[T-minus 15 Minutes Until Dimensional Event Ritual Completion]

The demon horde didn't roar.

It prayed.

As it surged toward them – hundreds strong, robes flapping like butchered skin, eyes alight with unholy devotion – Chloe could hear it: a broken litany of gratitude and surrender. A sermon made of teeth. The kind of prayer that didn't ask for forgiveness – it demanded extinction.

She didn't flinch. She moved.

Time slowed as her foot touched the bone floor. Her weapon morphed with a shimmer – spear collapsing into a short, curved blade just long enough to slash. Her body flickered mid-stride, phasing a few inches to the left as a whip of bone-lace brushed past her cheek.

The first zealot lunged.

She was already behind it.

The blade split its spine just above the hips. It dropped like wet paper.

Two more rushed her – one howling in Mandarin, the other stitched mouth open in a permanent grin. Chloe turned on instinct. The blade flickered again – now longer, thinner – and danced through a throat and jaw. Blood sprayed, then evaporated as she flicked sideways through space.

Behind her, Alyssa struck like gravity incarnate.

A zealot leapt for Chloe, screaming scripture. A gauntlet caught it mid-air.

CRUNCH.

Its skull collapsed into its ribcage with a sound like a house caving in.

Alyssa shoved the body aside.

"Focus," she barked, not breaking stride.

Chloe nodded once – then vanished again.

The fight had begun.

Ferron was a whisper to her right – his chain a metal hymn slicing through meat and darkness. Every movement of his weapon was intentional. Practiced. A strike at the soul more than the body. When he hooked a robed abomination and dragged it into the air, Chloe didn't need to see the impact to know it didn't land in one piece.

"Left flank's breaking!" he called.

"I see it," Alyssa snapped. She dropped to one knee, slammed both fists into the ground, and let the gravity hammer surge outward in a seismic shockwave.

The floor cracked.

Ten zealots disintegrated in the blink of an eye – ripped inward, then crushed to pulp beneath an invisible weight. Chloe barely managed to phase up onto a broken beam before it caught her ankles.

She appeared again—ten feet higher. Blade reformed as a short spear.

A zealot on a pillar raised its arms toward her. "Peace—" it began.

She pierced its eye socket.

"No," she said.

It didn't fall. It sagged.

Below, Alyssa pivoted and swung upward into another monster's chest. The impact knocked the creature off its feet—cratering the wall behind it.

Chloe landed near her.

The two sisters stood back to back – silent. Alive.

A guttural roar shook the air. More zealots climbed the crater edge – at least fifty more. Red light blazed in their mouths like furnace glass.

Chloe felt her heartbeat rising.

Not fear. Anticipation.

She raised her morphing blade.

Alyssa reset her stance.

"Let's break their Circle," Alyssa said.

Chloe smiled.

"Together."

And they charged.

…………………

The floor hissed under Dan's steps.

Every movement left a trail of molten gold across the bone tiles. Not illusion. Not metaphor. The fire in him was real now. And it didn't soothe. It judged.

He didn't rush.

He walked – deliberate, wrath held tight behind clenched fists. The zealots that came toward him weren't monsters. They were worshippers. Red-robed. Eyeless. Singing through mouths sewn shut with silver wire. Their psalms warped the air like oil slicks, promising unity, promising bliss.

Dan answered with silence.

The first one reached for him – hands out, palms open, fingers stitched into a prayer knot.

Dan extended his own hand.

Golden light pulsed from his palm.

The zealot caught fire mid-word. No scream. Just light – searing, absolute, incandescent. Its robes turned to ash before the flames hit the body. Then the bones cracked, blackened, and crumbled.

Behind him, his staff pulsed. He gripped it tight – and felt the transformation.

A blade unfurled from the tip. Not steel. Not fire. Judgment. Made tangible.

The staff had become a spear of consecration.

Another abomination rose from the dust – shoulders a mass of twisting tongues, each writhing and muttering fractured sermons.

"Confess," it hissed. "Kneel. Repent. We'll save you—"

Dan didn't speak.

He thrust.

The spear pierced through the centre of the thing's chest. Light detonated from the wound – brighter than fire. Holier than flame. The tongues caught fire mid-blessing. They shrivelled, smoked, died.

Dan wrenched the blade free and moved on.

To his left, something thundered.

