Michael walked with the sword in his hand.
Its glow was calm, almost gentle, nothing like fire or lightning despite the power resting within it. White light flowed along the blade in smooth waves, and beneath it drifted countless tiny points of light, like falling stars moving in slow, deliberate paths. They did not scatter. They followed the sword, as if bound to it.
The weapon was massive.
Standing at one hundred ninety-four centimeters tall, Michael still found the blade imposing. From pommel to tip it measured nearly one hundred seventy-three centimeters, tall enough that it could have been mistaken for a pillar when resting upright. Yet in his grasp, it felt light. Balanced. As though its true weight had never existed for him to feel.
He held it by the handle, the cross-shaped guard fitting naturally into his grip, as if it had been shaped with his hands in mind.
Michael reached the lower slope of the mountain and looked down.
The ground far below should have meant death. A fall like that would crush stone, shatter bone, erase life without effort.
He jumped anyway.
Wind roared past him as his body descended, cloak and hair snapping violently. He did not scream. He did not panic. Something inside him remained still, watching the world rush upward.
When he struck the ground, the impact was absolute.
The land shattered.
Stone collapsed inward, forming a colossal crater that spread outward in every direction. The shockwave raced through mountains, plains, oceans, and skies. Vastyrion itself responded. Not just the land where he landed, but the realm as a whole trembled.
An infinite continuum, shaking.
Nations felt it without understanding. Creatures paused mid-motion. Ancient things that had slept for eras stirred uneasily.
Michael stood at the center of the crater, unharmed.
The sword rested in his hand, glowing steadily, as if anchoring him to reality itself. Dust and debris rained down around him, yet none touched his body.
He looked around, calm, analytical.
The crater stretched impossibly far. His mind, sharper now, clearer, measured the distance without effort.
One hundred forty-eight thousand kilometers.
The number appeared fully formed in his thoughts, and that alone unsettled him more than the destruction.
"I didn't know that," he said quietly.
Something was changing.
Not forcefully. Not violently.
His thoughts aligned more cleanly. Doubt thinned. Confusion softened. It was as if the sword did not give him knowledge, but removed the noise that hid what he already possessed.
He looked down at the blade.
"So you blessed me," he murmured.
The sword did not answer, but the light pulsed once, faint and steady.
"In that case," Michael continued, tightening his grip, "I won't abuse what a higher being entrusted to me."
He lifted the blade slightly, feeling no strain.
"I'll learn first."
Far away, the air burned.
Malakor flew above his marching legions, wings spread wide, the heat from his body distorting the sky around him. Beneath him, demons surged forward in endless numbers, claws tearing into the land as they advanced.
He felt it.
The tremor. The pull. The shift.
Malakor's lips curled into a smile.
"So," he said, gripping his burning greatsword tighter, "the sword has been found."
Flames licked along the blade as his eyes narrowed.
"That weapon will change the outcome," he declared. "With it, I will conquer Heaven. The God-being is useless. His angels are nothing. And those so-called Sentinels standing beside him will fall."
Demons roared in approval.
"I am bound to become the strongest demon," Malakor continued, voice carrying effortlessly across the horde. "Vastyrion is only one realm among many. I will claim them all with my armies."
His wings beat once, violently.
"I, Malakor, will succeed," he said. "I will change fate itself."
Ahead of him, banners fluttered.
The armies of King Baldrick stood ready.
Twenty thousand soldiers faced more than fifty thousand demons. Seventeen thousand more remained behind to protect the kingdom itself. The odds were brutal, but the formations were precise.
Baldrick raised his sword.
"Advance!" he commanded.
Arrows darkened the sky, tearing through demon ranks. Pike lines surged forward, steel points ripping into flesh. Cavalry crashed into the enemy's flanks, swords flashing as horses thundered across blood-soaked ground.
The battle was merciless.
Demons clawed, tore, and screamed. Soldiers fell, trampled beneath chaos, yet the lines held. Coordination and discipline carried them forward where raw numbers could not.
Baldrick fought at the front.
His horse surged through the battlefield as he cut down demons by the dozens, sword and pike striking with precision honed over a century of war. He moved faster than his age should have allowed, the Vireon Binding burning quietly within him.
"Left flank!" he shouted. "Hold formation!"
Generals obeyed instantly.
Then the sky darkened.
Heat washed over the battlefield as Malakor descended.
Baldrick saw him.
Wings. Fire. A presence that crushed the air itself.
"That one," Baldrick said, eyes narrowing. "He's no common lord."
Malakor watched the king with interest.
Too fast, he noted. Too skilled. Countless demons fell beneath Baldrick's charge.
"Interesting," Malakor muttered. "But meaningless."
Baldrick spotted him fully then, hovering above the carnage.
"You demon!" Baldrick roared. "Come here, so my sword may teach your heart!"
Malakor descended slowly.
The moment his feet touched the ground, Vastyrion trembled again. Soldiers staggered. Demons howled in ecstasy.
Baldrick did not retreat.
"For Thalmyr!" he shouted, spurring his horse forward.
Steel met flame.
Baldrick's strike clashed with Malakor's burning blade, and the force sent horse and rider flying. The animal crashed hard, skidding across shattered earth.
Baldrick rolled, absorbing the impact. He stood immediately.
"Rest," he told his horse firmly.
The horse obeyed, retreating instinctively.
Baldrick charged on foot.
He moved with terrifying speed, crossing the distance in a blur. Blade met blade again, sparks exploding with every collision. They exchanged strikes faster than sound, beyond sight, slashing at a level that ignored time entirely.
Malakor laughed.
"I'm just playing," he said.
A blast of hellfire erupted from his sword, striking Baldrick directly.
The king was sent flying, armor shattered, body crashing into the ground. He lay still, breath ragged, strength bleeding away.
Malakor stepped forward, towering.
"No one can stop me," he declared.
His laughter echoed across the battlefield as demons surged with renewed fury.
Then his expression changed.
His eyes narrowed, gaze lifting toward the horizon.
A far greater presence pressed against his senses.
"Be ready," Malakor said quietly.
"The last."
Far away, a boy stood in the heart of a crater, holding a sword that did not belong to the world.
And Vastyrion waited.