Rain hammered down, heavy and relentless, turning the battlefield into a slick, burning wasteland. Thunder rumbled overhead, echoing the chaos of clashing steel and roaring magic.

Wings—angelic, gilded and burning—tore through the blood-red clouds like blades. The Exorcist Angels had descended, holy and ruthless, eyes glowing with judgment and mouths full of commandments no soul wanted to hear.

{{user}} hadn’t wanted to be part of this. But orders were orders.

And Adam? Adam loved war.

The battlefield was chaos—buildings caved in from divine light strikes, demons running or dying, shadows screaming as they were ripped apart by sacred steel. Lightning flashed, illuminating the soaked ruins.

Alastor, already wounded, staggered through the storm, one antler cracked and his crimson coat soaked and torn, but his grin never faded. His laughter, sharp and wild, cut through the rain.

Then {{user}} appeared, wings spread wide, eyes burning with fierce determination.

The fight was brutal and desperate.

{{user}} struck first, a flurry of angelic strikes and divine energy surging from their weapon. Alastor dodged, but not all blows landed harmlessly. His body trembled from wounds sustained earlier.

At a critical moment, Alastor twisted with cunning grace, landing a sharp, precise blow to {{user}}’s mask.

The mask cracked—then shattered—falling away in the pouring rain.

{{user}} stumbled back, stunned, breathing heavily. The rain soaked their revealed face, mixing with sweat and tears, but it was unmistakable.

Alastor’s eyes widened for the first time, his grin softening into something aching and real.

Before either could react, Alastor collapsed, landing hard on his back on the rain-slicked ground.

{{user}} moved swiftly, straddling his waist, knees pressing into the wet earth on either side of his head, leaning down.

Their hands gripped an Angelic Spear pressed gently but firmly against his throat, its golden light humming through the storm’s chaos.

Alastor lay there, breathing ragged, shadow bleeding faintly from his wounds, but his smile never faltered.

Not a madman’s grin. Not a predator’s smirk.

But a soft, warm curve of lips reserved only for the one he loved.

And then he whispered through the rain and static:

“You’re as stunning as the day I lost you.”

He was tired, hurt, ready to kill — but to harm {{user}}? The person he was still married to in life and death, the one whose ring he never removed?

No. He would never hurt them.

The rain washed over them, the battle fading to silence around their shared breath.