"RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWWWRRRRR"

The roar rolled through the chamber like a collapsing cliff, a primal bellow that shook the air with bone-rattling force, sending stone dust raining from the ceiling in a cascade of gray ash.

The four corrupted angels stiffened, their grotesque forms—skeletal, crystalline, bronze-armored, and half-melted—jerking as one, their heads snapping toward the dark tunnel from which the sound erupted.

Their rot-shined confidence faltered, their glowing eyes—milky, fractured, molten, and tar-drenched—flickering with a rare uncertainty, as if the Abyss itself had betrayed them.

Nyxsha shifted her stance in front of Azareel, her form bristling, jagged black fur flickering with violet flames that cast eerie shadows, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes blazing, claws half-buried in the cracked floor.

Another tremor shook the chamber, rhythmic and heavy—footfalls, distant but closing fast, each step a drumbeat of dread that vibrated through the stone, stirring the ash-strewn air.

The four angels glanced at one another, their grotesque forms trembling, and then did something none expected—they moved together, not to flank but to fuse.

The skeletal one stepped into the crystalline one, plates sliding, glass swallowing bone with a sickening crunch of grinding sinew and shattering shards.

The bronze brute hunched and locked behind them, his cracked armor articulating like a jaw snapping shut, molten heat radiating from his breath.

The half-melted angel lifted her pristine wing and pressed it to the conglomerate's spine, her black tar bleeding into the whole, fusing with a wet, squelching pull.

Limbs nested into sockets, ribs braided, faces overlapped in a grotesque symphony of clicks and wet snaps, until a single, towering figure stood.

A cathedral of wrong angles and shuddering meat, one crystalline wing and one bone-sickle jutting like mismatched scythes, a tri-faced skull draped in a molten gold shroud, a hundred teeth chattering like insects in a frozen winter, its eyes a kaleidoscope of malice and despair.

"Stay behind us," Sylvara breathed, her voice steady but tight, her root-like toes digging into the soil-strewn floor, her crimson leaves trembling as her vines curled protectively around Azareel's ankles, anchoring him.

Azareel didn't argue, his silver eyes, steady but calm, watching the fused horror with a mix of sorrow and resolve, his torn white tunic fluttering faintly in the stale air, the faint glow of his sigils pulsing weakly, their light struggling against the void's hunger.

The tremors grew faster, closer, the chamber vibrating with a primal force that made the air feel alive, electric with dread.

From the tunnel at their right, it burst into view with a speed that defied its size—a twenty-four-feet colossus of lean, black-scaled muscle, ridge-spines flashing along a whip-long back like blades catching moonlight.

Its digitigrade legs pounded the stone with drum-loud force, each step cracking the floor, its long arms ending in three-hooked claws splayed wide, its tail a bladed scythe humming with momentum.

Its head—long, narrow, and predatory—opened to reveal needle teeth shining with threads of faintly smoking saliva, crimson eyes burning with a hunger older than the Abyss itself, a primal force that made the air quiver.

It didn't pause, hitting the fused angel like a spear of night, the impact throwing shockwaves through the floor, shattering stone into jagged fragments.

The grotesque crystalline wing tried to rise, glinting maliciously, but the beast's tail swept low, its bladed tip caving stone and chopping the wing at the joint with a sound like a bell struck under mud, a dull, wet thud that echoed through the chamber.

The creature lunged again, claws finding purchase in the amalgam's chest, hauling it down with a force that cracked the floor further, teeth sinking between bronze plates with a wet crunch, tearing through tar and bone.

The fused angel shrieked—metallic, human, and animal at once, a cacophony of despair—flailing a scythe arm, but the beast dipped under it with terrifying grace, its digitigrade legs exploding into a sprinting arc, looping and returning to hit the mass at the back.

Claws hooked, pulling a slab of bronze-and-flesh free, straight into its maw, where it chewed—slowly, with no mercy, no hesitation, the sound of tearing flesh and cracking bone filling the chamber like a grotesque symphony.

"I… don't know that one," Sylvara whispered, her amber eyes wide with awe and fear, her sap veins flaring along her arms, her crimson leaves trembling as if sensing the beast's primal hunger.

"It runs," Virelya said, her voice low, fascinated despite the danger, her golden eyes glinting behind her cracked porcelain mask, her coils tightening.

Nyxsha's tail thumped once on the stone, her golden eyes narrowing, claws flexing with predatory intent.

"I don't care, I will kill it if it looks this way," she growled, her violet flames flaring brighter, casting eerie shadows across the shattered floor.

