Darkness swirled around Liam as the fallen angel stepped forward, tattered wings spread wide. Once radiant, they now hung like broken glass, feathers blackened and drifting around them like dying embers. The creature's pale, ancient eyes glowed like dim stars—cold, watchful, full of judgment.
"You stand here," the angel said, voice deep and layered with sorrow, "not as a savior... but as a sinner, daring to grasp the weapon of fate."
Liam, bruised and bloodied from the trials, summoned Sparda to his hand. His body screamed in protest, but he held firm, eyes locked on the divine figure.
"I didn't come here to be judged," he said, panting. "Least of all by someone who already fell."
The angel tilted its head, wings twitching. "Hell did not make you stronger. It merely stripped away your illusions. You are rage, shaped like a man."
"Funny," Liam smirked, cocking Satanus with his other hand. "That's exactly what the last guy said before I buried his face into the ground."
Without warning, the angel lunged.
A burst of light flashed as their blades clashed. Liam braced himself, gritting his teeth as Sparda met the angel's luminous sword with a thunderous crash. The chamber shook from the impact. The force sent Liam sliding backward, boots throwing up sparks.
He recovered fast and retaliated with a sweeping strike. The angel deflected it effortlessly, moving with terrifying grace, then followed up with a flurry of precise, radiant slashes. Liam ducked, barely blocking, each blow pushing him further back.
"Come on!" Liam roared, activating Orabos' Gauntlets. His fists lit up with crackling red energy, and he drove a punch straight into the angel's side.
The impact sent the angel flying into a pillar, stone exploding on contact. Liam pressed the attack, launching a barrage of gauntlet-powered strikes—but the angel recovered mid-air, wings flaring wide, and hurled a glowing spear of light directly at him.
Liam rolled aside, the spear exploding behind him in a burst of divine energy.
He tossed Blaze into the air, spinning it like a boomerang. Mid-spin, he fired from Satanus, triggering a series of fireballs from Blaze that rained down toward the angel. The entire chamber ignited in crimson flame.
But the angel burst through the fire unharmed, grabbing Blaze mid-flight and crushing it to scrap in one hand. He threw the ruined pistol at Liam with such force that it slammed into his chest and knocked him back.
"You rely on weapons," the angel said coldly. "But they cannot carry your soul."
"I don't need them to," Liam spat, steadying himself. "I just need them to shut you up."
He drew Rakkar, the blade screeching as it emerged. Twisted and hungry, it vibrated with unstable energy.
The angel faltered—just for a second.
That was all Liam needed.
He charged, spinning Rakkar with reckless speed, its edge leaving trails of warped air. The blade sliced deep into the angel's armor, black ichor hissing as it hit the ground.
"So," the angel growled, "you wield madness now."
"You're damn right I do," Liam replied, slashing again.
Their battle erupted into chaos—shadow clashing against light. Liam switched weapons mid-combo, leaping from Sparda's crushing blows to Orabos' seismic fists, then back to precise gunfire from Satanus, all while weaving the erratic power of Rakkar into the assault.
Each hit he landed took something from the angel. But every counter nearly ended Liam.
He was fast, but the angel was faster. Divine light seared his skin, cut across his ribs, nearly severed his arm. His blood coated the floor. But still, he fought, eyes burning with defiance.
Then came the final clash.
The angel struck, and Liam blocked with Sparda, both of them throwing everything they had into the blow. The impact cracked the chamber floor and sent both of them flying in opposite directions.
Liam hit the wall hard. He collapsed to one knee, gasping for breath. His body was screaming. His arms were numb.
"You're slowing down," the angel said, stepping forward, armor cracked, wings torn but still standing tall. "This is where your defiance ends."
Liam looked up with blood running from his mouth and a half-cocked grin. "Nah... this is where I cheat."
From behind his back, he pulled the broken chain of Sparda, wrapping it around the hilt and channeling everything he had left into one final swing.
The blade exploded with dark and light energy, tearing through the angel's chest. The shockwave shattered the stone around them and knocked both combatants back.
The angel staggered.
Then fell to one knee.
Liam dropped entirely, barely breathing.
"You gonna... say something righteous now?" he whispered.
