Fallen Angel's Harem in the Abyss
Chapter 51: The Plague of Fur and Flame - 4

Chapter 51: The Plague of Fur and Flame - 4

And Nyxsha howled, her voice a raw, painful cry that echoed through the courtyard, tearing from her throat like a wound reopening.

Bones cracked—her own—as her limbs stretched with a sickening pop, her fangs spilling past her lips in a grotesque elongation, her fur exploding in black flame that licked at the mist, her form twisting—monstrous, primal, a beast, her body shaking with the effort of holding back the flood of memory and rage.

She stood between Azareel and the incoming horde, snarling, her voice a guttural roar that vibrated through the stone, her claws digging into the earth as she braced herself, flames dancing along her fur like a crown of fury.

But she was shaking—because these weren’t just monsters.

They were faces, etched in eternal accusation.

Some she remembered begging, their pleas echoing in her mind like ghosts.

Others she remembered choking, their final gasps a haunting symphony.

One little girl—so small, so human—looked up at her with wide ghostly eyes, her translucent form flickering like a candle in the wind, fragile and unforgiving.

"Why...?" it asked, its voice a whisper that cut deeper than any blade, piercing her soul with the weight of innocence lost. "Why did you burn us?"

Nyxsha gasped, her monstrous form faltering, her claws digging deeper into the stone as despair washed over her like a tidal wave of blood and regret.

She couldn’t do this again.

She couldn’t kill them again, the pain too raw, too real, unraveling her from within.

Azareel stepped forward.

Right beside her.

His frail form a stark contrast to her beastly one, his silver-white hair glowing faintly in the mist, his torn robe fluttering in the spectral wind.

He didn’t flinch, his presence a quiet defiance amid the storm of souls.

His bare feet touched the cursed stone

His eyes—calm, soft, resolute—took in the army of death.

Then he did something no one expected—he glowed.

Not with heat.

Not with magic.

With something older, purer—

Light, unyielding and radiant, like the first sunrise in a world without time, spilling from him in waves of golden warmth that pushed back the fog and illuminated the souls’ translucent forms, casting long shadows that danced like forgotten memories.

The souls stopped, their hollow eyes turning toward him.

Their silent screams faltering as the light washed over them, revealing the pain etched into their ethereal faces, the despair that had bound them to this place.

The mist recoiled, the fog parting like veils torn asunder, the city’s watchful presence seeming to hesitate for the first time.

Azareel opened his arms, not to fight, but to welcome, his voice soft amid the chaos, carrying a heartfelt weight, philosophical in its simplicity, eerie in the silence that followed.

"I see you," he said, his words echoing like a prayer in the void, a condemnation of the darkness that had birthed this pain. "I see what happened. And I see what she became because of it."

The light pulsed from him, golden and deep, weaving through the mist like threads of forgiveness, wrapping around the souls in a gentle embrace.

Some souls trembled, their forms flickering as if caught between rage and release, their hollow eyes filling with a faint glow.

Some... cried, silent tears streaming from empty sockets, their twisted limbs relaxing for the first time in centuries, the weight of betrayal lifting like chains shattered.

Azareel stepped forward again, his presence a beacon in the dark, turning over his shoulder to look at Nyxsha—monstrous, trembling, broken.

"Did you forget?" he whispered to her, smiling faintly, his silver eyes shining with quiet strength, a light that pierced the despair like a blade of dawn.

"Despite falling to the Abyss... I am an angel."

.

.

The golden light surged, a radiant cascade that spilled from Azareel like dawn breaking through eternal night, his arms outstretched, his severed wings absent in form but present in the ethereal glow that haloed his slender frame.

The mist recoiled, shadows fleeing like smoke from fire, the city’s watchful presence seeming to hesitate for the first time, as if even the stone remembered what it was to fear divinity.

Azareel stood at its center, his silver-white hair lifting in an unseen wind, his torn robe fluttering like a banner of forgotten grace, his silver eyes, shining with a quiet, unyielding resolve.

The wailing of the dead turned softer, their storm of rage settling like ash drifting in a gentle wind, the chaotic surge of translucent forms faltering, their hollow eyes widening as the light washed over them, illuminating the pain etched into their ethereal faces.

Even the cursed stones of the city pulsed—once, faintly—as if recognizing something ancient, something sacred that had long been absent from this forsaken place.

The fog parted, the illusions flickering like dying embers, the weight of condemnation lifting just enough to reveal the raw despair beneath.

Nyxsha—still in her monstrous form—stood behind him, stunned, her massive body rigid, her black fur rippling with flames that danced like a crown of fury, her golden eyes wide with disbelief.

Her claws twitched at her sides, her fangs bared, yet she remained unmoving, the horde’s advance halted by the light that poured from the angel she had sworn to protect.

Not one of the spirits touched her.

Not one screamed anymore, their silent wails fading into a hush, the pressure in the air easing like a storm breaking.

Instead, they stared, their hollow pits turning toward Azareel, transfixed by the glow that revealed them not as monsters of vengeance, but as the broken remnants of lives stolen too soon.

And in the radiance of Azareel’s light, the shadows that clung to their bodies... began to peel away, dissolving like smoke lifting from a quenched fire, wisps of darkness unraveling into nothing, leaving behind translucent forms that seemed lighter, less burdened.

Like ash drifting in a gentle wind.

One by one, the souls approached him—not as a horde, but as people, their steps hesitant, their twisted limbs straightening slightly in the light’s embrace.