Before unleashing their full fury against the Archangel, both Orous and Hajack flicked their eyes toward the butler-like figure. There was no mistaking it—Emanon radiated a strange, alien aura, unlike anything either Lord had ever encountered. Yet they could not afford distraction. Emanon’s gaze lingered on them for a fleeting moment, calm and detached, before he turned to the Archangel and bowed lightly. "I have fulfilled my duty, Lord Metatron, and brought you to the tomb of the Primordial God. I wish you nothing but victory." With those words, he began to retreat, each step deliberate, making it clear he had no intention of being dragged into the blood-soaked battle. Metatron’s face remained cold and impassive, unbothered by the departure. To him, it was irrelevant. He needed no one. He was the pinnacle, the Voice of Heaven, and alone he could obliterate all opposition. He spread his six radiant wings wide, his aura surging higher and higher until the sky above shattered with light. A thousand golden portals tore into existence, each one glowing with divine wrath. And from them, god-weapons fell like meteors, enough to pierce worlds. "ARGHHHHH!" Orous roared, hatred and destruction bursting from his chest. From his hands and head erupted torrents of infernal flame, spreading outward in an ocean that halted the descent of divine weaponry. His fire twisted unnaturally, reshaping mid-flight into serpents, claws, and hands—striking unpredictably at the rain of spears, swords, and arrows. At the same time, Hajack shot upward. His hulking form blurred with shocking speed, every movement shattering the air. While Orous’ flames held the barrage at bay from the front, Hajack attacked from the flank. His fists slammed through falling divine weapons, shattering them like glass, as he lunged toward Metatron with brute, unstoppable might. Metatron’s eyes narrowed. He extended his hand and a smaller portal opened at his side. From it emerged a spear of flawless golden light. Compared to Hajack’s mountain-crushing fists, it looked insignificant. Yet when fist met spear, the air convulsed. Hajack’s entire body trembled as the weapon pierced his momentum, driving him backward. Metatron did not move an inch. But that instant of focus cost him. Orous, seizing the opening, twisted his infernal flames into the shape of a colossal hand. It tore through the god-weapons and slammed into the Archangel’s back. Metatron was hurled forward, flames licking across his form. His wings flared and he dispelled the fire, but not without consequence—a faint burn seared the back of his neck. It was small, insignificant by ordinary standards. But for the first time, visible injury marred the Archangel’s perfection. The Devil and Demon Lords grinned. If he could burn, then he could break. ᴛʜɪs ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ɪs ᴜᴘᴅᴀᴛᴇ ʙʏ 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡~𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢~𝙣𝙚𝙩 Metatron’s eyes glowed with unyielding fury. Another thousand portals blossomed around him, filling the air with the brilliance of Heaven. Weapons screamed forth in endless waves, golden comets tearing reality itself apart. Orous countered by shaping his infernal fire into serpentine streams that wove unpredictably. One moment they coiled defensively to shield his body, the next they lashed outward, snapping through the storm of divine steel. His flames twisted into spirals and crescents, carving erratic paths that forced Metatron to divert power into blocking rather than advancing. Hajack struck from below, launching himself upward like a living meteor. His fists shattered spears, his kicks broke blades mid-flight. He swung with primal ferocity, no technique, no subtlety—just the raw strength of a Demon Lord whose body had been tempered to endure the abyss. Each strike carried enough force to pulverize mountains, his roars shaking the cursed dimension. Yet Metatron was not overwhelmed. Every motion of his spear was precise, efficient, perfect. He parried Hajack’s blows with minimal movement, redirecting his strength into the void. When the Demon’s fist crashed down like a falling star, the spear angled, and the strike was diverted into the ground, creating craters of molten stone rather than wounds upon the Archangel. Still, the assault was not without cost. Lacerations began to appear on Metatron’s radiant form—burns from Orous’ flames, bruises from Hajack’s relentless fists. They were far from lethal, but they proved that Heaven’s blade could be struck. As for the toll upon the Lords, it was immense. Hajack’s body bore deep golden gashes where the god-weapons had pierced his flesh, each wound glowing as though divine fire sought to burn him from within. Blood spilled freely, sizzling as it touched the cursed ground. Orous fared little better. His infernal fire shield held against the rain, but every portal destroyed drained his essence. His blackened skin cracked further, golden radiance searing through the fissures as wounds multiplied. The battlefield had become apocalyptic. The crimson skies blazed with fire, divine light rained down like judgment, and the earth split beneath their feet. Yet still they fought—Lords of Abyss, Hell, and Heaven—each unwilling to yield. The killing intent burning in the eyes of the three titans only grew sharper with every heartbeat. Their entire beings were consumed with focus, each movement calculated for survival and death. Against an enemy of this level, even the slightest lapse—one moment of distraction—could mean annihilation. But their focus, as perfect as it seemed, carried a flaw. In devoting themselves wholly to each other, they ignored the rest of the dimension around them. That mistake revealed itself when a sudden, resounding groan echoed across the battlefield—the sound of colossal gates grinding open in the distance. The Archangel, the Demon Lord, and the Devil Lord froze for only an instant, their killing intent still lingering in the air. Then, almost instinctively, their gazes turned together toward the source. At the far end of the circle, Emanon stood before the tomb of the Primordial God. The massive structure was stirring, its sealed doors beginning to part. Glee shone in the butler’s eyes, pure and unrestrained, as though he had waited an eternity for this moment. Yet the Lords felt no joy. Instead, their instincts screamed in unison. From the widening gap of the tomb seeped a darkness so ancient, so absolute, it seemed to reach beyond time itself. The aura pouring out was not merely threatening—it was cosmic, oppressive, a shadow that pressed on soul and flesh alike. The three beings who had just tried to kill one another now shared the same grim realization: whatever was bound within that tomb was far worse than any of them. It was a force that could threaten not just Heaven, or Hell, or the Abyss alone, but all creation. Something so dreadful that even eternal enemies could agree. Inside that tomb was a true apocalypse.