On the ground—
Legions of demons clawed out from faulted earth, howling as they hurled themselves, fearless, into the onrushing tidal wave of angels.
And the angels—like precision-built killing machines—showed no change of face even as their bodies were pierced. Their swords rose and fell; demon heads tumbled.
Angel and demon hacked without end.
If not for the obvious wings, it would've been hard to tell at a glance who were the angels and who the devils.
In the sky—
Hawk, armored in the Black Phoenix Underworld Cloth, black phoenix fire rippling off his frame, stared calmly at the six-winged figure before him.
The six-winged "birdman" wore holy light-plate; three pairs of wings shed radiance bright enough to sear the eyes with each beat; in his hands—an all-gold sword of light.
Perfect features; the sword leveled at Hawk. His voice rolled out like a chorus of millions—solemn, august—and cold enough to freeze Hell's own magma.
"My name is Michael."
"…?"
Hawk arched a brow.
Who? Michael? The archangel of legend?
As the thought flickered, the six-winged one—no, Michael—spoke again; a blend of wailing souls and sacred hymn that made space itself hum.
"Heretic consorting with devils—only purification can wash your sins."
"You and what army?"
Hawk's eyes burned black behind the mask. "Did I mention I cut down your master on my way here?"
Michael's golden pupils narrowed.
"Judgment!"
His blade swung—not a physical cut, but a flood of purest energy, the will of holy judgment riding the torrent. Space keened as it tore!
Hawk's right fist snapped out.
"Supersonic—Straight!"
BOOOOM—
Black phoenixes screamed from his knuckles, colliding with Michael's rolling deluge. The clash thundered hard enough to make the Hell Dimension itself shiver.
Next instant—
A catastrophic bloom. Shockwaves ringed outward, then hammered down.
KRAK.
On the ground below, the angels and demons directly under the duel were shredded alike into red mist; even the land sank as if pressed by invisible palms three meters deep.
Hawk and Michael were both blown back.
Then—snap!
Michael's six wings flared to full span. With a single quake of feathers, a storm of blazing white pinions ripped toward Hawk like a squall of spears.
"Receive holy sentence!"
"Receive your mother!"
Simple smack talk. Maximum enjoyment.
Hawk checked his drift, arms crossing his chest; his microcosmos roared, a black phoenix burst from his fists and rose beating its wings.
"Phoenix Wing Rise!"
WHOOOOM—
Dark-red torrents met Michael's white surge midair, detonations chaining outward, ring after ring. The whole of Hell shuddered.
Below, Mephisto—clutching a bleeding gouge, one horn already severed—winced and grinned up at the duel.
Agony because this was his realm.
Joy because Hawk really kept his word—crossed the void to pull an ally out of the fire.
Net result?
Mephisto bellowed, thrilled: "Hawk! Go on—kill that birdman!"
"Shut up!"
The shout from above snapped through Hawk's focus just enough—as he recalled La Magra's warning—to open a gap.
SPLASH.
The sword of a billion fused souls glanced Hawk's right arm—puncturing the armor. Gold-tinged blood flared from the wound.
Hawk slid back hard, then glared down and snapped at Mephisto.
The one-horned devil snapped his mouth shut.
Hawk turned his gaze on Michael, sword lowered, six wings fanning.
If the three four-wing angels he'd just pulped stood around "Bronze Saint infinitely close to Silver," then this six-winged Michael was "infinitely close to Gold."
Level with Hawk—so long as Hawk didn't fully combust his cosmos.
But—
"Infinite" still has margins.
If Hawk, on ignition, could push to ninety-nine point nine percent of a Gold Saint—just one door shy of the Seventh Sense—then Michael sat closer to ninety percent.
Meaning—
Yes. Hawk had been burning hot—but not all-out.
He still half-suspected Hell's theater was a two-man act by Mephisto and Yahweh.
Just as La Magra warned—he'd once believed Mephisto's story and got carved up by Heaven and Hell together.
So while he traded blows, Hawk bled Sixth Sense through the giant sword at Michael's back—and, right as Mephisto shouted, he caught in the angel's soul a scent he knew all too well from days ago.
It jarred him.
That heartbeat of daze was how Michael's edge found flesh.
But now?
Hawk met Michael's eyes; a curl of mockery lit the only part of his face the mask left bare.
"Should I call you Michael…"
"Or—Madora?"
The golden eyes dipped, studying the smear of Hawk's blood along the sword. A similar sneer touched the perfect face. Wings tucked, Michael fell like a meteor.
"Heretic, receive holy judgment!"
"Holy Sword!"
Sword-first, speed fused to steel, he drove straight for Hawk's heart.
Hawk didn't dodge.
At the instant the point was to touch him, black fire erupted, his microcosmos rippling oddly. His right hand pierced "through" space; a fingertip landed between Michael's brows.
"Know fear."
"Phoenix Illusion Fist!"
DUANG!
A formless, massless shock—forged of a detonating cosmos and the Phoenix's core—howled from Hawk's finger and blew through Michael's mental bastion, bursting inside his soul.
In those gold-tinged eyes, Michael saw Heaven fall, holy light gutter, angels plummet—the private nightmare at his own soul's bedrock.
Terror, magnified without limit, staggered him for a fatal instant—just as Mephisto's shout had staggered Hawk.
Hawk took it.
His pointing hand clenched; a black phoenix flashed and folded into him—what followed looked like an ordinary punch.
"Phoenix Wing Rise!"
His fist smashed Michael's blade—shattering it—then kept driving, straight through the angel's light-plate.
CRACK—
The sound of holy mail giving way could break a heart.
But the fist didn't stop. It punched through armor—then snapped Michael's mind awake.
He stared down, pupils tightening fast, at the gold-blooded heart hammering in Hawk's fist inside his chest.
"This is…"
"My heart."
His whisper fell. Behind him, six pristine wings withered, feather by feather. His body turned translucent.
A heartbeat later, the flesh was gone. The saintly soul erupted free, shot skyward—fleeing Hell.
An angel's spirit left too long in Hell would be stained—fall.
But as it neared the dimensional brink—
BOOM.
The Underworld's projection unfurled; a dark phoenix opened its eyes—and, to Michael's thin scream, swallowed him into the Infernal Prison.
Meanwhile—
CRACK.
Hawk turned. The giant sword hanging over Hell split down the middle; fissures spidered in every direction.
SHATTER.
The blade blew apart. With it, that holy pressure designed to smother Hell evaporated.
"ROAR!"
"Kill them!"
"Kekekeke!"
With Hell's power unleashed, the battle flipped in an instant.
Now the angels ran.
But they didn't.
They kept cutting, cold as machines.
They sang their hymns—
—and were drowned by the demon tide.
(End of Chapter)
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