Malachite rose up , his laughter a guttural rasp that slithered through the night. His body, whole once more, pulsed with stolen vitality—each wound sealed by the souls he had consumed. The villagers' essence swirled beneath his flesh, their whispers lending him strength.
Mary's breath caught in her throat. "That's not possible," she whispered.
Malachite's grin widened, his teeth glinting like shards of bone. "Oh, but it is. You can kill me fifty-nine more times, little mouse. Or you can surrender now."
Hael staggered forward, blood dripping from his wounds to pool at his feet. His voice was a ragged scrape of sound. "Hand me my axe."
Mary grabbed his arm, her fingers trembling. "Why? Why is Golgotha worth this? We can run—"
Malachite chuckled. "Yes, run! I might even let you."
Hael ignored her, bending with a groan to retrieve his weapon. "I cannot run. This is the appointed time."
Mary's voice rose, fraying at the edges. "You can't defeat him! It's impossible!"
Hael tightened his grip on the axe. "I can do all things," he said, "because Yahweh strengthens me."
A wind surged through the clearing, hot and sudden, carrying the scent of burning parchment. For a heartbeat, even Malachite stilled.
Then the moment shattered.
"Now I'm fired up!" Malachite roared. He strode to the corpse of the Blood Rend, wrenching its spine free with a wet crack. The skull he fitted over his fist like a gauntlet, the vertebrae coiling around his arm. A blade slid from his wrist, gleaming with venom.
Hael charged.
Blood trailed behind him, steaming where it struck the earth. His axe flashed—once, twice—but Malachite danced back each time, his movements fluid, mocking.
"Too slow, Archon," he taunted. "Too weak."
Hael feinted high, then twisted his grip, extending the axe's reach. The blade sheared through Malachite's neck with a meaty thunk.
The head toppled.
And grew back.
Malachite's fist, clad in the Blood Rend's skull, slammed into Hael's chest. Ribs cracked. Hael staggered but swung again, his strikes growing wilder, his breath coming in wet gasps.
For every blow that landed, Malachite returned three.
Soon, Hael was on his knees, his armor slick with his own blood.
Malachite loomed over him. "You fought well," he said, almost kindly. "Now, let me show you true power."
Red smoke poured from his mouth, wrapping around him like a shroud. His body twisted, bones snapping, flesh reforming—until a monstrous figure stood in his place. A minotaur with bat-like wings, his tail a living serpent. The ground trembled with each step.
Mary threw herself between them, her voice shaking as she tried to recite a scripture.
Malachite's laughter cut her off. "Weak." His breath, rank with decay, washed over her. She collapsed, her courage crumbling.
He turned back to Hael. "Do not look at me with such disdain," he murmured. "I, too, am made by your God's hand." he turns,his gaze fixed on the moon, "without him nothing was made that has been made" His eyes glassy as the moonlight lit up in them.
He turns back His clawed fingers reached for Hael's throat—
—and closed on empty air.
Mary had dragged Hael onto the horse, her muscles screaming in protest. The beast surged forward, its hooves pounding the earth.
Malachite sighed. "Clever girl."
Then he gave chase.
Trees shattered in his wake, their trunks hurled like javelins. Mary ducked low, Hael's limp form bouncing against the saddle. His whispers were barely audible over the thunder of pursuit.
"Fight... I can still... fight..."
Mary's grip on the reins turned white-knuckled. "Fight? You're dying!"
A massive oak exploded behind them, the shockwave sending the horse veering wildly. Mary barely kept her seat. Ahead, the forest thinned—and a caravan appeared, its travelers gaping as she barreled past.
"Slow down!"
"Lady, are you all right?"
Their voices were swallowed as Malachite erupted from the treeline, his passage reducing wagons to kindling. Mary risked a glance back—and saw only devastation.
"God, please," she sobbed.
The horse surged faster, its sides heaving. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered.
Then—
BOOM.
Malachite landed before them, the impact cratering the road. The horse reared, throwing them into the dirt.
Mary looked up—into the face of oblivion.
The dust swirled in the crater's wake, settling upon the broken earth like a shroud. Malachite stood at its center, his monstrous form now swollen with stolen power—limbs still caught between his teeth, blood painting his chest in grotesque streaks. His tail slithered beside him, a serpent grown fat on carnage.
Mary groaned, her arm bent at a sickening angle, her vision swimming as she struggled to rise. Through the haze, she saw it—Malachite's clawed fist closed around Hael's throat, lifting the broken Archon like a slaughtered lamb.
Malachite stood, his grotesque form still dripping with the blood of the caravan travelers. Limbs hung from his horns like grisly trophies, his serpentine tail lashing the air with restless hunger. He had grown larger, his power swelling with every soul consumed—until the earth itself seemed to recoil beneath his feet.
Then—
Heat.
A searing wave rolled through the forest, reducing trees to smoldering husks in an instant. Malachite hissed, his flesh blistering as if held to a forge. He whirled, his eyes straining against the inferno—and saw *him*.
A figure emerged from the flames, untouched by their fury. His armor gleamed black and gold, the sigil of the Faith Helix burning crimson upon his breast. Behind him, four more Archmen materialized from the fire, their weapons drawn, their eyes alight with divine wrath.
**Briel.**
His voice boomed across the battlefield, scripture given flesh:
***"First Kings 18:38—Let the coals of heaven be stirred; let the breath of the Almighty ignite my soul! Flame without smoke, fire without ash—blaze forth as in the days of Elijah!"***
The light that followed was blinding. The very air ignited, a holy conflagration that forced Malachite back a step—then another.
Briel strode forward, his grin sharp enough to draw blood. "What's wrong, beast? Never seen a real fire before?"
Malachite snarled, but his confidence wavered. The Archmen fanned out, encircling him.
Briel knelt beside Hael, pressing the fallen Archon's crucifix to his chest. Golden light pulsed through Hael's body, sealing wounds, reforging broken bones. His armor manifested piece by piece, the divine steel clicking into place as he gasped back to consciousness.
Hael's eyes snapped open. "Briel? What—?"
"Saving you, apparently," Briel said, hauling him upright.
Hael's gaze darted to Mary. The Archmen had already bound her shattered arm, their hands glowing with healing light. She met his eyes, her own wide with disbelief.
Briel clapped a hand on Hael's shoulder. "We have much to discuss."
Hael flexed his fingers, his axe materializing in his grip. "It can wait." He turned to Malachite, his voice a promise. "First, we purge this *heathen* from the world."
Briel laughed, wild and unhinged. "Fine by me."
Malachite roared, his body surging with stolen power. "Nothing has changed! You still can't—"
Lightning.
Hael moved.
One moment, he stood beside Briel. The next, Malachite's severed arm thudded to the ground.
The demon blinked. *What just—?*
Briel's blade took his leg at the knee. "No time for spacing out!"
Malachite staggered—then *healed*, his flesh knitting back together with a sickening squelch. The souls within him writhed, their stolen vitality stitching him whole once more.
Hael circled, his voice cold. "He feeds on souls. The number he's consumed is the number of times he must die."
Briel's grin widened. "Yes!. It would be a shame if he died easy."
The Archmen tightened their noose. Gauntlet-blades slid free with a chorus of metallic shrieks.
Malachite bared his fangs, his body swelling with dark energy. "Come, then. Meet your death."