of Ethan’s summoned night, Greycloaks hacked at Greycloaks. Red met black, steel shrieked against steel, and every blow sent Garviel deeper into despair.

  “Form up!” he roared, though his voice cracked under the weight of the gale. “Form ranks, damn you!”

  No one listened. One of his lieutenants shrieked like a beast and plunged his blade into another’s throat. Another dropped his weapon entirely and clawed at his own eyes as though trying to dig the shadows out of them. A third simply fell to his knees, weeping blood from his sockets before the storm swallowed him whole.

  Garviel’s teeth clenched so hard he felt them crack.

  This was worse than the Archons of legend. Worse than any nightmare whispered around the barracks fires. This was not war. This was a massacre.

  And above it all, the angel stood calm. Ethan’s wings spread wide, blades crossed like a judge’s scales, his violet gaze sweeping the chaos with something that chilled Garviel far more than hatred.

  Satisfaction.

  “REMIEL!” Garviel bellowed, eyes locking on the High Cardinal. “Do something!”

  But Remiel could do nothing. Half a man, carved open by Ethan’s first strike, he writhed on the floor, blood pulsing in sheets across the cracked marble. His mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, prayers spilling in broken syllables as the violet gale licked at his soul.

  The Archon was moving toward him. Slow. Measured. Like a predator savoring the kill.

  “No…” Garviel muttered. “No - not while I yet draw breath.”

  A bolt of violet lightning snapped across the chamber, striking two Greycloaks and reducing them to cinders before they could even scream. The flash burned the image of their deaths into Garviel’s eyes.

  Then came the fire.

  Molten beams of rock burst through the stone floor, vomiting flame across the hall. The chamber became an oven; sweat poured down Garviel’s scarred face inside his helm. One of his men stumbled straight into the surge, armor melting to slag before the poor fool even realized he was dead. His scream was short, merciful only in its brevity.

  Poison followed.

  A miasma of green vapor snaked through the black storm, hissing as it consumed lungs and rotted skin. Garviel heard more gurgling shrieks—men suffocating on their own bile. The stench was indescribable, rot and acid combined, cutting through even the smoke of fire and brimstone.

  And then came the sound that broke him.

  Tangeon screamed.

  The King of giants—whose roar had shattered mountains, who had once wrestled an Elder Wyrm into submission with his bare hands—screamed like a wounded animal. It was a shrill, broken bellow, high-pitched with panic, shaking the stones of the cathedral as if they shared his agony.

  Garviel’s knees almost buckled. If the King of Giants was afraid, if he could scream like that, then what hope did humanity have?

  “Steady, damn you!” Garviel howled to no one in particular, carving another shadow-slaved Greycloak from shoulder to hip. “Steady!”

  His words were drowned in thunder.

  The gale howled. Lightning split the chamber again. Ethan strode forward through the storm as if it were his birthright. His flaming blades cut lazy arcs, shadows bleeding from their edges and ensnaring anyone who dared to come close.

  Garviel swung at him. The Archon didn’t even look at him—merely turned one blade sideways, parrying with a flare of violet sparks. The impact numbed Garviel’s arm to the shoulder.

  “Why fight?” Ethan’s voice carried through the gale, calm, conversational, like he was addressing a frightened child. “You’ve already lost.”

  “I’ll cut you down!” Garviel snarled, spittle flying from his teeth. “For Kaedmon, I’ll—”

  A shadow tendril snapped from the gale and whipped his cheek. It wasn’t pain—it was worse. A hundred voices screamed in his skull, his fallen brothers calling out in agony as their spirits dissolved into the gale. Garviel reeled, clutching at his head, barely able to breathe.

  Another beam of lightning blasted the dais, splintering the great table where the Conclave had once sat. Marble dust choked the air. The stained-glass windows depicting Krea shattered, raining colored shards into the storm.

  Through the haze of ruin, two figures finally surged.

  Manus Raava—tattooed, skin painted in bestial runes—tore through the shadows with a roar. His body shifted as he ran, muscles warping, his arms twisting into feathered wings that flapped once, hurling him into the air above the maelstrom. His eyes glowed golden, wild, defiant. A great [Wing Buffet] from the shapeshifter then finally cleared what remained of the umbral cloud that had gathered over what was now an arena of battle.

  Beside him lumbered Tangeon, blood running in rivers down his stone-flesh, yet rage burning hotter than his wounds. His four eyes glared, and he ripped a broken pillar free from the ground, brandishing it like a club.

  “ARCHON!” the giant bellowed, even through his pain. “Face us!”

  Ethan didn’t move from Remiel’s side. His flaming blades rested against the dying Cardinal’s chest, violet fire hissing, ready to consume him whole.

  Garviel realized what was happening.

  The Archon wasn’t just killing Remiel. He was taking him.

  Possession. Corruption. That was the fate of every foe who fell into his shadow.

  And if he added Remiel’s hidden Skill to his arsenal…

  “No!” Garviel roared, forcing his battered legs forward. He had to stop it—had to—

  But Manus and Tangeon were already there, bursting through the haze of shadow and poison. One from above, one from below. A giant raven diving, a giant charging. Two titans rushing as one to stop the inevitable.

  And Ethan, still calm, still smiling, raised both blades to greet them.