[T-minus 30 Minutes Until Dimensional Event Ritual Completion]

The wind on the rooftop was too still. Too silent. Even the flames rising from the Ninth Circle below didn't crackle.

Agent 714 adjusted her scope.

The crosshairs framed his heart perfectly. General Wang stood beneath the siphon, unmoving. shoulders squared, hands behind his back, the crimson star of the PLA blazing on his uniform like it still meant something. His uniform was pristine. The same cut he wore when she was twelve. When he pulled her from the compound's bloodstained hallway and told her she was special. When he lied.

His face hadn't changed. Cold. Distant. Like history carved into granite.

Her breath trembled, but she didn't blink.

"You made me a weapon," she whispered. "Now die by one."

She pulled the trigger.

The anti-materiel rifle kicked once, bone-deep into her shoulder.

She didn't feel it. Not through the adrenaline and enhancements. Not through the weight of betrayal splitting her ribs from the inside out.

The round streaked through haze and firelight like a prophecy denied.

It struck just below Wang's sternum – centre mass.

His chest exploded.

Not shattered. Not ruptured.

Exploded.

Bone jutted from the back of his spine like twisted coral. His ribcage fractured outward, a fan of jagged ivory glistening with black-red tissue. Lung matter peeled out in strips, steaming in the open air. Blood fountained from the ruin, not in an arc, but a geyser, staining the altar like someone had slit open history and let it bleed.

He dropped to one knee. Didn't scream. Couldn't.

His spine was barely attached.

But he didn't fall.

Her jaw clenched. Her eyes burned.

Second round loaded.

The scope settled on the same face that once told her to kneel. The same face that ordered the death of Lucky, of Anchor, of everyone she could still see when she closed her eyes.

He looked up.

And she shot him in the face.

The impact was apocalyptic.

The bullet didn't just enter his skull – it detonated inside it. The back of his cranium peeled open like wet paper under pressure. Glassy eyes ruptured in their sockets. Jaw dislocated mid-snarl. Hair, flesh, bone, brain – all blown backward in a spray of meat and memory, splattering the ritual floor in clotted red like spilled ink.

He collapsed.

Headless. Hollowed. Done.

But she didn't lower the rifle.

Her hands shook now.

Not from recoil.

From grief. From rage. From the echo of a voice she hadn't heard in years – the voice that once told her she was his daughter, even if she didn't have a name.

"Burn in hell," she said.

And then she turned the scope on Verrine.

The scope adjusted to her distance – her glow distorting the view, warping the lens like heat off holy ground.

Verrine stood in prayer.

Her arms outstretched. Her head bowed. Eyes closed – not in concentration, but serenity. A whisper moved across her lips, shaped like a psalm.

Agent 714 didn't hesitate.

The third shot cracked through the chamber like God slapping silence.

It struck Verrine square in the centre of the forehead.

The round should've punched through skull, brain, sanctity.

It didn't.

The impact landed like a fist into water – not absorbed, but refused. The flesh on Verrine's brow rippled outward in concentric waves, a gentle distortion across flawless skin, as though reality itself had blinked.

There was no blood.

No wound.

The bullet fell – flattened – at her feet.

Verrine's eyes opened.

Agent 714 froze.

For half a second, the rifle felt like a toy in her hands.

The woman didn't even look up. Just tilted her head, slowly, as if listening to a song the bullet had failed to interrupt. Her expression didn't change. Not surprise. Not pain. Not anger.

Just… continued grace.

Agent 714 swallowed.

It shouldn't have shaken her. She'd seen things survive worse. But not like this. Not with that smile. Not with that impossible serenity. It felt wrong. Insulting.

Her mouth dried. Her pulse thundered in her ears.

She needed to know Wang was dead. That something in this nightmare had a pulse she could end. That someone had stayed dead when shot through the heart and face.

She forced her breath to slow. She glanced at the body.

Wang hadn't moved.

His chest was a crater. His head – a shredded bloom of ruin. Even the floor around him twitched with steam.

He was dead.

But she needed to know for sure.

She pulled back from the scope, slung the rifle.

Then she ran.

Boots scraping stone, she vaulted off the rooftop. Landed hard. Rolled once.

Straight toward the waiting vehicle.

She didn't know if Max could win. She didn't know if the ritual could be stopped. She didn't know what Verrine really was.

But she knew what she was.

A weapon.

And it was time to finish what she started.

…………………

The rooftop dropped away beneath her boots.