A black arc of force slammed into a leaping spike-beast. Its chest evaporated mid-air – bones and organs splashing upward into the sanctum ceiling like bloody confetti.

Dan turned – and froze.

A woman moved through the haze like shadow made flesh.

Chinese. Late twenties. Beautiful in a way that made no room for vanity – angular cheekbones, bruised lips, and calculating brown eyes that never stopped moving. She moved like a ghost through burning oil: fluid, lethal, unreadable. Her black combat armour was battered, scorched across the chest, one pauldron missing entirely. A web of scar tissue peeked through the tears in her left sleeve, and a streak of dried blood ran down her temple – but nothing about her seemed broken.

Her black hair was long. Longer than his. It whipped behind her like a banner of defiance, tangled with smoke and flame.

She carried a grenade launcher as easily as most people carried a prayer.

Another round fired. Another demon reduced to viscera.

Dan blinked, stunned by the contrast – the fury, the grace, the impossible timing.

"…Who the hell are you?"

The woman didn't answer at first. Her eyes tracked the chaos – cold, assessing. Then she ejected the spent shell, slotted in a fresh grenade, and said:

"I am… Ying."

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Another blast. Another corpse.

"I'm here to kill demons. Same as you."

Dan almost smiled. Almost.

He turned, lifting his spear toward the far edge of the altar. The light grew brighter. There – on the rim of the chamber – a prayer circle had begun to reform. Three zealots knelt in a perfect triangle, mouths open, eyes glowing, symbols etched in their skin like living altars. A flickering beam of red light linked their hearts.

"No, you don't."

Dan ran.

The prayer circle pulsed – about to anchor again.

Dan drove his palm into the floor mid-sprint. Gold exploded outward. His aura surged like wildfire from his chest, a pulse that hit the zealots like a falling sun.

They disintegrated.

No screaming. No shadows. No remains.

Just justice.

Dan fell to one knee. Blood from his nose. Shoulders shaking.

Ying moved to his side. Covered him without hesitation. Another round chambered.

Dan wiped his mouth.

"If that thing gets back up again—" he nodded toward Wang's corpse, or what was left of it— "burn the whole chamber."

Ying didn't blink.

"Only if we die first."

Another round. Another explosion.

And together, they stood. Fire and steel. Light and resolve.

The prayer had turned.

Now it was war.

…………………

Alpha's HUD stuttered.

Static bled across the corner of her vision – glyphal interference corrupting the friendly-fire protocols and proximity radar. Half her readings were gone. No team vitals. No backup markers. Just red.

Red for enemy. Red for target. Red for kill.

She didn't slow.

Her movement cut through the fog like data through chaos – legs sliding low, spine snapping upright, twin wristblades arcing in clean, surgical sweeps. Two zealots surged at her from either side, mouths filled with scripture, hands twitching like eels in seizure.

Alpha dropped into a crouch – twisted.

The first blade removed a jaw. The second removed the head.

The bodies collapsed like data scrubbed from memory.

ENEMY COUNT: 14 ENEMY COUNT: 13 ENEMY COUNT: 11

She moved forward, every footstep timed to internal cadence. She could no longer hear Ferron or Alyssa. Their channels were scrambled. But Omega was still present – still loud.

He roared past her flank like a wrecking ball covered in blood.

A demon the size of a riot truck – all horned muscle and plated ribs – charged at them from the rear sanctum wall. Omega didn't flinch. He sprinted headlong into it, dropped low, and shoulder-tackled the monster off its feet, slamming it into the base of the altar with a crunch that shattered vertebrae.

"FUCKING—STAY—DOWN!" Omega roared, fists already hammering into flesh. The creature reared up, half-mangled—

—and Omega tore its spine out with both hands, vertebrae cracking like a belt of broken teeth.

"Enemy neutralized," he growled, slinging the blood-slick bone aside like garbage.

Alpha pivoted. Something caught her periphery.

A fresh horde, surging from the rear of the sanctum—

—and Victor dropped into it like a goddamn meteor.

He landed with a crunch of bone and stone, black blood spraying up around him.

The pistol Ferron had given him – blessed, loaded with soulbound rounds – was empty in seconds. Every shot a death. Every bullet a condemnation. He didn't aim. He executed.

When it clicked dry, he tossed it.

And transformed.

Not a partial shift. Not instinctual rage. This was Victor as Chimera – full, brutal, blood-drenched.

