Time - Part 1

The once majestic setting, where Demons and Angels alike share harmony once before, now lies in ruin. The aftermath of God's death ray is a scene of unimaginable horror, a twisted tableau of devastation that defies all comprehension.

The air is thick with the acrid stench of charred flesh and burnt ethereal essence. Scattered across the desolate wasteland are the remnants of fallen warriors, their dismembered bodies and shattered forms frozen in grotesque poses of agony. Limbs lie strewn haphazardly, detached from their former hosts, while severed wings, once symbols of celestial grace, now lie discarded and broken.

The ground, once vibrant and teeming with life, has transformed into a desolate hellscape. Cracks snake through the earth, like scars etched upon the very fabric of the afterworld. Fissures yawn open, revealing the depths of an abyssal void beneath as if the land itself has been rent asunder by the magnitude of the destruction.

The once towering pillars of the Parthenon, remnants of a celestial civilization long past, now stand as jagged ruins, their once pristine white marble marred by scorch marks and gaping wounds. Ashen debris dances in the air, carried by the mournful wind that whispers through the decimated battlefield.

"No! This cannot be! What has become of us?" an angel, his once magnificent wings now tattered and charred, cries out in anguish.

"The pain... Fuck! We are all... damned!" a demon with a twisted form contorts with pain, letting out a guttural roar.

"God, why? Why have you forsaken us like this? What have we done to deserve such torment?" another angel, his voice strained with agony, pleads.

"We... We already told you that this is the real fucking face of our so-called creator. He revels in our suffering!" a demon whispers, gasping.

The cries of the wounded, both angels and demons, intertwine in a cacophony of despair. Each scream and plea for mercy mingles with the mournful wind that sweeps through the broken pillars, carrying their torment into the desolate expanse.

The silence that hangs heavy over the battlefield is punctuated by occasional moans of pain and cries of anguish. The once majestic celestial beings, now reduced to broken and mutilated remnants, writhe in a grotesque ballet of suffering. The horror of their shattered existence is etched upon their faces, frozen in expressions of agony and disbelief.

Even the survivors, those fortunate enough to have evaded the path of the death ray, are not spared from the indelible terror that the sight invokes. Their eyes widen in shock and disbelief as they survey the desolation before them, their minds struggling to comprehend the sheer magnitude of the destruction.

It is a scene that tears at the very fabric of reality, a testament to the raw power of God's wrath and the extent of His cruelty. The once-sacred battleground has become a testament to the atrocities committed by the so-called divine ruler.

Amid the horror, the remaining Demons of Sins stand tall in the air, their eyes fixed on their formidable adversaries. The zombified Archangels, once radiant and majestic, now twisted and corrupted by God's wrath, relentlessly press their assault.

"Why won't you fucking stay down?" Beelzebub growls, his voice tinged with a mixture of anger and desperation.

Beelzebub parries a powerful strike from a zombified Archangel, his dagger clashing against the ethereal blade with a resounding clash. His brows furrow in frustration as he realizes the futility of his efforts.

[Clang!]

"What the fuck! How do we stop them?" Sathanas swings her mace with all her might, aiming for the zombified Archangel's head, only to witness the wound sealing shut moments later. Her eyes widen in disbelief, her mind racing to find a solution.

[Gash!]

"Abaddon thinks that we need a new plan. Our usual tactics won't work against this... creature," Abaddon's bladed chain whirls through the air, striking the zombified Archangels with precision, but their wounds close as quickly as they are inflicted. Frustration etches deep lines on his face, his grip tightening around the chain.

[Thuck!]

"They regenerate faster than we can damage them. We must find their weakness!" Mammon's arrows, usually deadly and true, seem to not affect the zombified Archangels. His brow furrows in consternation, his mind racing for an answer.

[Bang!]

"There has to be a way! We can't let them overpower us!" Belphegor's bladed shield clashes against a zombified Archangel's arm, causing a burst of sparks, but it is a futile effort. He grits his teeth, frustration boiling within him.

Their attacks continue in a desperate flurry, strengthened by determination and a growing sense of urgency. But with each strike, their hope wanes, replaced by a gnawing dread. The realization that their conventional methods are proving ineffective weighs heavy on their hearts.