Agent 714 hit the ground hard, pain spiking up her spine but she didn't stop. She ran.

Ash whipped around her like confetti for a funeral. She vaulted over a broken arch, sprinted through rows of kneeling zealots who didn't even flinch at her passage, and reached the armoured vehicle in six brutal heartbeats.

The ignition flared. The console blinked to life.

Her thumb jabbed the override.

Target lock re-engaged. Detonator primed.

She shoved the throttle forward, gritting her teeth as the vehicle roared to life like a wounded beast. Steel groaned beneath her as the wheels ripped across the stone. The red beam overhead twisted like a thread through heaven's throat.

She aimed for the sanctum wall.

There was no tactical entry. No plan.

Just velocity.

The front grill hit first – shattering through the outer barrier of the Ninth Circle with a thunderclap. Bone-stone cracked. Glyphs screamed and disintegrated. The reinforced chassis burst into the crater's inner rim like a meteor, tearing through rows of chained iconography and overturned pews carved from fused worshipper bones.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She didn't brake.

She drove straight into the sanctum.

Straight toward the body.

The General.

Wang lay where he had fallen – beneath the altar's shadow, near Verrine's flank. His back was a pulp of splintered ribs and ceremonial silk soaked in gore. His chest cavity was hollowed, still twitching with postmortem spasm. His face… wasn't a face anymore.

Until it was.

Her hands froze on the wheel.

The crater that had been his chest breathed.

A sound – a slow, wet suction – escaped from the meat of him, like lungs remembering shape. Veins wriggled across the floor like roots regrowing. And his scalp, torn open moments ago, shifted – restitching along an invisible pattern. Bone snapped and realigned. Muscle folded in on itself. One eye popped back into place with a hideous wet blink.

He opened it. Looked at her.

And for a moment, she was twelve again. Back in the cold hallway. Gun oil and incense.

Her hand slipped slightly on the grip – sweat, not fear. But close. Because part of her still wanted him to speak. To call her daughter. To lie to her one more time so she could believe he'd changed.

The wheel juddered in her grip.

"No," Agent 714 whispered. "No no no—"

Wang's arm moved.

Only a twitch. But not random. Not reflex.

Intentional.

Agent 714 swerved.

The vehicle spun just past the body, skidding to a stop in a cloud of scorched prayer-dust and diesel stench. She unstrapped, grabbed her sidearm, and leapt out the side door – boots hitting the bone floor of the sanctum just as Max's fire blasted overhead.

She didn't speak.

She ran straight to the body.

She raised her weapon.

And this time, she wouldn't stop shooting until his head was ash.

…………………

The impact of Agent 714's vehicle ramming the sanctum wall echoed like a war drum. Dust showered from the ceiling. Glyphs cracked. The ground trembled. Her battered PLA personnel carrier lay embedded in the sanctum wall, smoke hissing from the engine, its nose crumpled against the altar's edge.

She kicked the door open.

Hell followed.

The first of Verrine's faithful rushed in – barefoot, red-robed, faces flayed into permanent smiles. Human once. Not anymore. Their limbs moved with the jerky grace of meat on strings. Their eyes burned with devotion strong enough to kill.

Behind them, the real monsters arrived.

A dozen minor demons surged forward, twisted things forged from failed contracts and discarded flesh – spike-limbed abominations, whispering things with no mouths, fused-together zealots howling psalms in reverse.

Alyssa stepped in front of Chloe, eyes narrowing.

"Come on, then."

She snapped her gauntlets together – gravity surged around her fists. A ripple of collapsing air caved the tiles beneath her. She leapt forward like a wrecking ball wrapped in silence, crashing into the first wave of bodies.

One went down. Then three more.

Dan moved beside her – gold light pulsing in bursts from his hands. Every touch was purging heat. He didn't heal now. He seared. He purified. When one of the demons lunged for him, he didn't block. He opened his arms.

The golden nova that followed scorched it clean out of existence.

Victor roared.

Half-man, half-chimera, his body shifted fluidly – spikes along the spine, talons curling from fingers. He pounced into the fray with brutal precision. His claws tore through the zealots like paper soaked in gasoline. When one latched onto his leg and hissed a prayer into his thigh, he twisted and bit through its throat. Its chant stopped instantly.

Alpha and Omega advanced like mirrored death.