His arms distended, claws glinting like obsidian. His spine rippled with armoured plates. His throat glowed faintly with internal friction, steam hissing through his jaws.

He screamed, and the world shook.

Then he hit the demon line like a meteor made of hate.

One slash severed a neck. The next – an arm. The third ripped an entire abomination in half down the middle like wet paper. Four dead in two heartbeats. The floor ran slick beneath him.

He reared back – shoulders flexing wide – and let out a guttural, multi-toned scream. A harmonic howl. It wasn't just a roar. It rattled the spine of every zealot within range. Some staggered mid-charge. One outright collapsed, skull vibrating until blood trickled from its ears. It wasn't rage. It was dominance. Primal. Territorial. The cry of a monster who remembered being human – and no longer cared.

Two zealots tried to flank.

Alpha moved.

She intercepted one mid-lunge – blade in the gut, second into the spine – as Omega barrelled past and headbutted the other into the wall hard enough to leave a crater.

"Chimera's deep," Omega muttered over comms, eyeing Victor. "Don't know how long he's got."

"Long enough," Alpha replied.

Victor didn't slow. He was a blur now – claws, teeth, growl and momentum. But she could see it: his coordination was slipping. Too fast. Too feral.

Two more zealots moved to box him in. A bloated corpse-thing was charging from behind.

Alpha cut left. Omega cut right.

Three kills in three seconds. They held the line.

Victor ripped through the remaining bodies like they'd offended him personally, then turned – face wild, eyes blazing, jaw bloody and half open like he was going to roar again.

But instead, he grinned.

"Keep up."

Alpha didn't blink. "Stay alive."

Omega trudged up beside them, breathing hard. Looked from one to the other. "Not betting on either."

They didn't laugh. But they would remember it – if they lived. They moved forward – the three of them now a single vector.

Victor, fire and frenzy. Alpha, angles and precision. Omega, raw momentum.

The sanctum bent beneath them. The floor cracked. The horde broke.

But the battle wasn't over.

Not even close.

…………………

The world swam back into focus.

Heat pulsed in Max's throat, coiled like a second heart. His ribs throbbed. His right arm twitched from overload. But he stood.

Because she was still standing.

Verrine hadn't moved from the altar's edge. Her feet hovered an inch above the bone-floor, robes untouched by the gore, her hands lifted again in prayer. As if Max's last blow had never landed. As if the world hadn't cracked.

But Liz's pod flickered behind her – shuddering now, the shell splintering with every breath. A single crack traced down from the siphon's entry point. Max could hear her – feel her – still fighting, still burning.

He couldn't stop. He wouldn't.

Max stepped forward.

Hellfire ignited from his heels, scorching deep prints into the prayer-etched floor. With each step, the flame rose higher – not wild, but willed. Despite the eternal agony, his control was tighter now. Sharper. The fire obeyed him because it remembered who lit it.

The chain uncoiled behind him like a living nerve. Smoke trailed from the links.

Liz. Hold on.

Verrine finally lowered her gaze. Her expression didn't change.

But Max moved.

The chain whipped out – a blur of blue fire and hatred – twisting low and fast.

It caught Verrine's ankles in mid-mantra.

Max pulled.

The chain snapped taut – dragging him forward as if reeled by vengeance itself. His right fist clenched, fire pulsing like a turbine through his forearm.

He closed the gap. And launched upward.

The uppercut landed with a sound like stone shattering under pressure. The sanctum boomed. Fire shot up the walls. For a fraction of a second – Max felt contact. Real. Physical.

But Verrine wasn't there anymore.

She slipped backward – gliding through the air like fog in reverse, the chain sliding uselessly through her now-shimmering form.

Max hit the ground in a skid, boots carving into the bone.

"She's light," he muttered. "She's not here."

He pivoted.

Fire spiralled from his left hand – a wide arc, a fan of searing blue, meant to box her in. The flames split in a cross-pattern, burning lines across the sanctum like celestial fault lines. The altar shrieked. Glyphs screamed.

Verrine raised her hand and turned her palm outward. The flame curled toward her chest.

Max vanished. Hellfire flash-step.

He blinked above her – midair, inverted, one leg cocked back.

She looked up. Too late.

Max's heel came down like a divine verdict.

The blow landed.

