All Chapters of AZRAEL: Chapter 71
- Chapter 80
84 chapters
Descent of the High Seraph
Metatron's blade didn't fall immediately.The high seraph stood in the compound's shattered courtyard, radiating power that made reality bend around him. His six wings spread wide enough to cast shadows across the entire eastern section. Divine fire wreathed his armor, and the blade in his hand blazed with concentrated essence that made Azrael's recovered fragments feel like dying embers."You remember me," Metatron observed, his voice carrying harmonics that suggested multiple speakers. "I can see it in your eyes. The fragments have shown you our last confrontation."Azrael did remember. Flashes of memory—dueling this same angel in the Otherworld's grand arena. Blade against blade. Champion against Voice. The Goddess watching from her throne as her two finest warriors tested each other's limits.He'd won that duel. Barely. Through tactics the Goddess herself had taught him.But that had been before his fall. Before she'd stripped away his power and scattered it across realms. Before
Clash of Wings
Azrael moved before Metatron's blade completed its arc.Black wings erupted with enough force to crack the courtyard stones beneath him, carrying him upward to meet the descending strike. His own blade—reformed from recovered fragments—blazed with twilight fire as it intercepted the high seraph's weapon.The collision sent shockwaves rippling outward. Mortals who'd struggled to their feet were thrown back down. The compound's already damaged walls cracked further. Even the descending angels above faltered in their formation as reality warped around the impact point.For one impossible moment, Azrael held the block. Felt his flame meeting Metatron's radiance in a contest of pure essence. The fragments at his core resonated, drawing on power he'd recovered and memories of techniques the Goddess herself had taught him.Then Metatron pushed, and Azrael was driven backward through the air like a meteor in reverse.He caught himself fifty feet from where they'd clashed, wings spreading to a
The Wound of Otherworld
The Pyre of the Self technique bought Azrael thirty seconds of impossible strength.Thirty seconds where his blade carved through Metatron's defenses. Thirty seconds where the high seraph actually had to retreat, wings flaring defensively as black fire that consumed its wielder proved capable of matching divine radiance.Thirty seconds where the Baptized, watching their leader stand equal against perfection, found renewed courage to hold their ground.Then the technique burned out.Not gradually. Suddenly. Like a flame meeting the end of its fuel. The power that had let Azrael push back against the Voice of the Goddess simply stopped, and he was left with nothing but the wound still blazing through his chest.He fell again. Harder this time. His wings couldn't catch him—the right one was barely responding, feathers burned away by his own technique. He hit stone with force that cracked already damaged ribs.Metatron didn't pursue immediately. The high seraph hovered twenty feet away, h
Fall of Faith
The priestess's question hung unanswered as Metatron's power reached critical mass.Through the command building's broken windows, they could see the formation blazing like captured starlight. Twelve circles of five hundred angels, all channeling through their commander. The air itself was burning, reality warping under pressure that shouldn't exist on Earth's surface."We have maybe two minutes," Gabriel said, her voice tight. "Once he releases that much power in a focused beam, everything within the compound vaporizes. Stone, flesh, essence—all of it just gone.""Then we evacuate," Maya said, already moving toward the wounded. "Get everyone who can move to—""There's nowhere to go," Sariel interrupted, pointing at the formation. "Look at the configuration. It's designed to prevent escape. Any movement toward the perimeter triggers early release. We're trapped."Azrael watched through pain and celestial fire spreading through his chest. Watched his people realize they were caught in
Betrayer's Duel
The tear in reality widened, and what emerged was neither angel nor demon.A figure stepped through—humanoid but impossibly tall, wrapped in essence that flickered between light and shadow without settling on either. Their presence carried weight that made even Metatron's authority feel diminished. Ancient. Vast. Something that predated the division of realms."I am the Arbiter," the figure declared, their voice resonating across multiple frequencies. "Keeper of the spaces between realms. Observer of conflicts that threaten balance. And I declare sanctuary for those who forge new paths."Metatron's expression shifted from shock to calculation to cold anger. "The Arbiters abandoned their role millennia ago. Retreated to the liminal spaces and swore non-interference. You have no authority here.""I have the authority of being here. Of witnessing what you attempt. Of judging whether your execution serves balance or merely maintains the Goddess's control." The Arbiter moved forward, and r
Awakening of the Black Flame
The sanctuary space existed in perpetual twilight—neither day nor night, neither light nor shadow. Just the in-between. The liminal space where reality hadn't decided what it wanted to be yet.Azrael lay in the center of it, the conversion fire still eating through his chest. The priestess had been working for what felt like hours or maybe minutes—time didn't flow normally here. Her forbidden rites were more effective in sanctuary, but the celestial fire was stubborn. Designed by Metatron specifically to unmake the Fallen Champion.Around them, the Baptized tended their wounded and counted their losses. One hundred forty-three dead in the compound assault. Another twenty-seven lost to the ambushes. Gabriel's sacrifice still fresh in everyone's minds.They'd survived. Barely. But survival felt hollow when purchased with so much blood.Maya sat beside Azrael, one hand on his shoulder, watching the conversion fire pulse with each heartbeat. "How long can he hold out?""Days, like I said.
