The infernal arena, already scarred by the nine circles of the tournament, had become a theater of absolute chaos. The white portal hovering above the stands poured forth an unrelenting stream of angels, their golden wings flashing like lightning in a stormy sky, their gilded spears unleashing beams of pure light that sliced through the hellish darkness. The stands crumbled under the impacts, chunks of obsidian crashing into the arena with dull roars, while eternal flames flickered out beneath a rain of light—golden droplets that seared demonic flesh like acid, a driving rain that seemed to herald the end of the hells.
The 10 survivors, drained from the trial of Egoism, fought for their lives, their bodies pushed to the brink by the angelic onslaught. Gills, his black hair soaked by the rain of light, gritted his teeth, his red flames faltering under the angels' oppressive aura. He turned to Orak, struggling to stand, his half-shattered ice lance in hand. "We've got to find a way to push them back!" Gills shouted, hurling a wave of flames at an angel diving toward them. The angel dodged, but Orak seized the opening, summoning a frozen tempest that sent ice shards piercing through its wings, crashing it to the ground. "We won't last long like this!" Orak growled, frozen blood seeping from his wounds.
Soehpt, in his hybrid Soehpt/Volgurax form, battled alongside Kira, their combined flames forming a bulwark against the angels. Soehpt, his blue-and-black flames roaring, cleaved an angel in two with his spectral claws, but a beam of light struck his shoulder, wrenching a roar of pain from him. Kira, her Cestus of Astrugg ablaze, lunged at the culprit, smashing it against a rock, but another beam hit her leg, dropping her to her knees. "We need to fall back!" she cried, her voice hoarse. Soehpt, eyes blazing with demonic rage, shook his head. "Not yet!" he roared, unleashing a flame wave that incinerated a cluster of angels, buying them a fleeting respite.
Bhaadon and Solom of the Nephalems fought side by side, their strength waning. Bhaadon, levitating with telekinesis, hurled rocks at the angels, but a beam of light pierced his mental shield, striking his chest. He collapsed, blood spilling from his mouth, but Solom dove to protect him, his lightning blasting an approaching angel. "We can't let them win!" Solom shouted, his bolts crackling weakly. Bhaadon, gasping, staggered to his feet. "For Iff… we keep going…" he murmured, his voice quaking with rage.
The Styx Reapers, despite their internal fractures, tried to coordinate their assault. Tyrnat summoned a horde of clawed specters that lunged at an angel squadron, but celestial light dissolved them instantly. Yulius, his sword Massacre dripping blood, bisected an angel, but a beam struck his side, dropping him to his knees. Nera, her shadow threads trembling, attempted to ensnare another, but a beam pierced her shoulder, throwing her back. "We're too exposed!" she cried, frustration lacing her voice. Tyrnat, enraged, conjured a shadow barrier to shield them, though it wavered under the angelic barrage.
The masked warrior, champion of Morningstar's faction, fought alone, his severed arm a crippling handicap. His black blade flashed, slicing an angel's wing and sending it crashing down, but another struck his leg with a light beam, forcing him to collapse. "I won't fall…" he murmured, voice ragged, but an angel dove at him, its spear aimed at his throat. He rolled aside, narrowly evading, only for a second beam to hit his chest, hurling him against a rock, black blood streaming from his wounds.
At the arena's heart, the clash between Morningstar and Mikaël, the Seraph of Justice, reached a fever pitch. The two former brothers-in-arms, once united in the heavens, collided with a fury that seemed to shake the dimension's foundations. Mikaël, his six wings of pure light unfurled, wielded his massive golden lance, summoning beams that streaked across the arena like lightning. "Lumen Divinitas!" he cried, and a blinding wave of light erupted from his lance, consuming everything in its path—hellfire, debris—in a burst of pure radiance. Morningstar, agile, dodged, his tenebrous wings propelling him skyward, and countered with a devastating strike. "Umbra Vorax!" he roared, his shadow blade unleashing a swirling tempest of darkness streaked with scarlet runes, swallowing Mikaël's light in a vortex of shadow.
The two Seraphs ascended, their wings beating with a fury that rattled the arena. Mikaël summoned a storm of light. "Caelestis Tempestas!" he bellowed, and golden bolts rained from the sky, striking with lethal precision. The lightning incinerated demons, forcing the survivors to take cover. A bolt grazed Soehpt, who dove to shield Kira, while another exploded near Bhaadon, the blast throwing him back. Morningstar, unflinching, raised his shadow blade, conjuring a dark barrier. "Tenebris Aegis!" he roared, a sphere of shadows absorbing the bolts, dissipating them in a low rumble.
