The sky does not open.
It stops moving.
Clouds freeze in place, like a breath held too long. The wind that had been running loses its reason to move. Dust lifted by the steps of Gog and Magog falls straight to the ground, as if gravity has just been reminded of its duty.
In the midst of that sudden emptiness, Ha-Mahdi is pushed to the final boundary.
Dagel's sword has forced him back, not by strength alone, but by false will that keeps finding openings. Every law Ha-Mahdi upholds is bent aside. Every boundary he sets is crossed. The sacred ground they stand upon begins to crack, not by impact, but by a clash of wills no longer compatible with the world.
Dagel steps forward.
His sword gleams without reflecting anything. Light submits to it, not the other way around. Every swing rewrites the direction of the wind. Every strike rearranges the pulse of the earth. He is almost victorious, not because he is divine, but because the world has allowed lies to become efficient for far too long.
Then the world falls silent.
The silence is not the absence of sound, but the presence of decision.
From the sky that does not open, Yeshua Alav Shalom descends.
Not alone.
He is flanked by two angels, beautiful without ornament, calm without expression. Their wings do not flap; the air itself supports them. The light that accompanies them is not the gleam of victory, but precision, like a straight line finally drawn across a long distortion.
When Yeshua's feet touch the ground, the cracks stop spreading.
The earth recognizes the step.
Ha-Mahdi steps back once. Not because he is defeated, but because his role has ended. He bows his head, then speaks in a voice that does not plead:
"Are you the one appointed by God
to become death for Dagel?"
Yeshua looks at Dagel. The gaze does not judge, does not hate, does not negotiate.
"Yes," he says.
"That is who I am.
I will be death for him."
Ha-Mahdi lifts his face once more. "But will you win?
He is exceedingly strong."
Yeshua answers without raising his voice:
"No.
I will certainly win."
Dagel laughs.
Not a mad laugh, but a rational one. He steps forward, and the world moves again because he commands it. His sword cuts the air, and the air splits before the steel. The ground rises, spins, and shatters into floating fragments, like a world that has forgotten the direction of its fall.
Yeshua draws his heavenly sword.
The sword is not large. Not excessive. It does not command nature; it aligns with it. The light of the sword is not light that forces the eyes, but brightness that leaves lies with nowhere to hide.
The first clash occurs without sound.
A wave of will sweeps the ground. Stones lift, spin, then collapse into fine dust. Cracks spread like veins forced open. The sky shifts by one degree, enough to make the stars seem out of place.
Dagel attacks swiftly.
Swing after swing, each strike accompanied by false miracles: fire that splits itself, light that deceives direction, shadows that duplicate his body. He fills space with possibilities, forcing Yeshua to choose wrongly.
But Yeshua does not choose.
He advances straight ahead.
Every strike of Dagel that comes near is broken by a single, simpler motion. The heavenly sword closes gaps, nullifies excess, returns what overflows to its place. False miracles collapse like arguments finally tested.
The ground trembles.
Fragments of earth rise and whirl, collide in the air, then fall as a rain of stone. Mountains in the distance lower themselves, as if making way. Rivers stop flowing, waiting for the outcome of the battle that will decide whether direction is still required.
Dagel begins to retreat.
Not because he is wounded, but because he has lost his center. The will that had led destruction is no longer followed. His lies lose their footing. Each step grows heavy, as if the world refuses to cooperate.
Yeshua presses forward.
Not with anger.
Not with acceleration.
With certainty.
One strike shatters illusion.
One impact returns light to the sun.
One step forces Dagel into a corner he never prepared.
And there, Dagel collapses.
He falls, not dramatically, but shamefully. His sword slips from his hand. His body is dragged across ground that now remembers law. Dust clings to his face. Blood flows, ordinary red, without distinction.
He crawls.
What once convinced now begs. What once seemed rational now chokes on uncertainty. His voice breaks, not from wounds, but from the loss of his final lie.
Yeshua stands before him.
No speech.
No proclamation.
The heavenly sword is raised, and brought down.
Dagel dies.
He does not become legend.
He does not become a martyr.
He dies in disgrace, on the ground, before a truth that needs no witnesses. His body grows still, and with him, the noise of the world loses its leader.
Silence spreads.
Gog and Magog stop. Not because they are commanded, but because numbers without a center do not know where to go. The sky returns to its place. The wind remembers direction. Dust falls, one grain at a time.
Artor Conan Davil watches it all with an empty chest.
There is no euphoria.
There is no relief.
Only an awareness heavier than fear: that victory has arrived, and time is still nearly gone.
Yeshua sheaths his sword.
The world is silent.
And in that silence, Artor knows:
the end is not delayed.
it now moves without lies.