Forsaken vs. Chosen
The sanctuary's walls disintegrated like glass under divine pressure, fragments dissolving into the between-space that had sheltered the Baptized for precious hours.Metatron stood at the breach, twelve legions arrayed behind him in perfect formation. His blade blazed with concentrated radiance—not just his own power now, but channeled essence from six thousand angels focused through their commander."You've transformed," the high seraph observed, his voice carrying that same measured calm despite what he'd felt through the breaking walls. "Consumed the conversion fire I placed in you. Remarkable. The Goddess will want to study how that was possible before we ensure it never happens again."Azrael stepped forward, his black wings spreading to full extension. The flame wreathing them didn't flicker like normal fire—it moved with liquid certainty, each tendril responding to thought rather than wind or physics."No more study," Azrael replied. "No more assuming I'm something you can unde
Ashes of Victory
The figure solidified slowly, essence pulling together like scattered embers reforming into flame.Black wings manifested first—torn and smoking but present. Then torso, arms, legs. Finally a face that the Baptized recognized despite the burns covering it.Azrael.He collapsed to his knees the moment reformation completed, hands pressed against the crater's scorched floor. Every breath was agony. Every movement threatened to tear apart the essence holding him together. The Black Flame had consumed everything—Metatron's radiance, the mutual detonation, even pieces of Azrael's own being—to fuel his survival.But he was alive. Barely. Impossibly. But alive."Azrael!" Maya was moving before conscious thought completed, sliding down the crater's edge toward him."Wait," the priestess called out, but Maya was already there, hands on his shoulders, checking for wounds that went beyond physical."I'm fine," Azrael managed, though the words came out charred and weak. "Just... need a moment.""
Forsaken Flame Proclaimed
The news spread like wildfire across Earth's networks.First through military channels—governments that had been tracking supernatural incidents suddenly reporting that an angelic army had withdrawn in defeat. Then through survivor accounts. Mortals who'd witnessed the crater, the explosion, the impossible duel between seraph and something that transcended categorization.Within hours, the story mutated. Grew. Transformed in the telling.A fallen angel had stood against Heaven's champion. Had survived mutual destruction. Had broken the Voice of the Goddess herself and sent the celestial armies fleeing.Within a day, the details became legend.The Forsaken Flame—some called him savior, others called him demon, but everyone called him something—had proven mortals could stand against divine authority. Had shown that Earth wasn't just battlefield for realm politics. That humanity had a protector willing to burn the heavens themselves if necessary.The Baptized felt it before they saw it.
The First Throne Falls
The news reached the Underworld within hours of Metatron's retreat.Not through official channels—demons didn't maintain diplomatic relations with the Otherworld. But through the same mortal networks spreading Azrael's legend. Through scouts who'd witnessed the battle from safe distances. Through the cosmic ripples that occurred when the Voice of the Goddess was broken by someone neither realm had properly accounted for.In the Infernal Citadel, the Demon King's throne room erupted with savage celebration."Metatron fell," one of the warlords roared, his voice shaking obsidian walls. "The Voice of the Goddess herself, broken by a single opponent! The Otherworld's humiliation is absolute!"Laughter rolled through assembled demons. Centuries of cold war with the angels, millennia of careful positioning and territorial disputes—all of it vindicated by this single impossible outcome. The Otherworld wasn't invulnerable. Its champions could be defeated. Its authority could be challenged."W