Sacred Gear Shadow Light

With Azazel

Fallen Angel Territory, Underworld

The dimly lit chamber in the heart of the Fallen Angels' territory buzzed with the hum of energy, an orchestra of power that danced around Azazel's deft hands. He stood at the center of the room, surrounded by intricate arrays of glowing runes and crystalline conduits pulsing with vibrant light. Sacred Gears—some incomplete, others in various stages of refinement—floated in containment fields, their forms flickering with unstable energy as though yearning to break free.

Azazel's violet eyes gleamed, sharp with curiosity and ambition, as he channeled twin streams of opposing power across the makeshift altar. One flow radiated the leftover Holy Light he had salvaged long ago, still pure and potent despite its fragmented state. The other roiled with the dark, draconic energy drawn from Fafnir's Downfall Dragon Spear—an artifact granted to him in a rare show of trust, loaded with the raw essence of a fallen dragon.

He had spent years working up the nerve to fuse these two forces, fully aware that they were designed by nature to clash. The best he could manage was a single core—an anchor to hold the dueling energies at bay. Balancing lightand downfallwas no casual experiment; it was, by all accounts, a desperate gamble that most would consider impossible. But Azazel's ambition, tempered by curiosity, drove him forward.

He guided the coalescing energies together, wincing at the sparks of backlash as they protested their union. All the while, his mind churned with distant memories of his earlier achievements. Shadow Light—the Sacred Gear that had once proven he could manipulate contradictory powers into a functioning whole—was proof that he wasn't just toying with forces beyond him. It also reminded him how precarious this dance truly was, how easily a delicate balance could tip into chaos.

A surge rattled his concentration. The Holy Light flared, colliding with the Downfall Spear's baleful aura in a clash of brilliance and shadow. Azazel swore under his breath, steadying his hands. 'Come on,' he urged silently, forcing the struggling powers to bend, to find equilibrium within the core he'd fashioned. He knew he was pushing his luck; every attempt to mix holy remnants with draconic energy had ended in violent rejection before. Still, he had to try.

At last, the energies calmed, settling into an uneasy truce within the core. Azazel exhaled, letting himself bask in that fleeting moment of triumph. 'All I did was outfit them with a space to coexist,' he told himself with a wry smile. He knew he hadn't done anything grand—only provided a small container where neither Holy Light nor Downfall essence could overwhelm the other. But in this fragile harmony, it was enough.

He ran a gloved hand through his hair, unable to deny the wave of satisfaction coursing through him. This wasn't merely another artifact to throw into the vast arsenal of dragon-infused weaponry that filled the world. This was for him—entirely of his design, an extension of his own ingenuity. 'I'm done relying on someone else's dragon,' he thought, the edge of his mouth curling into the faintest smirk.

The smirk faded, replaced by a contemplative expression as he ran his hand over the glowing core in front of him. As he observed the fruits of his labor, his mind drifted, unbidden, to the state of the Grigory. His smirk faded, replaced by a contemplative frown. Many believed he was oblivious to the changes within his faction, but nothing escaped Azazel's sharp gaze—not the brewing bloodlust, not the growing fractures among his Fallen kin.

Satanael, Kokabiel, and others—once radiant warriors of Heaven, now consumed by their fall—had grown too enamored with power. Satanael's cold ambition to dominate Hell. Kokabiel's incessant hunger for battle, his fixation on reclaiming Heaven by force. And then there were the others who whispered in shadowed corners, dreaming of conquest while failing to see the truth.

'They don't understand,' Azazel thought bitterly, his gaze fixed on the pulsating core. 'We're the weakest of the three factions now. The Devils have Evil Pieces. Heaven has its Brave Saints and Church. And us? We're scattered, hunted, and persecuted. Our numbers dwindle with every conflict, and they think we're in a position to rule?'

He shook his head, his violet eyes narrowing. The Fallen had suffered endless losses, their once-glorious ranks reduced to a fraction of what they had been. Every skirmish with the Devils, every clash with Heaven, every incursion from the other pantheons—it all chipped away at their strength. And now, they faced another threat that none of them fully understood.

The Dimensional Gap.

Just thinking of it sent a chill down Azazel's spine. He had only glimpsed its raw, destructive potential— the foreign presence that tingled his senses, the primal intent to destruction and then there was the outburst. And the entities capable of doing them … they were not things to be trifled with. He suppressed a shiver, his hands gripping the edge of the worktable as if to anchor himself.

"If only we had more like me," he murmured to himself, his voice barely above a whisper. "Twelve-winged Fallen who could hold their own against the chaos. Maybe then we wouldn't be in such a precarious position."

But he knew better than to dwell on wishful thinking. For now, it was him, his fractured forces, and the slim hope that his experiments might yield something useful—something to tip the balance back in their favor.

The hum of the Sacred Gear before him brought his focus back to the present. He placed a hand over the core, feeling the steady pulse of energy, and allowed himself a faint smile.