But Mikaël pressed on. Channeling his full might into a final assault, his wings blazed like a sun. "Judicium Divinum!" he shouted, and a colossal pillar of pure light, wide as an obelisk, plunged from the sky, targeting Morningstar with mountain-shattering force. The arena quaked, the ground splitting, and a shockwave flung the combatants back. Morningstar, eyes glinting with icy resolve, crossed his blade before him, summoning all his energy. "Noctis Apocalypsis!" he roared, and a pure darkness exploded from his weapon, forming a dome that rose to meet the light pillar. The forces collided in a cataclysmic blast, light and shadow merging in a swirling maelstrom that bathed the arena in an unearthly glow.
The shockwave hurled the survivors backward—Gills and Orak crashed against a rock, Soehpt and Kira tumbled across the ground, Bhaadon and Solom dropped to their knees, and the Styx Reapers huddled behind a faltering shadow barrier. The masked warrior, already weakened, slammed into a wall, his armor cracked, black blood spilling from his mouth. Morningstar, at the blast's epicenter, held firm for a moment, but Mikaël's light pierced his shadow dome, striking his shoulder with devastating force. He crashed to the ground, a roar of pain escaping his lips, black blood pooling from the wound. Mikaël, panting, loomed over him, his lance glowing brighter still. "It's over, Lucifer…" he murmured, voice trembling with anger and sorrow, poised to deliver the killing blow.
But before he could strike, two infernal portals tore open on either side of the arena, unleashing demonic legions in reinforcement. The first, Belzebub's legion, was led by the Voracides—massive insectoid creatures with gleaming black carapaces covered in oozing pustules, their mandibles dripping acidic venom. These monstrosities, reflecting Belzebub's corruptive nature as the Lord of Flies, swarmed the angels, their claws rending golden wings, their venom melting celestial armor. The second, Abaddon's legion, comprised the Pit Gravediggers—skeletal specters wrapped in rusted chains, their eyes glowing with an sickly green light. Bound to Abaddon's destructive essence as the Lord of the Abyss, they summoned necrotic chasms, dragging angels into despairing vortexes, their chains coiling around wings to shatter them.
Though distinct, the Voracides and Pit Gravediggers fought with terrifying synergy, their onslaught granting the survivors a crucial reprieve. Yet the angels, led by a furious Mikaël, retaliated with renewed wrath. Mikaël unleashed a light wave that repelled the Voracides, their carapaces smoking under the celestial glare, while an angel squadron dove at the Gravediggers, their spears piercing the specters, dispersing them in ethereal shrieks. The survivors, seizing the distraction, tried to regroup, but a fresh angelic assault scattered them once more.
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As the situation grew dire, infernal portals opened beneath the 10 survivors' feet, yanking them from the arena in the nick of time. Gills, Soehpt, Kira, Bhaadon, Solom, Tyrnat, Yulius, Nera, Orak, and the masked warrior landed in a dark cavern lit by luminescent crystals—the same refuge where Natass had fled. Before them stood Natass Magna XIII, his onyx horns glinting in the crystal light, his monocle dangling from its chain. But he wasn't alone. Beside him was an angelic figure—a woman with white wings flecked with ash, her familiar face making Bhaadon and Solom's eyes widen. "Gota?!" they exclaimed in unison, their voices quaking with shock. Gota, their Nephalems teammate presumed dead in Hysteria, stood alive, her eyes glowing with an eerie light.
Natass, ignoring their reaction, slammed his cane against the ground, his expression a mix of panic and fury. "Listen up, you pack of Grand Tyrans!" he screeched, his voice shrill. "The Black Flames Crown has been stolen from me! My brother, Fregass—that filthy lapdog of Satan—ripped it from my hands!" He jabbed an accusing finger at the survivors, his eyes glinting with malice. "I need you to get it back before it's too late. If the Crown falls into the wrong hands—or worse, if the angels destroy it—the hells are done for, and you along with them!"
The survivors, still reeling from their escape and Gota's reappearance, exchanged uncertain glances. The rain of light continued to fall in the distance, and the echoes of battle reverberated across dimensions. Their fight for the Crown—and their survival—had just taken an even more desperate turn.