CHAPTER 27: FROM DEATH ROSE SARHAEL, THE ANGEL OF MOURNING

The giant’s carcass still smoked, its black blood spreading in thick rivers around its severed head. The air smelled of burning iron, charred flesh and hot dust. The screams had faded, nearly no demons left, only isolated groans in the distance. My throat was dry, my legs still trembling, but I held Aurelia as if my spear were the only thing tying me to this world.

And he... was there.

The abomination.

He knelt beside the dead colossus, his fingers brushing the charred skin, and his black tears flowed without end, tracing burned grooves down his grey cheek. Each drop smoked when it hit the ground. His voice fell, broken, ringing like a death bell above the corpses:

— "This can’t be... tell me you’re not dead..."

His tone chilled me. It wasn’t a battle cry, not a threat. It was a plea. Like a man on the brink of collapse.

Elyra didn’t wait.

A roar burst from her throat, her scarlet spear ignited, and she charged like a red comet.

Albrecht screamed in turn, his runic sword striking the ground before rising in a shockwave that made my ribs vibrate. Thorn exploded in a berserker bellow, his blade piercing the monster’s flesh in obscene sprays. Ilyas unleashed a rain of runic arrows that whistled like meteors, each leaving a luminous trail in the night. And Maeron, the old madman, belched an forbidden incantation; a sphere of black flame leapt from his staff, detonating on the angel like a living bomb.

The impacts shook the battlefield. BOOM. BOOM. Bits of flesh burst into the air, shredded feathers fell like blades, his wings were pierced, his skin erupted in plates. It was as if they were tearing the world itself.

And yet... he didn’t move.

Not a gesture to defend himself. Not an evasion. He let everything pass, and his lips still trembled:

— "Why... why attack me?"

His torso split under Elyra’s blow, his blackened entrails spouted, but he still wept.

— "Why want to slaughter my poor children... my descendants...?"

Fuck. His words gutted me almost more than the blows. He bled, but his body closed up immediately, regenerating slowly and painfully, as if refusing to die. And his black tears flowed, indifferent to the carnage.

— "Come."

Ayame’s voice snapped beside me. Her damp fingers, soaked with blood, gripped my hand and pulled me out of my stupor. I smelled her sweat and jasmine mingled with dried blood. Her heaving chest pressed against my arm for a heartbeat before she dragged me, her brown eyes burning with icy urgency.

The Chien Noir unit escorted us, wailing silhouettes covered in wounds, their armors stained with entrails. They held us tight, a tight formation, carving a path through the mud and corpses. I could only see Reina, Hikari and Miyu further ahead, figures vibrating with magic and flame, still standing on the rampart of bodies.

Then a female voice rose, clear despite the roar. A girl of the Chien Noir, Ilyas’s daughter, helmet split, blood on her cheek, but her cold eyes locked onto the angel.

— "I finally understand..." She spat a ribbon of red. "He’s not an angel."

I turned toward her, my heart pounding.

— "He is one of the Seven Primeval Demons."

The word cracked like a whip. Even my guts froze.

— "His name rings in our old legends... Sarhael. The Angel of Mourning."

My stomach flipped. His black tears... his supplications... yes, it fit. Fuck, it fit.

The soldier continued, breathless, eyes wild with terror:

— "They say he wiped out the Elven Kingdom by himself. That he drove them to extinction, or near it."

An arrow from Elias snapped, exploding on the creature’s chest. Azazel staggered barely, his dead eyes still turned toward the giant’s head.

— "His power... is mourning. Each phase he passes through... feeds his strength."

Her voice broke. She swallowed, lips trembling.

— "And if he ever reaches the fifth stage..."

I gripped Aurelia with all my strength.

— "... then we will all die. Not just us here. But everyone who matters to us."

Silence tore at me. My breath choked. Everyone... Hikari, Reina, Miyu... Ayame... Fuck, no.

And he, the abomination, slowly raised his face. His cheeks were bathed in mingled tears and blood. His lips stretched into a split smile, teetering between prayer and madness.

His voice fell, low, trembling:

— "So... you want to take my loved ones from me... like they took them from me..."

The ground split beneath his knees. A black wave shot out, lifting my chest. My throat screamed soundlessly. BOOM. Stones shattered, the air vibrated, and his aura unleashed like a storm of shadow and light.

It was the end of phase one, denial.

Phase two of Mourning began: anger.

The ground still trembled from his aura, cracked and furrowed like a gaping wound. The air had that metallic taste that sticks to the tongue after explosions; the giant’s carcass smoked over there, its black blood flowing in shining rivulets. Azazel, the "angel," was no longer the pleading being I had glimpsed near the brute’s head. He rose, hunched and vast, his blackened wings snapping in a single sharp movement: dust rose in waves, embers whirled, and his white, hollow eyes looked at me. Fuck... he could see us. Me.

Elyra screamed and shot forward like an arrow. Her scarlet spear sliced the air, tracing an arc that whistled into my eardrums. This time, Azazel moved—not to parry, as before, but to demand that reality itself protect him: his hand rose, slow, as if space obeyed. The spear’s tip stopped a breath from his throat, as if something invisible refused contact. A chill ran up my skull.

