Chapter 42 - A Slow Death Beneath the Aurora

  Lazaro had stopped blinking a long time ago.

  He stood at the edge of the fractured ice plain.

  A jagged spear of glacier beneath his feet, hands stuffed in his coat pockets like a man waiting for his coffee to arrive.

  The archer faced him across the field.

  Her silhouette cut through the aurora like a blade, bow drawn, expression locked somewhere between precision and hate.

  She fired.

  He tilted his head.

  The arrow slipped past his cheek, catching a single strand of hair. He blinked.

  "That was rude," Lazaro muttered, half to himself, half to the ghosts that watched from the heavens.

  Another arrow.

  This one on fire.

  He vanished.

  No wind. No flash. Just gone.

  Reappeared a dozen meters to the left, lying on a slab of ice like he was sunbathing.

  "You ever get tired?" he called, waving lazily.

  She didn’t respond.

  She never did.

  Another arrow.

  Another explosion.

  He stood, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.

  Then sighed.

  Time warped.

  The air around him thickened like honey, slowing everything to a crawl.

  The arrow coming toward him lost momentum mid-flight, drifting like a feather in molasses.

  The snowflakes suspended in air ceased to fall. Even her heartbeat slowed—he could hear it.

  Lazaro stepped forward.

  "Don’t take this personally," he said, walking through the stopped explosion like it was mist.

  "I just hate archers."

  But the moment he raised his hand, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

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  She stabbed a syringe into her shoulder, thumb pressing down hard.

  A surge of heat burst from her veins.

  Time cracked.

  The arrow in Lazaro's vision jumped.

  Teleported. Hit.

  Right in the chest.

  Lazaro flew.

  The world became motion again. Glaciers shattered beneath his back.

  His coat split down the middle. Blood trailed like a comet tail.

  He hit the ice.

  Hard.

  Then rolled onto one knee, coughing.

  Across the battlefield, the archer no longer moved like a soldier.

  She moved like a creature that had tasted godhood and demanded seconds.

  She was glowing. A second syringe was already in her hand.

  Lazaro chuckled.

  "So you do talk. Just in pharmacology."

  She dashed again. Faster than before. A blur.

  He triggered a localized gravity field mid-dodge.

  She blinked out of it, midair.

  Another shot.

  He deflected with a timed pull on time drag, but it clipped his shoulder anyway.

  Then a dozen more arrows filled the sky.

  He muttered, "Alright, no more jokes."

  He dropped both hands.

  The battlefield collapsed.

  Not visually. Not physically.

  But spiritually.

  The weight increased. Pressure mounted.

  The snow began to weep, the ice turned black with gravitational residue.

  Lazaro rose fully. His coat now hung like a priest's robe at the altar of collapse.

  The archer staggered.

  One knee dropped. Her veins glowing too brightly.

  She rose again.

  Third syringe.

  Injected.

  Her scream sounded less human this time.

  Her body shimmered, twitched, cracked in places. The drug was working.

  And killing her.

  Lazaro didn’t wait.

  He launched forward. Not running.

  Falling toward her with gravitational bursts guiding his steps.

  She fired point blank.

  He twisted—barely missed.

  Lazaro grabbed her by the throat.

  But she was ready. Blade drawn from her quiver's back, stabbed upward.

  Straight through his hand.

  He didn’t flinch. Just smirked. "Not bad."

  Then lifted her by the throat anyway.

  "You’ll break," he said. "Long before I do."

  But then the sky howled.

  An unnatural shriek.

  A siren mixed with a funeral bell. A pressure that made even Lazaro look up.

  Reinforcements.

  Hundreds.

  Dozens of them shot through the clouds, descending like falling stars.

  All of them cloaked in light, moving with inhuman discipline.

  Two more dragon-turtles surfaced from the ocean, screams echoing across the ice plains.

  One landed behind Belzeebub.

  He laughed louder.

  Near Levi, two fleets of the shadow-dancers arrived. Lightning-fast. Built to disable magic.

  Behind them, an entire squad of martial artists descended from hovering ships.

  Satan, still clashing with his battered-up red-haired rival, paused.

  Watched.

  Smiled.

  "Your friends have come."

  Ash turned her head.

  Behind her, two more blade-wielders appeared. Each one with a different style.

  One moved like a whip. Another like a wall.

  Lazaro groaned lazily.

  "Oh, come on!"

  The archer broke his grip during the distraction. And fired at his leg.

  Hit.

  He dropped, knee cracking.

  But he caught himself.

  And stood.

  As the battlefield morphed.

  The tide rose again.

  And hell was far from empty.