No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Alpha moved as a blur. Her blades extended from her wrists in calibrated arcs, slicing through two demons mid-lunge. Omega barrelled through the crowd, shoulder-slamming a hulking brute into the sanctum wall and crushing its chest with a downward stomp.

"Circle breach," Alpha called out, "combat operations engaged."

"About time," Omega muttered.

Ferron emerged from the smoke at the rear, chain uncoiled, blade whistling. He moved between enemies like a spectre of iron – every swing snapping bone, every hook dragging corrupted souls into stillness. His footwork was a dance. His chain sang.

"Keep pressure on the left flank!" he shouted. "If they reach the pod, we lose!"

But it was Max they swarmed toward.

He didn't look back.

He didn't shout.

He raised a burning arm and let the Hellfire speak for him.

A sweep of his chain incinerated three zealots in one arc. Another wave poured toward him – and he didn't wait. Max moved like a vengeful flame given form. His chain roared, and with every strike, souls shattered.

But more were coming.

Dozens more.

And still – Verrine hadn't moved.

She watched from behind her veil of light, calm and unreadable, like a god evaluating insects. Her hands were still outstretched in prayer. The siphon beam twisted above her, devouring faster now.

Max turned, back braced, fists trembling.

"We hold."

The others gathered around him, bloodied, breathless, burning.

The real battle had just begun.

…………………

The Hellfire flickered across Max's back as he pivoted, scanning the crater's edge. For a moment – just a breath – he saw it: the twisted front end of a military personnel carrier, half-wedged into the sanctum wall, smoke coiling from the engine block. The red PLA insignia barely clung to the cracked plating.

Max's mind reeled.

Who the hell—?

He almost asked aloud. Hawthorne? Did Grimm finally grow a spine? But no. Too fast. Too brutal. Whoever that was didn't ask permission.

A figure dropped from the cab. Black tactical gear. Long black hair. Confident stride. A woman. Not one of Grimm's – this one moved with intent, not protocol.

He didn't have time to wonder. She was here to help. That was enough.

But as the smoke thinned and she stepped closer – he saw it.

Not Institute. Not Chinese military. Her face was unfamiliar. But the fire behind it wasn't. She wasn't here to follow orders. She was here to end something. And for that alone, Max understood her.

He turned.

And faced the architect of his misery.

Verrine.

She still stood at the heart of the sanctum – serene, untouched, haloed by scripture made light. The siphon pulsed around her like a living crown, fire spiralling upward through Liz's pod. The air bent around her. Reality bent around her. She wasn't casting a spell. She was the spell.

Max stepped forward. Slow. Measured. Chain low at his side, glowing white-blue.

She opened her eyes.

"It's not too late," Verrine said. Her voice was velvet now – sorrow and promise woven together. "You could kneel. I could fix you."

Max's laugh was quiet. Hollow.

"You already tried that," he said.

He took another step. His boots scorched symbols into the bone beneath them.

"You made me forget my daughter."

Another.

"You turned peace into a prison."

Another.

"You dressed damnation in red silk and asked me to call it mercy."

His Hellfire rose higher, crackling like molten glass in his ears. The pain wasn't pain anymore. It was movement. It was clarity.

She extended one hand.

"You're tired, Max."

He stopped.

The flames burned higher. Crawled up his arm. Peeled from his skin in violent arcs.

"I've never been clearer."

Her expression faltered. Just slightly. The edge of serenity chipped by something colder.

Disappointment.

Max didn't give her time to mourn.

He moved.

A blur of Hellfire. The chain snapped forward – faster than sound, screaming toward her ribs.

Verrine lifted her hand. Not to block. To catch.

Steel met open palm.

And the fire – stopped.

The blastwave that followed knocked dust loose from the ceiling. Every light in the sanctum flared. The chain trembled in Max's grip. But Verrine didn't move.

She stood.

Still holding the chain between two fingers.

Her eyes glowed softly.

"I forgive you," she said again.

Max's fist clenched.

"You can forgive me from the grave."

He pulled – flipping forward into a flaming knee strike. It landed. Square in her chest.

The entire sanctum shook.

But Verrine didn't stagger. She exhaled – slow, deliberate.

And then she hit him back.

Max didn't see the fist. Just felt the world disappear. His spine cracked against the far wall. Bone shattered under his impact. Blood sprayed from his mouth midair before he hit the ground in a heap.

The Hellfire sputtered.

He groaned.

Rolled to one elbow.

She was already walking toward him.

Expression unchanged. Hands still open. Still offering.

