Interlude 48: Zabriel's Encounter

Zabriel swiftly adjusted his breathing.

Scalding rain fell from the heavens, hammering against his power armour like inverted torrents of lava and raising plumes of white steam. The black paintwork was washed into a blur by the raindrops, like an unfinished oil painting, yet the ceramite beneath showed no ashen white. Instead, it displayed a peculiar blackness utterly devoid of texture.

Zabriel tightened his grip on his sword—the only weapon still available to him.

The sky was dim now, the sun nowhere to be seen. The giant in black armour stood silently amidst the pitch-black curtain of rain, his blade held low.

Then, in an instant, crackling arcs of electricity erupted and filled the blade. A flash of white cleaved through the rain, and high-temperature steam burst forth like fire.

A deep roar tore from Zabriel's chest. Behind his helmet, his face twisted savagely. Gritting his teeth, he drew his sword and slashed sideways, then struck again—four more cuts in the blink of an eye.

The muscle spasms that had plagued his arm were nowhere to be seen. At this moment, his hand was as steady, swift, and violent as it had been in every slaughter of his past.

Swordlight flashed, swift as lightning. Chunks of flesh scattered across the ground, and something was cleanly cut down on the spot—but was it truly dead?

Judging by the Dark Angel's arm rising once more, the answer was clearly no.

"Die!"

Zabriel growled again. The word dropped from his throat, low and hoarse, carrying an indelible ferocity.

Nothing he had endured in the past had made the old knight a man consumed by hatred, nor had he ever fought with such extremity. Yet that was simply how things were. He did not wish to be calm now.

After all, seventy-six hours earlier,