"Not perfect," he said quietly. "But it's a start."

Before he could relax, the steady hum of energy in Azazel's chamber faltered, drowned out by a vibration that cut through the air like a blade. It wasn't a sound but a pulse—deep, resonant, and ancient. It rose from somewhere beyond comprehension, yet it echoed through the core of Azazel's very being. He froze, his violet eyes widening as the sensation grew, deliberate and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. But it wasn't his own.

A faint trembling started in his chest, spreading outward until his entire body seemed to resonate with the pulse. He staggered back, his hand flying instinctively to his sternum, as if his touch could somehow still the invasive rhythm. The sensation wasn't pain—at least not yet—but it carried a force so pure and raw that it felt as though his essence was being unraveled.

"What… is this?" Azazel muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, the uncharacteristic tremor betraying his unease.

The energy in the room reacted violently. Sacred Gears within their containment fields began to spark, their previously stable forms flickering erratically. The runes etched into the walls flared a brilliant white, their light so intense that Azazel had to shield his eyes. One by one, the glowing sigils cracked, dimming as though submitting to a force far beyond their capacity to contain.

The pulse grew stronger. It pressed down on him, heavy and unrelenting, stripping away the composure he had perfected over millennia. His wings twitched uncontrollably, feathers ruffling as if the very presence of the force had unsettled them. And then, without warning, the pressure turned sharp.

It was like a vice closing around his heart.

Azazel gasped, his knees buckling under the intensity. His free hand reached out, grasping at the edge of the worktable for support, but the pain was unrelenting. The sensation shifted from discomfort to agony, a crushing force that seemed intent on grinding his very existence into nothingness. Sweat dripped from his brow as he clenched his teeth, his wings trembling with every labored breath.

"This… this can't be happening…" he choked out, his voice raw and strained.

The pulse was relentless now, each beat reverberating through his soul with a force that felt like judgment. Memories surfaced unbidden—his fall, his defiance, the choices that had brought him to this fractured existence. It wasn't just a heartbeat; it was intent. Divine and searingly pure, it clawed at the foundation of who he was, demanding answers he wasn't ready to give.

Azazel tried to push back against the overwhelming force, his body trembling as he summoned every ounce of his willpower. But the power pressing down on him was relentless, an ancient weight that refused to yield. His knees buckled, and he slumped forward, gasping for air as the intensity finally began to dull.

His violet eyes flickered with a mixture of defiance and fear, the emotions warring within him as he fought to regain control. The Sacred Gear's core, once blazing with volatile energy, dimmed slightly, its light stabilizing as the oppressive force dulled.

As if that's not the end, from within, he felt a presence stir—one he hadn't felt in centuries. It was quiet at first, a subtle but undeniable awareness that grew in strength as the pulse echoed louder. His lips parted as understanding dawned.

"This… is Him," he whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and dread.

The realization sent a chill down his spine. Azazel's thoughts turned unbidden to Naruto, the unpredictable blonde who had defied every expectation placed upon him. The man had wielded Shadow Light,an artifact Azazel had once deemed too unstable and deemed him unworthy, with a grace and strength that should have been impossible. And now, somehow, Naruto had awakened something far greater than even Azazel could comprehend.

"Good job, brat," Azazel murmured, his lips curling into a faint, pained smile. Even through the overwhelming force pressing down on him, pride flickered in his violet eyes. "You've done the impossible…"

The urge to pray came suddenly, a compulsion that tore through him with an urgency he couldn't resist. His hands clasped together as he bowed his head, words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them. "Father… forgive us… guide us…"

The room trembled as the pulse intensified, the sheer power of it threatening to consume him entirely. But then, just as the pressure became unbearable, a new sound cut through the chaos—a chime.

At first, it was faint, like the echo of a distant bell. But with each toll, it grew louder, clearer, until the sound filled the chamber with a resonance that defied reality. Azazel froze, his breath hitching as recognition struck him like lightning.

"The Bell of the Seventh Heaven,"he whispered, his voice shaking. The sound was unmistakable, a tone he hadn't heard since his days as a radiant angel, long before his fall. It was a call to the divine, an undeniable proclamation that reverberated through every fiber of his being.

The bell's chime didn't stop with him. It spread outward, piercing through the depths of the Underworld itself. Across the Grigory, Fallen Angels faltered mid-flight, their wings trembling as the bell's intent struck them like a hammer. The corrupted among them screamed in agony, their forms flickering under the weight of its divine authority. Even the strongest of their warriors froze, their arrogance crumbling beneath the sound's overwhelming presence.

Azazel knelt, his wings dragging on the ground as he clasped his hands tighter, his violet eyes shimmering with tears. "It's happening," Azazel whispered, his voice steady despite the tears streaming down his face. "The signs are clear. He's coming back."

And Cut!

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