Chaos ruled the battlefield.
Feathers of ash rained from the sky as the Hollow Gabriel and Medussa's fallen army surged forward. Gabriel clashed with his twisted double, every blow echoing with angelic fury and inner torment. Aziel was wounded, Nyra trapped in a cyclone of dark spears, and Merlin's magic strained to hold a crumbling barrier.
The Forgotten Lands were becoming a graveyard.
Then—
The tatum in Gabriel's hand pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Then it sang.
A sharp note, pure and bright, cut through the ruin like dawn piercing midnight. The sound bent the air, and for a moment, everything stopped. Even the Hollow froze, eyes flicking upward as if sensing something far older than hate.
Gabriel fell to one knee, the tatum rising from his palm of its own will—hovering in front of him, spinning, unfolding.
From the skies above, a rift opened.
Not torn—unwritten. Like reality itself was being edited by a quill that once wrote the stars.
And from it… he descended.
The firelight from before had masked his presence.
Now, he was unveiled.
Robes of constellation silk shimmered around him, trailing behind like galaxies. His staff was forged of collapsed stars, humming with primal creation. His eyes burned with the dawn of time itself—ancient, knowing, and still.
The battlefield stilled.
Even Medussa stepped back.
The Hollow Gabriel flickered—cracked.
Gabriel whispered, "You came."
The old man did not answer at first. He simply walked forward, each step forming blooming flowers from the shattered ground.
Then, softly, he spoke:
"Children of ruin… you were not meant to be."
He lifted his hand—and the sky changed color.
No spell. No chant.
Just will.
Dozens of the twisted Fallen screamed as light erupted from beneath them—cleansing fire that burned without heat. It unraveled the very corruption in their cores, reverting them to nothingness.
The Hollow Gabriel lunged, blade outstretched.
The old man raised one finger.
And the Hollow froze mid-air—shattered into a thousand stars.
Gabriel stared, stunned. "Who are you really?"
The old man looked down at him. A slow smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
"I am the first echo of creation. The one who whispered to the void and taught it to dream."
He turned toward Medussa, who stood frozen, shaking under his gaze.
"You are not lost yet, child," he said gently.
But then—
A rift tore open behind her.
Black lightning surged through it. Chains of molten dark wrapped around her and pulled her back. She screamed—but not in fear.
In pain.
From deep within the rift, a voice thundered:
"You will not have her, old fool."
Lucifer.
The Starforger narrowed his eyes.
"Still hiding, little prince?"
The rift closed with a snap.
Medussa was gone.
The battlefield lay silent, scorched and broken—but the day was won.
For now.
The old man turned to Gabriel and placed a hand on his shoulder. The warmth Gabriel felt was beyond magic—like standing in the first sunrise ever made.
"Your war has many faces," he said, voice like a closing book. "But remember this…"
He leaned in, whispering a final truth.
"The devil you fear most is not Lucifer."
"It's the god you might become."
And with that—
He vanished.
Only stardust remained.