Bone cratered. Light exploded. Prayer-script buckled beneath their feet. The siphon above wavered for a second – just a second – losing its perfect spiral.

Max hit the ground, one knee down, chain hissing at his side. His boots sank into the fractured floor, steam rising around him.

He didn't speak for a moment.

His breath was ragged. The fire inside him still pulsed like drums of war.

Then – without looking up – he growled:

"Stay down. Or burn down."

Verrine was silent.

Smoke billowed.

The pod behind her flickered again. Liz stirred – just once.

Max didn't smile. He didn't exhale.

Because she wasn't broken yet.

But he was finally in this fight.

…………………

Max stood tall in the cratered sanctum, shoulders heaving, chain crackling behind him like a tether made of fury. For a moment – just a moment – he thought the tide had shifted. That fire could break faith.

Then Verrine rose.

Her robes were aflame but they didn't burn. They shimmered.

The silk glowed with something deeper than fire: belief given flesh, sanctity woven into cloth. Where flame touched her, it didn't consume – it sang. Scripture bloomed along the hem in languages Max didn't recognize but somehow understood. Each line pulsed with reverence.

She wasn't wounded. She was radiant.

The flames licking her sleeves curled upward like incense. Her hair billowed in no wind. Her smile didn't return but her eyes gleamed with cold mercy.

She raised one hand.

And Max felt the world tilt.

A spiral of light and scripture uncoiled from her forearm – not light like flame. Light like law. Light that judged.

It slammed into Max before he could breathe.

The impact cracked the air. A circular shockwave rippled outward, burning glyphs into the bone floor. Max's ribs crunched as he flew backward, skidding across the sanctum with a snarl half-torn from his throat.

He hit the far pillar – shattering it.

His fire sputtered. His chain unravelled across the floor like a dead limb.

Across the chamber, the others paused mid-battle.

Alyssa spun in time to see him fall. "Max!"

Dan turned – glow faltering for half a second.

Agent 714 – Ying – grit her teeth, fury rising again.

Victor roared, mauling through another zealot to push closer.

But none of them could reach him.

Because Verrine was already moving.

She stepped forward – not running, not rushing.

Gliding.

A second blow came. A palm strike, serrated with scripture. It struck his ribs and sang. Max felt the prayer cut through his skin like a scalpel, not tearing – rewriting.

A third.

To his side – twisting his core, fire bursting from his mouth in a ragged gasp.

A fourth.

To his temple.

His vision flared white.

Something cracked.

He landed hard – one knee down, left hand trembling to keep him upright.

The mask across his cheek shattered in a jagged line. One eye burned – rimmed in blood and fractured flame.

The chain lay limp in his grip.

Above him, Verrine stood – haloed, untouched.

"Max!" The voice was Alyssa's.

From the left flank, she surged – gauntlets glowing with collapsing gravity. She didn't speak. She just struck.

The punch didn't break Verrine's skin. But it broke her cadence. Her palm wavered, the scripture spiral dimming for a blink. Enough for Max to rise. Enough to matter.

Verrine turned her head – slowly. And for one second, the mercy in her eyes gave way to disappointment.

"You carry wrath," she said softly, almost kindly. "But I carry reason."

Her final blow rose – a palm coated in spiralling glyphs, shaped like salvation, descending like a guillotine of grace.

Max didn't look away. He bared his teeth.

"You carry lies," he whispered.

And activated Soul Prison.

Chains erupted mid-strike – not from the floor, not from the air. From within him. Fire-laced, spectral, blazing blue with intent. They didn't just defend – they judged.

Verrine's palm struck the first.

The scripture cracked.

The second chain coiled up her forearm.

The third pierced the veil of light.

And then six more shot outward – reaching, grabbing, wrapping around the robes that refused to burn.

For the first time, Verrine blinked. Not from pain. From awareness. Her gaze tracked the chain curling around her wrist – not fearful, but…evaluating. As if something long-forgotten had re-entered the equation. Her expression shifted – only slightly. Not serenity. Not scorn. A thin line of thought pressed behind her eyes.

The sanctum shook.

And Max, blood on his lips, eyes rimmed in fire, rose to his feet – dragging the chains tighter. His hands bled. His ribs screamed. But he stood anyway. Because she still needed him. The pain didn't matter. The fire didn't matter. He just knew one thing now.

Verrine was going to pay.

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