The battlefield did not shake.
It ended.
When the Four Archangels moved, the world forgot how to resist.
Lux Invicta fell first, Michael's blade cutting downward not upon flesh, but upon existence itself. The strike was silent, yet everything screamed. The abyss split like paper, and the rivers of fire hissed into steam as the sword of the First Dawn descended.
Ignis Sapientiae followed, Uriel's flame searing thought and essence alike. The fire bypassed skin, bypassed shadow, bypassed chains, it struck the idea of the Paradox, an inferno aimed not at his body, but at the very concept of what he was.
Aequitatsi fell next, Raguel's Balance, impossibly heavy, impossibly just.
Reality itself leaned into his swing, as though all creation had decided: This thing must fall. His strike did not kill. It corrected. Every contradiction screamed as it was pressed down beneath the weight of order.
Then, Sariel's arrow landed.
It did not pierce. It did not wound. It erased.
