The Error That Fought God
The world slowed.
Time bent—not by magic, nor divinity—but by sheer presence. Flare Kross walked forward, unblessed and unsanctified, facing an archangel molded from light itself.
Gabriel's wings fanned wide, casting ethereal rays across the battlefield. He hovered above the street like a vengeful sun, his voice echoing through minds instead of air.
> "You are not a child of fate.
You are not born of will.
You are not meant to be."
"I hear that a lot," Flare muttered.
The system glitched again.
[WARNING: Fatality threshold breached. Disengage immediately.]
Flare dismissed it. "Still waiting for that kill switch to mean something."
Gabriel raised his lance.
With a single motion, the archangel hurled it like a comet. The spear tore through space itself, screaming with holy force.
Flare didn't dodge.
He dislocated.
Reality warped around him, his body flickering like corrupted data. One moment he stood there; the next, he reappeared behind Gabriel mid-leap, fist already cocked.
He struck.
It was like punching a mountain made of light. Bones cracked. Energy roared. But Gabriel staggered.
Even angels could bleed if you hit them wrong enough.
Gabriel's eyes narrowed. His halo dimmed.
"You are wrong."
"And yet I'm still here."
The air shimmered again as more seals broke overhead—divine pressure layering like miles of ocean. A second trumpet blew in the sky, followed by a golden rift tearing open above them.
Aria screamed from behind the barrier she had conjured.
"They're calling in the Celestial Chorus! FLARE!"
He smiled as blood ran down his lips.
"Good," he whispered. "Let them all come. I've got glitches to spare."