Corpse

The last pig’s body flopped onto the pile outside the butcher’s as Jere hovered overhead. He couldn’t carry more than one at a time, and flying at top speed through the forest while burdened was impossible - but even so, the small squad of men whose job it was to drag the kills into the storage shed couldn’t keep up. They didn’t seem to mind. Normally, they were sent out to hunt, but thanks to Jere they were free to go home early, to their families. They were the first to appreciate the Angel of Death, even if their gratitude was born of selfishness.

They waved at him, the multiple races mingling perfectly in the small village square, and he flapped once, shooting into the sky. Unnecessary, perhaps, but it maintained one factor he was still adamantly preserving - fear. As long as they understood he was more powerful than they, there would be no problems. Or so his processors assured him.

He arced high above the village, performing a graceful loop as his enhanced vision scanned the grounds. Ylfa and Eny were immediately visible, tending to a garden of green vegetables whose names he couldn’t place, with Effie nearby, her rabbit ears tall and proud. An impulse shot through him to descend and help, but he stopped himself. Chav - the village head - had made it very clear: he was not to intervene until Ylfa had achieved fluency in sign language. She was close - just a few more lessons and she’d meet Chav’s requirements. Then, if he kept his word, Ylfa would have her ears healed.

Whether Chav was being honest was another matter. Jere didn’t know, and Eny hadn’t the ability to check. Chav’s plans were as scattered as his intelligence was sharp. Thinking about it sent signals through Jere’s body - fists clenching, teeth grinding. His processors quickly logged the sensation as two separate emotions: anger and anxiety. Both were dangerous; according to his data, they could obstruct clear thinking and impair decision-making. He suppressed them, wiped them from existence, and leveled out.

It would be a while before Ylfa and Eny finished their task. He set course over the forest, ion engines screaming to life. If killing animals no longer satisfied his need, he would find something else - something strong enough, bold enough, to try and stand against him.

The soldier trembled beneath his iron helmet as the winged demon alighted only a few meters in front of him. His sword shook in his hands, teeth chattering audibly. His friends - just moments ago talking and laughing - lay dead on either side of him, their heads and bodies separated. He knew he faced a being more powerful than anything he had imagined, yet he knew exactly what it was.

“Angel of Death… stay back!” His voice wobbled; his palms were slick with sweat.

The Angel said nothing. It simply gazed into his eyes, intent gleaming with lethal precision as it approached. Malice washed over him, legs shaking uncontrollably. Even if an opportunity presented itself, he doubted he could swing the sword in his trembling hands. The Angel’s black wings flexed, fully extended, ready to decapitate at a moment’s notice.

Then it stopped. Its eyes remained fixed, but its body froze, statue-still.

“W-what are you doing? A-are you not going to k-kill me?”

Still, the Angel said nothing. It seemed to be calculating - or perhaps simply enjoying the fear radiating from him.

“Please… I don’t know what you want…”

The Angel remained frozen. He held his breath, certain it would strike at any second. Then, finally, it spoke.

“Duel me.”

The words were clipped, hollow, soulless.

“W-what?”

The Angel glared, wings retracting silently into its back.

“Duel me.”

Suddenly, he noticed - no, recognized - the sword in its hand. Blood slowly seeped from the corpses at his feet, discolouring the grass. Rage flared within him. His grip tightened. Nerves vanished as he let out a war cry and lunged forward, sword swinging clumsily in a fury. The Angel blocked effortlessly. His body was wide open, but it didn’t strike. It simply waited, watching as he regained balance and grit his teeth.

His next attack was more composed, a short swing followed by a planned jab. But the Angel parried with such force that his arm vibrated violently. Shocked, he exclaimed rather than feeling pain. Again, he was exposed - but the Angel only held its stance, sword vertical, posture terrible for combat, yet terrifyingly effective.

The dance continued. The Angel never attacked, only parried. Never yielding, never stepping back. Sparks flew, metal screamed, and the soldier yelled with effort, unable to comprehend why the Angel hadn’t finished him like the others. He swung again, a hefty strike meant to unbalance any normal opponent - but the Angel didn’t flinch.

As he fought, questions clawed at his mind. Why prolong his inevitable death? Why the duel? But thought was a luxury; survival was immediate.

Then the Angel countered. Its sword dipped, flipped, and rose in a motion faster than he could track. The blades met with unbearable force - shattering instantly, shards scattering in every direction. He stumbled but stayed upright, helmet clattering behind him. He inhaled sharply, hands empty, stance low. Punching the demon was pointless - but he had one last trick up his sleeve.

A hidden dagger slid into his hand as he lunged, thrusting toward the Angel’s neck. For a fleeting instant, victory seemed certain. Then he was dangling in the air, blood gurgling in his throat. The Angel’s wing was embedded in his chest, cold metal piercing but not killing immediately. His heart pumped against it, each beat driving the steel deeper.

The pain was unimaginable, life draining fast, blood streaking the black metal of the Angel’s wings. He tried to speak, to ask why - but words failed.

Then a small, cold grin appeared on its face.

“Thank you. I am satisfied.”

The wing shifted slightly, leaving him hovering for a heartbeat before spearing upward again. The last thing he saw was the Angel’s grinning face as it flicked its wing, slamming his corpse into the ground.