The boundless cosmos.
The endless star-sea.
After breaching the atmosphere and reaching low Earth orbit, Hawk arrowed toward Pluto.
At the same time—
The Black Phoenix Underworld Cloth unfurled like a phoenix of dark crystal fire, wings spread wide before sealing itself across Hawk's back.
Clack.
With the black faceplate snapping into place, Hawk's speed spiked again.
Mach 1,000!
Mach 5,000!
Mach 10,000!
Mach 100,000!
Mach 500,000!
…
Up to sub-light!
Boom!
Hawk's microcosmos roared. With a real, anchored Blood Dimension now woven into reality, he finally pushed his velocity through the sub-light barrier.
But the speed of light? That belongs to a Gold Saint alone.
And a Gold Saint? Only one who has awakened the Seventh Sense.
And the Seventh Sense? Only the Mind Stone's boundless psychic force can blast that gate open.
Gliding at sub-light toward Pluto, Hawk sank his mind to the far rim of his inner cosmos, staring at the impregnable door of the Seventh Sense—and thought of Stryker, who'd run off with his Mind Stone and was hiding who-knows-where.
He hadn't been in a rush.
He still wasn't.
Stryker was on Earth—how far could he go?
Still, the sooner he reclaimed the Stone, the better.
Plan set: after this Pluto run to tell Mephisto to move his hellhole, Hawk would use the summer break to flush Stryker out.
His internship was settled anyway.
Not at a law firm—at the DA's office.
That had always been the point of law school: if he hadn't died back then, he'd climb from the DA's office all the way to the Supreme Court.
A regular judge can't indict the Hulk, but a supreme justice can pass judgment.
So interning at the DA's office kept faith with his first intent.
Eight hours slipped by.
Pluto's average distance from Earth ran to about 5.917 billion kilometers—light itself needs five hours twenty-nine minutes to get here.
Whish.
Hawk slipped out of sub-light, standing in the void in full Black Phoenix mail, eyes down on the brown, nearly spherical dwarf planet.
He didn't linger, didn't tour Pluto.
He was here for Mephisto.
Mephisto had already refused him dimensional access through the time-space fissure.
Right after La Magra died.
Hawk had gone to hear Mephisto spin his excuses—Mephisto hadn't even shown his face.
No matter how he rapped on Hell's door through the rift, Mephisto wouldn't open up.
Like the devil was clearly at home, clearly heard the knock, and just… pretended not to.
Did Mephisto think playing dead could wave this off?
As if.
Hawk snorted inwardly. He vanished above Pluto; reappearing behind it, he let the microcosmos blaze and drove his right fist into the Hell-gate.
Not Phoenix Wing Rise.
But—
Phoenix Meteor Fist!!
Boom—boom—boom—crack—
Phantasmal phoenixes, near-tangible, swept their wings and hammered the Hell Dimension's threshold.
Pegasus Meteor Fist might be Peg's signature.
But a meteor fist? Not exclusive.
Space trembled.
Time shuddered.
Even Pluto's ancient ice mountains began to slump and shear beneath the shaking…
Hell's door, too.
KRAK.
With a cavernous report, a breach ripped open in the Hellway hidden behind Pluto.
Hawk didn't hesitate. He flashed through the gap and dropped into Hell.
And then—
"—hiss."
"WTF!"
He broke through and hung in Hell's sky—and the sight beneath made him suck air.
He even thought he'd hit the wrong address, so he turned around, stepped back out, checked the Hell breach again.
"No, this is it."
"But…"
Frowning, he slipped back in and took in the scene.
Great swaths of ground had collapsed, and Hell's waters—congealed despair and pain—poured through like a broken dam, drowning vast tracts.
Mephisto's once-imperious palace lay in ruins.
Twisted souls wailed soundlessly amid shattered walls.
The air was a stifling mix of endless brimstone and—
Blood.
"Kill! Protect the Lord!"
"Kill!"
"Filthy devils—face my Lord's judgment!"
BOOM!
Hawk loosed his Sixth Sense. The clash and war-cries burst from deep within Hell. One step—and he stood above a battlefield.
What he saw:
Demon corpses carpeted the ground in plain view.
Mephisto himself, true devil form bared, was a wreck.
One of his horns had been chopped clean off.
His demon mail hung in tatters. With a score of arch-devils shielding him, he looked ready to flee.
And who had done this?
Birdmen.
Literal birdmen.
A host of angelic warriors darkened the sky, blades slick with demon blood, hacking through roaring devils.
One stroke, one kill.
Mephisto's legions had no answer—angels carved them like melons.
The reason was simple.
A mountain-sized sword hung in the air.
That vast radiant blade poured out a holy pressure seemingly tailor-made to suppress Hell, crushing the devils' strength to near nothing.
On the sword stood a six-winged figure, wings slowly fanning—clad in holy light-armor, even his eyes shimmering pale gold.
At his flanks floated two more sword-bearing angels, standing guard.
Hawk glanced once at the six-wing, then down at the tattered Mephisto, and his expression turned… odd.
He remembered what La Magra had told him.
Heaven and Hell were family.
Yahweh and Mephisto were allies.
So…
What play was this?
Mephisto knew Hawk was coming to settle accounts, so he called Yahweh over to stage a pity act?
If so, Hawk had one thing to say:
Mephisto had gone way too far.
The first time Hawk came to Hell, why hadn't Mephisto struck even though he couldn't be killed?
Because Mephisto didn't want Hell wrecked.
And now?
Hell was wrecked.
The dead demons weren't faking.
Even that severed devil horn was legit.
Hawk remembered the tavern in Hell, Mephisto bragging how proud he was of those horns.
So—
"What is this circus?"
"Heh!"
"Devil—die!"
"…"
Hawk was still frowning, trying to make sense of it, when a patrolling four-wing angel finally noticed him standing blatantly at the edge of the fray. The angel barked, leveled his sword, and charged.
Hawk came back to himself, watched the four-winger, face alight with battle-lust, streak in—and casually threw a fist.
SPLAT.
The four-wing's body folded like a shrimp and shrieked away like a meteor, cratering into the field below.
A dozen unsuspecting two-wing angels were flattened under his impact.
Next beat—
"Heh!"
"Die!"
"In my Lord's name—face holy judgment!"
The crumpled four-wing ignored the blood at his lips, roared, beat his wings, and flashed up like a white lightning bolt, sword straight for Hawk again.
Hawk's eyes burned scarlet.
Whummm.
A Phoenix Ray lanced out, slamming into the four-wing's blade with a thundercrack.
Szzzz.
The fanatic's wings beat harder—but as his sword began to melt inch by inch, zealot's rapture twisted to stark horror.
When the blade was gone, Phoenix fire punched his chest.
Next instant—
Pop.
The four-wing detonated midair; angel blood burst into red rain.
"Who goes there!"
"Who!"
The moment the four-wing fell, the six-wing on the giant sword—and the other two four-wings—swung their gazes over.
The two escorts flashed to Hawk's flanks. Without waiting for an answer, they lunged to cut him down.
Hawk arched a brow, slid back ten meters, and drove a straight right.
A heavy fist with no edge; great craft that looks artless.
"Supersonic Straight!"
Thud!
Thud!
Both four-wings burst under the punch, scarlet misting the air.
From that first exchange, Hawk had taken their measure.
Four-wings sat around a Bronze Saint who "almost equals Silver"—but at the end of the day, still Bronze.
He'd probed with the first one—that was mercy.
These two weren't so lucky.
They died on the spot.
So—
What about the six-wing?
(End of Chapter)
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