The fused angel tried to escape, stilt-walking on its crystalline wing like a failing crutch, its tri-faced skull shuddering, the molten gold shroud peeling like cooled wax.

The beast met it again, arms lancing forward, three-hooked claws punching through melted tar and bone, yanking the skull sideways with a wet snap.

It bit the exposed joint where neck met shoulder and wrenched, tearing flesh with a sound like ripping fabric, the amalgam collapsing to one knee, vomiting black light that curdled on the floor, crawling toward Azareel's holy sigils but withering at their radiant edge.

Azareel's branch shifted in his hands, his silver eyes soft with sorrow but lit by resolve, watching without moving to help or stop, his torn tunic fluttering as the sigils pulsed faintly.

"Steady," he murmured, his voice barely audible, a quiet anchor in the chaos.

The beast didn't tire, running, striking, circling, doubling back, hitting from angles the eye couldn't track, its long head slamming, withdrawing, slamming again, hooks tearing, its bladed tail spiking up and down, snapping stone, shattering the crystalline wing into glimmering shards that rained like broken glass.

The fused angel's bone-sickle swung wild, desperate, but the beast stepped inside its arc, shoving chest to chest, its legs driving with relentless force.

The amalgam skidded backward with a scream of metal and bone, the chamber shaking, dust and ash swirling in the air.

"Azareel," Sylvara said, her amber eyes locked on the beast, her vines trembling with unease, "if it turns on us—"

"I know," he answered gently, his silver eyes steady, his voice calm despite the chaos, his hands tightening on the glowing branch.

The beast leapt, claws planting on the amalgam's sternum, teeth closing around the nest of faces, biting down and dragging backward, shaking like a giant predator with prey, flesh, crystal, bronze, and tar separating in thick, glistening strands.

It dropped the mass, pounced again, and fed—wet tearing, clicking enamel, the scrape of needles on plate filling the chamber, a sound that clawed at the soul.

The fused angel tried to rise one last time, a pathetic lift of its sickle, but the beast's tail took the joint, the scythe spinning away, smoking as it hit the ground.

Claws punched through what passed for a heart, the head diving for the gap, silencing the scream with a long, final exhale, the amalgam collapsing into a ruin of shattered flesh and bone.

Silence fell, heavy and suffocating, the beast standing over the gore, its chest heaving, threads of steam curling from its jaw.

It tilted its long skull, listening—not to them, but to the chamber, to the dark beyond, its crimson eyes gleaming with a lucid intensity.

"Is it… on our side?" Virelya asked, her voice thin with rare uncertainty, her coils tightening, her golden eyes narrowing behind her mask.

Nyxsha snorted, her golden eyes blazing, her claws flexing.

"Nothing down here is on our side," she growled, her violet flames flickering as she shifted her stance, ready to strike.

Azareel's eyes softened, his silver gaze fixed on the beast, his voice quiet but resonant.

"It's hungry," he said, his tone laced with empathy. "And tired."

The beast lowered its head to the gore, eating again—thorough, careful, cracking crystalline shards between needle teeth, prying bronze plates aside in a tidy pile, lapping and spitting tar as if judged unfit.

It worked down to bones, to stems of sinew, to the last useful pieces, almost reverent, the chamber filled with the wet, methodical sound of consumption.

Sylvara's petals fluttered, shaken, her amber eyes wide.

"Efficient," she whispered, her sap veins pulsing faintly.

"It knows how not to starve," Virelya murmured, her golden eyes glinting with a mix of awe and wariness.

When it finished, it swallowed hard, and a glow began—threads of light seeping under its black-scaled hide, racing along spine ridges, weaving through the bladed tail.

Its needle teeth gleamed brighter, its crimson eyes flaring, then steadying, its form standing taller, as if the meal had restored something deeper than muscle—a primal vitality that made the air hum.

"Back," Nyxsha said, sweeping one massive arm to shield Azareel without looking, her golden eyes locked on the beast, her claws flexing.

Virelya's coils raised, her mask tilting, ready to strike.

Sylvara's roots loosened in the stone, poised to spring or guard, her amber eyes narrowing.

The beast went very still, turning its long head, its crimson eyes—no longer dull with hunger, but lucid, piercing—finding them, holding their gaze.

The head tilted a few degrees, like a hawk recognizing motion, its tail lifting, blade angling, hooked hands flexing once, the air trembling with its presence.

Then—very slowly—it took one step toward the circle of Azareel's light, the run-tremor rolling out from the footfall, soft but sure, the stone cracking faintly beneath its weight.

It was looking at them now—only them, its crimson eyes burning with an intent that made the Abyss itself hold its breath, the chamber pulsing with the dread of what came next.