A blade. Several times, repeated, struck with the energy of despair. A blood colorless, odorless, invisible and impalpable, dripping lightly on the cold floor. A fierce battle, not only for survival but also, as silly as it sounds, for tradition, for balance, for the entire universe.
They fight as if the fate of the world rested on their shoulders. What is true, basically.
An eternal struggle between life and death.
The angel took a deep breath, his sword still in hand, still covered with the blood of the demon. He looked up into the sky a dark blue, with gray clouds. His shoulder was burning.
The impure had had time to give him a blow that could be fatal if it had not prevented in time. The fight was hard, and had lasted at least the time of a hummingbird flapping its wings. Painfully slow.
He touched the tip of his finger his injured limb. A vacuum blood was trickling down his arm. It was unusually short of breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow. He had been afraid. The demon had a