"This is what I save them from," she said softly. "Pain without purpose."

Max coughed. Blood hit his palm.

He forced himself up.

"You want purpose?"

He rose to one knee.

"Try me."

Verrine raised her foot and stepped forward.

Max gritted his teeth – and lunged again.

And the chamber exploded into light.

…………………

The ground still quivered beneath Max's feet. His ribs felt splintered, lungs scraped raw with every breath. The only thing keeping him upright was the rage – and the fire. Always the fire.

Then he heard them.

A snarl. A hiss. A dozen clawed feet scraping against the bone floor.

Max turned his head. They were coming.

Eight demons. Not summoned. Released. Born from Verrine's Circle like antibodies to an infection. Each was different – wrong in its own way.

One crawled low, its limbs backwards, head spinning slowly on a neck of fused bone. A centipede of rotted silk and plated eyes.

Another walked upright but had no face – just a blank porcelain mask with prayer etched into the ceramic.

The third slithered on a spine of iron needles, leaking ash as it moved, mouths whispering from every joint.

Two of them shared flesh, fused at the waist, back to back. One shrieked. The other wept.

One wore a soldier's uniform – torn, riddled with symbols but its chest was hollow, and something black and wet coiled inside.

The seventh was too thin, a spider of gold thread and skin-tight scriptures, hands clasped in mock prayer as it leapt from the wall.

The last was small. Child-shaped. No older than Liz. But its eyes were pits, and its smile was painted in blood.

They converged on him – fast.

Max didn't run. He stood, lowered his stance – and exhaled. Then whispered:

"Soul Prison."

The chamber reacted first. The air twisted.

Then it snapped.

Chains erupted from Max's back like spines torn from a god's skeleton – spectral, seething, alive with purpose. They were made of Max – his will, his grief, his fury folded into heat and purpose.

They struck like vipers.

The child-demon rushed first – giggling.

Max's chain met its throat mid-sprint. There was no sound. Just severed silence and a body folding in two.

The twin-bodies screamed in tandem. Max whipped a chain through the air and hooked them mid-leap, dragged them in like broken meat and crushed them into the ground with a single slam.

The spider-thing came from above. Max didn't look. The fire-wings burst from his back – curved, skeletal structures rimmed in flame and caught the demon in midair. It screamed as the wings wrapped around it – and burned it alive.

The weeping mask demon lunged with bladed hands.

Max raised his own.

His fingers had become claws – glowing, cracked, rimmed in black veined fire. He caught the demon's blade with one hand and drove his other straight through the porcelain mask. Shattered prayer spilled like glass rain.

The soldier-thing tried to flank him.

Max stepped past it and sliced through it with chain and fire, a clean cut, splitting it down the middle. Its insides writhed for a second longer – then stilled.

The ash-slithering one lunged last – coiling around him, trying to choke him in silence.

Max inhaled – and burned.

A surge of Hellfire rippled outward. The soul-chain coiled down his arm like a striking serpent, then lashed upward – severing bone, banishing flesh, judging everything it touched.

It twisted.

It screamed.

Then it exploded.

The chamber went still.

Max stood in the centre of the carnage, surrounded by the twitching remains of eight hellspawn.

The chains retracted slowly. The fire dimmed but only at the edges.

His eyes were not human anymore.

They blazed – blue fire dancing in twin pupils, bright enough to burn reflection off bone.

His skin cracked in places. His fingers flexed, clawed and smoke-tipped. His neck and shoulders pulsed with black veins like ink blooming through marble.

And behind him – the wings.

Blue fire stretched wide and lethal from his back. No feathers. No symmetry. Just flame and wrath held together by hate.

He stood straighter.

He was no longer losing.

He turned to Verrine – still calm. Still watching.

And raised one hand.

The Hellfire gathered.

She took a step forward.

Max fired.

The blast that followed wasn't a beam. It was a storm – uncoiling in a spiral of blue, crashing into the altar, detonating stone and scripture in a wave of heat.

Verrine raised one arm – and the fire split around her like water over stone. Her robes caught flame, but they didn't burn. They sang.

Max felt the hairs on his neck rise.

That sound – impossible, perfect – wasn't music. It was belief. He'd set fire to saints before. But never one that sang while it burned.

And for the first time – Verrine looked down.

Max exhaled smoke.

"Round two," he growled.

"Get off your altar, Verrine."

He cracked his neck, wings blazing.

"Let's see what breaks first – your faith, or my fire."

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