The world didn't snap back to normal. It bled back, piece by piece, the screaming colors fading to the familiar, grim red of Hell. The shockwave left a crater where Azazel had stood, the ground fused into a glassy, smoking pit.

In the center, there was nothing. No body. No dust.

Ares leaned on his spear, breathing hard. "Did we get him?"

Kratos stood silent, his blades still smoking, his eyes scanning the empty air. He knew better.

Michael's golden sword was still raised, his expression grim. "No."

A flicker of movement, like a heat haze, shimmered at the far edge of the crater. It pulled itself together, coagulating into a faint, grey outline. Azazel's form was translucent, flickering, barely there. One of his arms was gone, sheared away at the shoulder. The sand in his single remaining eye socket swirled slowly, weakly.

He was broken. But he was not gone.

Survival… is the first lesson, his mental voice whispered, thin and strained, into their minds. I will not be unmade… in this place.

With a final, desperate surge of will, the wraith-like figure shot upward, not towards the torn sky where the archangels had entered, but deeper into Hell, towards the jagged, pulsing spires of Pandemonium's inner sanctums. He was a wounded animal heading for its burrow.

Michael took a step forward, his wings flaring. "He seeks to hide in the deeper layers. He must not be allowed to recover." He made to launch into the air.

"Whoa, hold on, Goldie!"

Michael paused, turning his head. Sun Wukong landed lightly in front of him, planting his staff on the ground. The Monkey King was grinning, but his eyes were serious.

"Let me handle this," Wukong said, jerking a thumb at his own chest. "You guys look like you could use a breather. Besides," he added, his grin widening, "cleaning up the leftovers is my specialty."

Michael studied him. He saw the chaos, the irreverence, but beneath it, a core of undeniable power and a stubborn will that had just proven immune to Azazel's worst. This was not a disciplined soldier. This was a force of nature. And sometimes, to hunt a rat, you need a terrier, not a warhound.

"You are not of the Host. Your nature is… unpredictable," Michael stated.

"Exactly!" Wukong said. "That lump of gloom back there plays with people's heads. My head's a funhouse on a good day. He can't get a grip on it." He hefted the Ruyi Jingu Bang. "This and me? We're a package deal for messing up bad guys' plans."

Michael's gaze fell upon the staff. It was a powerful weapon, born of earthly divinity and chaos. But it lacked the specific, purifying essence needed to permanently erase a primordial corruption like Azazel. It could break his form, but not his essence.

"Your weapon is strong," Michael conceded. "But it is not enough for this task. His core is a seed of ancient sin. It must be scoured from existence, not merely shattered."

Wukong's grin didn't falter. "So give it a tune-up."

The other archangels watched. Uriel looked skeptical. Raphael, curious. Gabriel's hand rested on his horn, thoughtful.

Michael was a being of absolute order. Wukong was chaos incarnate. It was a terrible idea. It was also, perhaps, the only idea.

Without another word, Michael reached out. He didn't grab the staff. He simply laid his open palm near its center. A thread of light, finer than a spider's silk and brighter than a star, unwound from his palm and touched the metal.

The Ruyi Jingu Bang shuddered. A low, resonant hum filled the air, a new note in its ancient song. The gold of the staff seemed to deepen, gaining a hard, internal light. Intricate, geometric patterns—tiny, perfect seals of celestial law—etched themselves briefly along its length before fading into the metal, leaving only a faint, holy warmth behind.

Michael pulled his hand back. "I have imbued it with a spark of celestial fire. It will burn what it touches, completely. Once. Use it well."

Wukong stared at his staff, his eyes wide with delight. He could feel the new power thrumming within it, a disciplined, searing heat waiting to be unleashed. It felt… official.

"Alright!" he crowed, spinning the newly upgraded staff. "Now we're talking! A holy stick for a holy mess!"

He shot a look at Nezha and Thor, who had gathered nearby. "You guys cover the exits! Don't let any of his creepy friends follow me in!"

Nezha nodded sharply, his spear ready. Thor hefted Mjolnir, a grim smile on his face. "We shall hold the gate. Go, monkey. Send him to the silence he deserves."

Wukong didn't need any more encouragement. He turned towards the dark archway Azazel had fled through, a tunnel leading down into the choking, deeper dark of Hell.

"Hey, Sand-face!" he yelled, his voice echoing into the abyss. "Your free trial of existence is about to expire!"

With a final, cackling laugh, he vanished into the darkness, the faint, celestial glow of his staff the last thing to disappear.

Michael watched him go, then turned his attention back to the battered throne room, to the wounded gods, and to the distant, still-raging storm where Zeus and Lucifer fought their private war. The battle was not over. It had simply entered a new, and far more unpredictable, phase.

Back To Zeus

The world had shrunk to the space between their fists.

There was no more throne room, no more sky. There was only Lucifer's darkness and Zeus's storm, crashing against each other in a silent, brutal war of attrition. They were beyond words, beyond grand displays. Every movement was stripped down to its essential purpose: to break the other.

Lucifer moved like a razor's edge, his strikes precise and cruel. He aimed for joints, for the eyes, for the old wound on Zeus's shoulder. His wings, tattered now, weren't for flight but for creating sudden, disorienting blasts of vacuum and despair.

Zeus was different. He wasn't the glorious god-king throwing thunderbolts from a distance. He was a brawler. He took hits to give better ones. He used his forearms to block, his shoulders to shove, his weight to unbalance. The lightning wasn't a weapon he threw; it was a current that ran through his muscles, making every impact crackle with contained power.

He caught a fist meant for his throat, his hand closing around Lucifer's wrist. The dark energy sizzled against his palm, but he held fast.

"You're slower," Zeus grunted, his voice rough.

Lucifer's pale eyes flashed with fury. "I am eternity."

"Eternity looks tired," Zeus shot back. He yanked, pulling Lucifer off-balance, and drove a knee into his side.

It was a solid, meaty hit. Lucifer gasped, a real sound of pain, not theatrical rage. He staggered back, one hand clutching his ribs. The perfect composure was finally, truly gone. His hair was matted, his fine clothes torn, his lip split.

"You fight like a mortal thug," Lucifer spat, wiping blood from his mouth.

"I fight to win," Zeus said, advancing. "You fight for a statement. There's a difference."

He didn't let Lucifer recover. He pressed forward, a relentless, grinding advance. A quick jab to the face, a low kick to the knee. It wasn't pretty, but it was effective. He was wearing the Morningstar down, trading blow for blow, and he had more to give.

Lucifer tried to summon his blade of despair again, but the darkness flickered and died in his hand. He was running on fumes. Desperate, he lunged, his fingers hooked like claws, aiming to tear out Zeus's eyes.

Zeus saw it coming. He didn't dodge. He stepped inside the reach, took the glancing blow on his forehead—a searing pain and a trickle of blood—and wrapped his arms around Lucifer in a crushing bear hug.

He squeezed.

Lucifer's wings beat frantically against his back, but Zeus just tightened his grip, lifting the fallen angel off his feet. The storm energy coursing through Zeus made the embrace like being trapped in a live wire.

"Your... kingdom..." Zeus growled into his ear, "is a prison... you built for yourself."

Lucifer struggled, a raw, primal snarl tearing from his throat. He couldn't break the hold. For the first time since his fall, he was being overpowered. Not by holy light, not by divine decree, but by sheer, stubborn, physical force.

The look in his eyes wasn't just hatred. It was humiliation.

Zeus knew he had him. He could feel the resistance fading. But he also felt the immense, volatile power still coiled within Lucifer, a bomb waiting to go off. This wasn't over. It was just entering its final, most dangerous phase.

A/N

A/N

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