Demonic Angels

Prologue

    The unusual thing about the death of our main character was that the sword that killed him was abnormally shiny. The Demon had never seen something so bright, even when covered in dirt.

    It had been swung towards his exposed neck, glinting crimson in the light of the setting sun. Dust had flown up from the desert land, many moving feet causing a great rumbling in addition to the screaming and the clangs of metal.

Now that he thought about it, the sword was beautiful, albeit the unusual blue tint in the light metal it was made of. It barely had blood on it — if any — which was, of course, unusual in the middle of a battlefield, especially for someone with so much power in their swing.

    It had lodged itself into his neck harshly and the wielder immediately pulled it back out, probably going to kill somebody else.

    He had spluttered and coughed, grabbing his neck in a failed attempt to stop the bleeding and falling to the floor.

    All of a sudden, he was hovering above, looking down at his dead body amidst a sea of other — both living and dead — beings.

    Everything seemed to be playing in half-speed; he could clearly make out the details on weapons, in a situation where (usually) weapons could barely be made out themselves, let alone the tiny dents and snowflakes on them.

    He had noticed a particularly short, dark-haired person hovering over and around his body, covered in blood and fighting against the Angels' army alongside his Demon comrades.

    Demons and Angels had been fighting a war for way over a century to no avail. Both sides were exhausted and fighting half heartedly, most carrying the weight of dead colleagues, comrades and friends.

    The Humans... they hadn't been seen in over twenty years. They would've been assumed to be extinct by now, if there was an organisation left to announce that.

    The bratty Angels had decided that they weren't happy with, you know, the entire modern world, and so they declared war against the poor Humans, whatever good that did them. No one honestly has an idea on what they were thinking, but that's besides the point.

    If you're wondering which side our character is on, he's with the Demons. As a Demon himself, he couldn't leave the Humans to fend for themselves.

    Despite all the trauma and loss everyone faced, the war never ceased. Fun.

    Anyway, back to the dead body.

    He had long since lost sight of the black-haired person in the crowd.

    Flesh and blood flew everywhere as nightfall approached, fire and the smell of burning flesh floating in the air around them.

    He caught a glimpse of the short person again, cutting down anything and everything that came his way. To be honest, it seemed more like they were trying to stop people from getting to the dead body.

The Demon tried to remember if he had ever met the person defending him, but surely he'd remember meeting someone so... tiny.

    They looked down at the body, probably saying something to it before they kicked it in the head. I know, who kicks a dead person in the head?

    Okay, admittedly, it wasn't actually a dead body. A powerful Demon like ours wouldn't be killed by a simple wound like that.

    Time zoomed back (painfully) to its original pace as the Demon sat up, back in his body, his head throbbing in the area he had been kicked. The neck wound had healed completely in the time his body was unconscious and the short person was glaring down at him with his dark eyes.