The two girls stood firm, blades in hand.
Xenovia and Irina tightened their grips on their holy swords, their eyes sharp and resolute. Yet despite their courage, the pressure pressing down on them was suffocating—an overwhelming aura like a mountain looming before them.
Only now, facing him head-on, did they truly grasp the weight of the situation.
This was no ordinary Fallen Angel.
This was a Cadre—a high-ranking general from the ancient days of the Great War.
A monster whose strength was far beyond anything they could handle.
But it was too late to regret. There was no turning back now.
They had no choice but to fight.
"Hand over the sacred swords, Kokabiel!" Irina called out, stepping forward defiantly. "Those blades are not ant for traitors who turned their backs on God!"
Xenovia let out a soft sigh. Picking a fight with soone so far out of their league... was suicide. And Irina knew that too. But still, she advanced without a hint of hesitation.
Was that what people called courage?
Or was it simply blind faith?
Kokabiel smirked—an arrogant, condescending smile. To soone like him, who had once battled against Seraphim and Maou alike, these two Church girls were nothing more than noisy insects.
And the weapons they carried? re imitations.
While technically Sacred Swords, they were restructured from fragnts—mass-produced through alchemy, lacking the true essence of the originals.
To him, they were just toys.
"Only two Holy Sword Wielders? Is this all Heaven could spare?" Kokabiel's voice was thick with mockery. "How disappointing. Has the Church truly fallen so low?"
The words stung. Both girls had fought in brutal battles, slain Stray Devils, faced heretics and Apostles of Hell.
But in front of Kokabiel... none of that mattered.
"Kokabiel, think carefully!" Xenovia stepped forward now, trying to reason with him. "Stealing those sacred blades is a direct provocation. It could reignite war between Angels and the Fallen. Are you seriously willing to shatter the world's fragile peace just for your own ambition?"
Kokabiel chuckled. "Of course. That's exactly what I want."
The bluntness of his answer hit them like a slap. No gas. No lies. Just pure, unapologetic madness.
"At first, I assud Michael would send an army of Seraphim after once I took the Excaliburs... but no. He sends you two. Pathetic. This is a disgrace."
"You bastard...!"
"So I ca to the East with a single purpose," Kokabiel continued, raising his arms dramatically, his ten black wings stretching wide against the moonlight. "To capture the younger sisters of the current Maou. To humiliate them... and kill them. That would surely push the Devils into fury, don't you think? And when that happens—boom! War returns."
He grinned with wild delight.
"I'll bring back the Great War with my own hands!"
Xenovia and Irina froze in horror.
This wasn't about the Excaliburs anymore. This wasn't even about power or revenge.
This was about destruction. Pure and absolute.
He wanted the world to burn.
"You're insane…" Irina whispered, voice trembling.
"You really are completely insane," Xenovia muttered beside her, clutching Durandal tighter.
They both knew what was at stake now. If Kokabiel succeeded... the fragile peace forged over centuries would be shattered. Heaven, Hell, and everything in between would descend into chaos once more.
"That's enough talking. Ti to die," Kokabiel said coldly.
At his signal, three figures stepped out of the shadows.
Excommunicated Priests—fanatics cast out from the Church. Each one held a forged Sacred Sword in hand, their eyes devoid of rcy.
Freed Sellzen had been Kokabiel's pri candidate—a madman whose compatibility with Sacred Gear allowed him to wield multiple Excaliburs at once. But now that he was dead, these three were little more than cheap knockoffs.
Valper Galilei's technology could replicate the Sacred Sword Compatibility Factor... but the results were unstable.
Freed had been a rare success. These three were just disposable tools.
Still, they were enough to be dangerous.
The air grew heavy. Tension thickened with every passing second.
Then—footsteps echoed softly from the distance.
Soone was approaching.
"Hm?"
Kokabiel paused, his expression shifting. He turned his head toward the source of the sound.
Out from the shadows stepped a young man, erald eyes gleaming sharply beneath the pale moonlight.
His aura wasn't demonic. Nor angelic.
But it was potent—unnaturally calm and unwavering.
He walked forward without fear.
"I don't care about your war. I don't care about your stolen swords. That's not my problem," the boy said, voice low and controlled.
"But if you lay a hand on my fiancée—then you've crossed the line, Kokabiel."
"...Fiancée?" Kokabiel narrowed his eyes, confused. "Who the hell are you?"
"You don't know ?" the boy asked with a faint smirk. "You planned to harm her, but you don't even know my na?"
"Who are you talking about?"
"Rias Gremory. She's my fiancée."
Kokabiel blinked. Then realization dawned.
"So you're the human who defeated the third son of the Phenex family."
"That's ."
Kokabiel grinned. "Perfect. That ans I don't need to look for Rias anymore. I'll use you to lure her out."
"You arrogant black-feathered bastard," the young man growled, his gaze sharpening like a blade.
His na was Shin Akira—a human who once stood beneath the feet of beings like Azazel. Soone who had known what it ant to be powerless.
But not anymore.
Rias wasn't just a na on a marriage docunt. She was important to him. Soone he refused to let be hurt.
And Kokabiel... had just made that mistake.
Behind Akira, a golden magic circle appeared.
It shimred in midair, responding to the rage brewing in his heart. Then—chains burst out from the circle, snaking through the air with a divine glow.
Chains of Heaven—Enkidu.
"A chain-type Sacred Gear?" Kokabiel raised an eyebrow. "Now that's rare…"
Ten massive black wings flared behind him. With one powerful flap, he soared into the sky, dodging the incoming chains with swift, fluid movent.
The golden tendrils whipped through the night, chasing after him with unrelenting speed, but he was quick—too quick.
"That all you've got?" Kokabiel called down mockingly. "I expected more from the one who humiliated a Phenex."
"You arrogant crow," Akira growled.
mories flashed across his mind.
Azazel. The man who once towered over him. The suffocating pressure of being powerless, of being insignificant.
He had clawed his way out of that darkness.
He had changed.
But the pain of being helpless—it had never truly healed.
The ground beneath Akira trembled.
Golden light pulsed from cracks in the earth, spreading outward like ripples on a pond.
Then—weapons began to rise.
One after another, countless blades, spears, axes, and hamrs erged, shining as though summoned from so divine treasury.
Hundreds of weapons—each one infused with a trace of ancient might.
An echo of a forgotten empire.
"W-What is this…?" Kokabiel's eyes widened. "You summoned all of this?"
Akira didn't answer.
Instead, he lifted his hand and snapped his fingers.
"Fall from the heavens, you mad crow—Wisdom of the People!"
The weapons launched skyward in unison.
It wasn't just quantity. Each blade carried killing intent—sharp, precise, and impossible to evade.
Though they lacked the authority of true Noble Phantasms, the sheer pressure they emitted rivaled even Gate of Babylon.
Kokabiel's smug expression vanished.
"This is bad… they're too fast—too tight!"
There was no ti to escape.
The blades tore through the air, homing in from every direction.
Kokabiel summoned a barrier of dark light, but it was useless.
The storm of weapons crashed into him like a divine punishnt.
Steel slashed across his body—over and over, without rcy.
His cloak was shredded.
Wounds split open across his chest, his arms, his legs.
Even his wings—those ten obsidian wings that symbolized his power—were now tattered, stained with his own blood.
Feathers, black and bloodied, rained down through the moonlit sky.
The Cadre who once stood above angels and demons alike—was bleeding.
And above him stood the boy with erald eyes, silent and unwavering.
Shin Akira had arrived.
And the war Kokabiel sought... was no longer going according to plan.
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