The Demons of Sins begin to grasp the horrifying truth. Stabbing the zombified Archangels only fuels their regeneration, as if their bodies are inexorably linked to some unseen source of power. It is a macabre revelation that cuts through their hearts like a serrated blade.

Their expressions shift from frustration to a mixture of horror and disbelief. The once formidable Demons of Sins, known for their ruthless efficiency and unwavering resolve, now find themselves facing a seemingly insurmountable challenge.

Amid the chaos, doubts creep into their minds. Can they truly prevail against this formidable enemy? Have they underestimated the power of God's wrath? Their thoughts spiral, threatening to drown them in a sea of despair.

But even in the face of despair, the Demons of Sins refuse to yield. They know that they have come too far, fought too hard, to give in now. They need a new strategy, a way to overcome the seemingly invincible zombified Archangels.

"Change our strategy! Cutting them into pieces seems to be the only way to stop them!" Beelzebub yells, his voice laced with frustration.

[Slit!]

"Rip them apart! We must dismember them until they can't fucking move!" Sathanas swings her mace with renewed vigour, aiming not for a single blow but for a barrage of strikes that will cleave the zombified Archangels limb from limb.

[Tear!]

"Chop them into fragments! Do not relent until there is nothing left but scattered remnants!" Abaddon's bladed chain whirls through the air, lashing out at the zombified Archangels with relentless fury.

[Rip!]

"Divide and conquer! We must reduce them to mere pieces!" Mammon draws his bow, arrows flying with lethal precision. Each shot is aimed to sever the limbs of the zombified Archangels, ensuring their movements become slower and more sluggish.

[Schlick!]

"Cut them apart! Hahahaha!" Belphegor, his bladed shield a formidable weapon, joins the gruesome dance of dismemberment. With each swing, he aims to sever limbs and shatter bones, rendering the zombified Archangels motionless.

As the Demons of Sins adapt their tactics, the battlefield becomes a nightmarish symphony of screams and cries. The zombified Archangels, once embodiments of celestial power, are reduced to fragmented husks, their limbs torn asunder and their bodies disfigured.

"Strike them down!" Amidst the chaos, Michael fights alongside the Demons, wielding his sword with divine precision.

With each strike, the Archdemons and Michael chip away at the zombified Archangels, leaving trails of severed limbs and shattered remnants in their wake. The battle grows increasingly gruesome, the once noble beings now reduced to a grotesque spectacle of disembodiment.

Not far away, somewhere in the ruins of the Parthenon, God observes the gruesome ballet with an amused glint in His eyes. His gaze moves from the relentless onslaught of the Demons to the dismembered forms of the zombified Archangels. The sight of their shattered bodies seems to entertain Him, a twisted amusement born out of divine sadism.

A wicked smile plays upon God's lips as He surveys the battlefield. With a mere fraction of His unimaginable power, He gathers the shattered pieces of the Parthenon and moulds them into a makeshift throne. Taking His seat upon the jagged ruins, He leans back and crosses His arms, settling in to watch the macabre spectacle unfold before Him.

The Demons of Sins, their faces contorted with exertion and determination, continue their relentless assault. Each strike aims to dismember, to sever the zombified Archangels into lifeless fragments. Limbs are torn asunder, bones shattered, and ethereal essence scattered across the desolate battlefield.

God's amusement grows with each swing of a blade, each arrow that finds its mark, and each thunderous impact of mace upon flesh. The Demons fight with a fervour born out of desperation, unaware of the divine eyes that observe their every move.

He perches upon His makeshift throne and chuckles softly to Himself. The Demons' struggle delights Him, their defiance an unexpected source of entertainment amidst the ruins of His creation. He revels in their determination, relishes their defiance, and takes sadistic pleasure in their suffering.

From His elevated vantage point, He watches as the Demons continue their gruesome work. The once majestic beings, now reduced to broken fragments, are scattered across the sky like discarded toys. The zombified Archangels, once formidable adversaries, now drop motionless, their dismembered forms serving as a testament to the Demons' unwavering resolve.