Albrecht charged then, his runic blade blazing, striking waves that bent the ground. Thorn followed, but not like a dung beetle wielding a maul—his enormous sword, as wide as a door, fell in arcs so heavy you’d have thought he was cutting the earth itself. Each stroke sent sprays of air, each blade carved the monstrous flesh into long ribbons that spurted like poisoned draperies. Elias, relentless, flooded the scene with a volley of runic arrows; Maeron, the old man, spat forbidden words and made a ring of dark flames erupt that bit the air and made Azazel’s blackened feathers smoke.

They gave everything. Five of the Seven howled, struck, tore at a figure that wept. The impacts ripped the sky, geysers of dust and flesh launched bodies aloft, feathers fell—not feathers, but shards that set skin aflame. The rampart shook to Duskfall’s foundations. I held Aurelia as if it were the only thing between me and the void: my hand slick, the shaft slippery, the metallic taste in my mouth. I wanted to scream, run, drive my spear. But Ayame squeezed my hand so hard her nails bit into my palm.

— "Don’t move, Kaito." Her voice was cold like a war order. Her kimono plastered with blood and sweat emphasized her hips as she pulled me back; her breasts rose with every breath, heavy, like two cannonballs swinging her from side to side. She didn’t look weak. She looked like a fucking rock.

And the hell bleeding before us... fuck. Every tear Azazel shed that struck the earth exploded like mines. BOOM. A rain of stones, debris, human and demonic flesh rose in jets. Two Black Dog soldiers were pulverized, their armors blown to a thousand pieces; warm blood fell in a thin rain on my cheek, on my lips. I tasted iron, and I nearly vomited.

Elyra fell heavily, panting, her thighs stained black and red, her chest swollen under the torn corset. Albrecht staggered, but kept delivering arcs of blade. Thorn roared, his sword in constant motion—and each blow ripped, tearing chunks of flesh, opening entrails that spouted in dark geysers. It wasn’t clean; it was visceral, raw, methodical butchery. Azazel whimpered between each strike:

— "This can’t be... why do you want to tear my children from me?"

His voice choked me. We riddled him with blows, we made him a sieve of wounds, and he... he cried. His black tears streamed in smoking trails, as if each drop consumed the earth where it fell.

Then everything stopped for a moment. He turned his head, slowly, and his dead eyes met mine. A second. Just one. I felt time tear; my heart felt like an anvil. His black tears glinted, his lips twisted into a half-mad smile—and he vanished, as if swallowed by the air.

— "Kaito!!" Ayame screamed, yanking me.

I lurched, but he was already before us. A beat of wings, a breath both hot and cold, and Azazel landed a few paces away, enormous, beautiful and monstrous to the point of nausea. His voice cracked, like a bell shattering:

— "ALL THIS... IS YOUR FAULT, CURSED SUMMONED ONES!!!"

— "NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF YOU HADN’T BEEN HERE!!!"

The scream blew out my eardrums. My legs buckled. Behind me, Hikari whimpered, clutching her scepter as if her life depended on it; her breasts trembled, damp and heavy in her torn kimono. Reina raised her ice staff with trembling hands, pale fingers, and Miyu stepped back, flames licking her bare thighs like an anger ready to erupt.

No choice left, I was going to use Oblivion.

But they came—not just our unit: everyone. Human silhouettes leapt from the chaos, wounded, bloodied, but standing. They screamed and surged, brandishing spears and swords, throwing their last strength into a human torrent that smashed into Azazel’s aura. They knew. Something in their eyes said they understood this could not be treated as an ordinary enemy. They weren’t trying to survive; they were trying to buy a second to flee us.

— "RUN!!!" Ayame screamed, frantic. "FLEE, OR THEIR SACRIFICES WILL BE IN VAIN!!!"

My legs obeyed before my head. We ran, the girls pressed to me: Hikari cast blessings from afar, hands trembling, light projectiles bursting against the darkness; Reina hurled lances of ice that shattered against the enemy aura; Miyu tried to surge forward, her flames flaring, but Ayame shoved her back with a piercing cry.

— "NO! YOU’LL JUST DIE LIKE THEM!"

Miyu trembled, anger and fear in her eyes, then she turned away reluctantly and ran. Her kimono fluttered, her bare thighs stretched with sweat and dust, and her rage turned to tears. Behind us, Azazel beat his wings. Twenty men exploded like rag dolls; their bodies vanished in a flash, their screams stifled before they reached our ears. Blood fell in a burning rain on our necks.

And yet they kept coming. Black Dog unit, archers, foot soldiers, wounded crawling—everyone threw themselves at him. They screamed, cried, struck without calculation: not to win, but so that we could flee. So that their deaths would mean something.

My breath broke. My gut screamed. I wanted to stop, turn, throw myself into the mêlée and die with them, but Ayame forced me forward with a look that allowed no hesitation.

— "Move." she said, simple. No heroic call, no grandeur—an order. And I went.

Behind us, humanity sacrificed itself, and the world burned.