Azrael lay on the shattered arena floor, every breath agony. His chest was crushed, ribs broken, essence fractured from being held in the Demon King's grip. The Black Flame flickered weakly, barely maintaining form.

But around him—

Around him stood an army.

Not his army. Not bound to him through oath-marks or hierarchical channels. Just souls who'd chosen. Freed gladiators willing to die to protect what his existence represented. Baptized who'd stormed impossible barriers. Mortals who'd ...