The battlefield didn't just roar; it screamed. It was a living, breathing storm of chaos.
High above, angels were streaks of blinding white light, cutting through the sky like falling stars, only to collide with black dragons. Those dragons' wings looked like shadows torn straight from a nightmare, flesh and fury thrashing against the heavens. Below them, the world was vibrating. Every inch of soil seemed to tremble under the crushing weight of magic and the rhythmic clang of steel.
Prinston was a golden blur in the center of the mess. His aura didn't just glow; it flickered and snapped around him like a controlled wildfire. Every time he swung his sword, he carved radiant, burning arcs through the air. Each strike sent angels scattering into bursts of harmless, shimmering light, like glass shattering in the sun. He was moving with a singular, driving purpose, eyes darting through the smoke and dust—
Until he slammed into someone hard enough to rattle his teeth.
Eiden.
"Oh," Prinston said, blinking as he regained his footing. "Well, looks like we found each other after all."
Eiden started to answer, his mouth already forming a word—
But a flash of white and gold exploded behind Prinston.
A hand, cold and iron-strong, clamped around Prinston's throat.
Before he could even gasp, he was jerked off his feet and slammed into the dirt. The impact was secondary to the sensation of being dragged, a human plow carving a shallow trench through the earth. His boots scraped helplessly against the soil, kicking up a rooster-tail of dust until the grip finally vanished.
Prinston rolled onto his back, coughing the grit out of his lungs. He slammed his blade into the ground, using it as an anchor to stop his slide.
He looked up, and his blood went cold.
Standing there was an angel that made the others look like dim candles. His armor was a masterpiece of white and gold, every plate etched with divine symbols that seemed to pulse with their own heartbeat. Two long, elegant blades hung at his sides, humming with a celestial power that made the air taste like ozone. His eyes were the worst part—pure, hollow white. Cold. Merciless.
"My name is Niptu," he said. His voice wasn't a shout; it was a resonance that felt like it was coming from inside Prinston's own head. "I am the Angel King's strongest general. I've come to end your life, human."
Prinston pushed himself up, his golden aura flaring into a brilliant, defiant crown of light.
"Well," he muttered, "that's a bit rude, don't you think?"
Niptu didn't offer a smile.
He simply vanished.
Prinston moved on instinct, his sword snapping up just as Niptu's twin blades struck from opposite angles. The collision was a supernova of white light. Prinston blocked one, twisted his hips, and parried the other, sending sparks of gold and white scattering across the dirt like dying stars.
Niptu was a blur, his movements impossibly fluid and lightning-fast. Prinston countered every lunge, his golden arcs slicing through the air in a desperate rhythm. Their swords met again and again, each impact sending shockwaves through the ground that made the nearby debris dance.
Prinston threw everything into a wide, golden slash. Niptu didn't even look worried; he just stepped aside, the blade missing his throat by a fraction of an inch.
Niptu fired back with a flurry of white strikes so fast they looked like a solid wall of light. Prinston parried them all, but the sheer momentum forced him backward, his boots carving deep, jagged trenches into the dirt.
"You're strong," Prinston grunted, his teeth bared in a strained grin.
"I am perfection," Niptu replied.
Then he lunged.
Prinston threw his hand out—a raw burst of golden light erupted from his palm, forcing Niptu to leap back. The ground where the angel had been standing a second ago instantly turned to molten heat, bubbling and hissing.
Prinston didn't wait. He charged, his aura blazing like a sun. Niptu met him head-on, their blades crossing in a flash so bright it momentarily blinded the nearby combatants.
They became a whirlwind, trading blows at a speed the eye couldn't follow.
Golden sparks.
White streaks.
The thunderous rhythm of steel on steel.
Prinston dipped low, ducking a horizontal slash that would have taken his head off, and drove his knee into Niptu's chest. The general skidded back, his massive wings flaring wide to catch the air and stabilize his retreat.
Niptu's face remained a mask of stone.
"You fight well," he conceded. "For a mortal."
Prinston smirked, though he was shaking. "You talk too much."
He thrust his palm forward again, and a concentrated beam of golden light lanced out. Niptu crossed his blades, weaving a white barrier out of thin air. The beam slammed into it, pushing him back, but he held.
Prinston poured every ounce of his will into the attack, pushing harder.
Niptu's wings gave a violent snap. He burst through the beam of light, his blades raised for a downward execution. Prinston blocked—barely—, but the force was like a falling mountain. He went skidding across the battlefield, his armor groaning.
He caught himself, chest heaving, sweat stinging his eyes.
Niptu appeared in front of him in the space of a heartbeat.
Prinston swung—Niptu dodged.
Niptu slashed—Prinston parried.
They clashed once more, their auras spiraling around them in a violent, beautiful vortex of gold and white.
Prinston's aura began to pulse with a jagged, violent energy.
Niptu's blades began to hum a higher, deadlier note.
They charged.
Niptu was the first to strike—a heavy, downward slash of pure white light.
Prinston caught the blow on his edge, his golden aura flaring with such intensity that the ground beneath them finally gave way, spider-webbing into a massive crater.
Niptu twisted mid-strike, bringing his second blade around in a lethal arc.
Prinston ducked, golden energy exploding from the soles of his feet as he launched himself into the air. He spun, gravity and magic working together, and brought his sword down in a blazing, heavy arc.
Niptu moved to block, but the force was too much. He was driven straight into the ground, a massive plume of dust and debris erupting around him.
Prinston landed, his lungs burning.
Niptu rose from the crater slowly. His armor was cracked, and the brilliant glow of his wings had begun to dim.
"You… are persistent," Niptu said, his voice finally losing its calm resonance.
"Yeah," Prinston panted. "I get that a lot."
Niptu lunged one last time, but the grace was gone—replaced by desperation. Prinston was ready.
He stepped to the side, golden aura swirling around his arm like a serpent. He thrust his palm forward.
A solid, concentrated bolt of golden light shot out, hitting Niptu square in the chest.
The angel staggered.
Prinston didn't give him a second to breathe.
He swung his sword, golden energy spiraling around the steel until the blade looked twice its size. The strike connected with an explosive roar, sending Niptu flying backward through the air.
Niptu hit the ground hard, skidding through the dirt like a broken toy.
He tried to rise, his hands trembling as he reached for his fallen blades.
Prinston was there in a flash of gold.
Niptu's white eyes widened, reflecting the divine light.
Prinston drove his fist—glowing with a blinding, righteous radiance—straight into Niptu's chest.
A massive burst of golden light erupted outward, washing over the battlefield.
Niptu's form didn't just fall; it dissolved. He turned into a cloud of fading white particles, drifting upward and vanishing into the smoke like scattered feathers caught in a draft.
Prinston exhaled, the sound a ragged ghost of a breath. He was done.
He dropped to one knee, his hand pressing against a jagged gash across his chest where his armor had finally failed. Golden light flickered weakly between his fingers as he tried to keep his vision from swimming.
The battlefield continued to roar around him, but the sound was fading, turning into a dull hum.
Then—
A shadow stretched over him.
A black dragon dropped from the sky, its wings beating a heavy, rhythmic pulse. It shifted mid-landing, scales turning to skin as it took humanoid form. It reached down, grabbed Prinston around the waist, and lifted him as if he were made of air.
Prinston let his head fall back, his eyes half-closed.
"Thanks," he whispered.
The dragon carried him up and away from the blood and the dust, the golden light around him flickering like a dying ember.
Below them, the war continued its hungry roar.
Above them, the sky remained a burning canvas, painted in the clash of angels and dragons.