CHAPTER 72: IS THERE AN ABYSS IN THE ABYSS ? - 7

Nyxsha slammed into the angel from the side with enough force to collapse a hill, her massive claws digging deep into its twisted wing, tearing through pustules and tendrils with a wet, ripping sound.

The angel grunted—the first sign of pain—its divine eye widening.

"You won’t touch him, he is mine," Nyxsha snarled, her massive form heaving, blood streaming from her back, her violet flames flaring defiantly despite the mist’s hunger.

Then—a spear of dark mist exploded from the angel’s chest, piercing straight through Nyxsha’s shoulder with a sickening crunch, black radiance spilling like ink.

"NYXSHA!" Azareel screamed, his voice raw, his silver eyes wide with horror as she staggered, her massive form trembling.

Virelya moved, her remaining heads striking with venomous fury, tendrils lashing to bind the angel’s limbs.

Sylvara raged, her thorned branches surging upward, flowers blooming with screaming faces that released clouds of crimson pollen, burning through the mist.

The battlefield became a blur of monstrous limbs, black tendrils, shattered earth, and roaring pain, the women fighting with a ferocity born of love and desperation.

But the mist thickened, moving with a will of its own, swallowing every flower Sylvara bloomed, every scent Virelya chased leading to ghosts, every swipe Nyxsha struck landing on air or met with punishing counterstrikes.

They were strong, monsters forged in the Abyss’s crucible, but the angel was something worse—an echo of divine failure, twisted by centuries of abandonment, its light corrupted into a weapon of despair.

By the end of the battle’s first wave, Nyxsha was bleeding heavily, one leg trembling, her violet flames dimming.

Virelya’s hydra heads numbered four, her coils slick with blood and venom.

Sylvara’s vines were wilted, her crimson light gone, her bark-skin cracked and seeping sap.

The glowberries were dead, their light snuffed out, leaving only darkness—a suffocating void that pulsed with the angel’s sorrow.

The corrupted angel hovered just ahead, untouched, unbreathing, its divine eye glinting with quiet certainty, its warped wing dripping rot.

It took one slow step forward, the ground cracking beneath its foot, the mist surging like a tide.

"Don’t make this any hard than it needs to be. He will one day turn like me, it’s better if he dies today." The angel spoke softly as if he was stating the inevitable truth.

"..."

Nyxsha staggered, her massive form heaving, her breath ragged and labored, blood—black and violet—dripping from deep gashes along her flank, sizzling as it hit the cold, polished floor, leaving smoking trails in its wake.

Her black fur flickered with dying violet flames, their once-blazing intensity dimming as she slowed, her golden eyes blazing with defiance but shadowed with exhaustion.

Virelya coiled tighter, her four remaining hydra heads hissing defensively, their porcelain masks cracked and weeping black ichor, her fangs dripping venom that could melt boulders—yet barely scratched the corrupted angel, its divine and decayed form unyielding.

Sylvara’s branches were nearly stripped bare, her thorned arms trembling, petals crumbling from the screaming-faced blooms that adorned her, her bark-like skin cracked and seeping crimson sap, her roots raw and bloodied from the angel’s corrosive mist.

And Azareel, untouched, stood behind them—watching, his silver eyes wide with a mix of sorrow and resolve, his torn white tunic fluttering in the stale air.

But he was not idle—not anymore, the weight of the women’s wounds pressing on his heart like a stone.

He moved.

"Stay back!" Virelya hissed, sensing his movement, her serpentine lower half surging to intercept, her golden eyes flashing behind her masks. "Azareel, don’t—!"

He stepped forward anyway, his bare feet touching the decay-withered ground, each step leaving a faint glow in its wake, a soft shimmer that defied the darkness.

Sylvara turned weakly, her amber eyes wide with desperation.

"What are you doing?!" she cried, her voice trembling, her vines curling protectively despite their shriveled state.

Azareel didn’t answer, his silver eyes fixed on the corrupted angel, its grotesque form dripping rot and mist, framed against the pitch-black void like a painting of grief frozen in time.

The angel paused, its divine eye glinting with curiosity, its warped wing twitching, its melted face contorting as it observed him.

He stopped, bending down slowly, his movements weak and curious, the women tensing as one.

He picked up...

A broken branch, small, crooked, brittle, no longer than his arm, scarred and blackened, almost lifeless, its surface rough under his fingers.

"...Are you serious?" Virelya blinked, her four heads mirroring her disbelief, their golden eyes wide.

"You walked through that," she gestured to the battlefield of decay and blood, the shattered stone and sizzling venom, "to pick up that?"

Her exhausted chuckle rasped through the dark, a breathy sound laced with incredulity.

"What, were you going to poke him with it? Throw it like a javelin of hope?"

Nyxsha snorted, her massive form trembling as she steadied herself, blood dripping from her wounds.

"Idiot Angel," she muttered, but her golden eyes softened, a flicker of warmth breaking through her pain.

Sylvara’s vines twitched, her amber eyes wide with awe.

"Oh Azareel... Why is this so cute." she whispered, her voice trailing off.

He stood quietly, holding the branch, then smiled—a soft, radiant thing that cut through the void like dawn through fog.

"No," he said, his voice gentle but resolute. "I was going to write."

Before anyone could respond, he glowed—a gentle golden light igniting from beneath his skin, pouring like morning sun through cracks in porcelain, spreading outward in a soft, radiant wave.

His silver eyes shimmered, rain-blue and starlit, and the branch in his hand caught fire—not with flame, but with grace, its surface glowing with an ethereal light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Azareel raised it, moving with a grace that belied his frailty, the stick sweeping through the air in elegant arcs, each motion deliberate, purposeful.

Where it passed, symbols followed—glowing characters, not of language but of meaning, holy glyphs woven in midair, blazing with silent thunder that shook the void.

The light spread outward like ripples in still water, pushing back the black mist, the decay hissing and recoiling as it burned away, unable to withstand the radiance.