The angel stared at him, voice quiet, pained. "You are unworthy... and yet you endure. Perhaps that, too, is strength."
With that, his body began to dissolve. Ash drifted to the floor like snow.
Silence returned.
Liam lay there, chest heaving, eyes barely open. Somehow, he was still alive.
At the far end of the chamber, where the angel had once stood, a pedestal rose from the floor. Upon it rested the Spear of Destiny.
Liam groaned, pushing himself up inch by inch. His entire body trembled.
"One more step..." he muttered. "Just one more…"
He dragged himself toward it, leaving a trail of blood across the shattered floor.
The chamber was quiet—eerily so. Ashes from the fallen angel still drifted through the broken air, carried by an unseen wind. Liam knelt on the cold stone floor, battered, bleeding, and barely holding onto consciousness. Before him, the Spear of Destiny stood upright on a pedestal of bone-white marble, glowing with a divine radiance that pulsed like a heartbeat.
He stared at it, breathing hard. His entire body ached, but his eyes never left the weapon.
"We made it," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
But a voice echoed sharply in his mind—grim, cold, and serious.
"Don't do it."
It was Sparda. There was no sarcasm now, no jokes. Just raw, ancient fear.
"That thing wasn't made for you. You touch it, it'll tear you apart. You're not ready for that power."
Liam chuckled weakly, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. "Sparda... I've never been ready for anything in my life."
And he reached forward.
"Liam, don't—!"
His hand wrapped around the spear.
Instantly, a piercing sound—like screaming glass—shattered the chamber.
Heavenly power surged into his body like molten lightning. Liam screamed, convulsing violently as the divine energy seared through him. His skin split in glowing cracks. His bones shook. Veins flared with white-hot fire. The Spear of Destiny didn't accept him—it punished him.
Sparda's voice roared in his head, full of panic and rage.
"LET GO!"
But Liam held on.
Blood poured from his nose and eyes. Every second burned away more of him. And still, he refused to let go. With the last of his strength, he lifted the spear—and swung it.
The air itself tore open.
A thin slash of raw energy split the space in front of him. Reality peeled apart like paper. The wound bled light, shadows, and static, a rift not meant for mortal eyes.
Liam collapsed, the spear slipping from his hand and clattering beside him. He gasped for air, his body twitching. The rift stayed open.
Then—everything stopped.
Something arrived.
A pulse of silence washed through Hell. The flames dimmed. The ground cracked.
A figure stepped through the rift.
And Hell—Hell itself—reacted.
The sky buckled. The walls of the realm groaned. Symbols etched into the bones of the underworld flickered and vanished. Time stuttered.
The being that emerged didn't speak right away. It didn't need to.
It was The Specter. A being beyond devils, beyond gods. Its form was shifting, unreadable, a silhouette of law and ruin. Light bent away from it. Sound died near it.
The ground around it shattered as it walked forward.
Liam lay on his back, frozen.
The Specter reached down, and the Spear of Destiny floated into its grasp, like it had simply come home.
Its voice wasn't a sound. It was an undeniable truth.
"You are not worthy," it said. "Not of mercy. Not of wrath. Man nor devil. You are of no interest... to me."
And then—it vanished.
Gone.
The weight of its presence disappeared, and the rift began to close behind it.
Liam lay still for a moment. No spear. No strength. Just pain. But the rift was still open—barely.
With a groan, he rolled to his side. Then crawled. Every breath was agony. Every inch forward was hell.
He dragged himself across the stone, leaving a trail of blood behind.
Closer... closer...
And just as the portal began to seal shut, Liam pulled himself through it.
Darkness.
Then... air.
He landed hard on cold concrete. The smell of smoke, metal, and ash filled his lungs. Overhead, clouds churned in a ruined sky. Fires crackled somewhere in the distance.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms and looked around.
He wasn't in Hell anymore.
Footsteps echoed nearby. A man appeared, stepping from the smoke. Tactical armor hugged his frame, and a black-and-orange mask covered his face—only one eye visible. Sharp. Calculating.
He stopped a few steps away, staring down at Liam with faint amusement.
"Well," the masked man said, voice smooth, almost entertained. "This is interesting."