Azazel raised his massive fists and smashed them into the ground.

"Face me, you feeble wraiths!" he thundered, as the earth quaked and sent shards of asphalt flying skyward.

The earth shattered beneath the impact, sending shards of asphalt skyward, a chaotic rain of destruction.

In the aftermath, Malachi and Deon were nowhere to be seen, as if swallowed by the very air.

Azazel's eyes locked onto Maxwell, who stood steady amidst the turmoil.

"You!" Azazel growled, lunging forward with intent.

But Maxwell smoothly stepped back, evading Azazel's grasp with fluid precision.

In a blur of motion, a scythe whirled through the frenzy, embedding itself into the ground and pinning Azazel's hand with a reverberating force.

Dark blood oozed from the wound, anchoring him momentarily.

Taking his chance, Malachi surged in with a powerful kick, slamming into Azazel's jaw with explosive impact.

Azazel staggered, the force of the kick sending rippling reverberations through his being.

Woeful echoes of the strike clouded his senses, momentarily disorienting him.

Despite the staggering assault, Azazel shook his head, clearing the spectral fog from his mind.

Deon grabbed the scythe , its silver gleam stark against the demons skin.

"I'll be taking this back," he said, his voice a low growl. With a brutal wrench, he ripped the scythe free.

The force of the extraction was so great it cleanly severed Azazel's hand at the wrist.

Azazel's gray skin seemed to shimmer with an eerie luster, as his arms, hardened like rock, bore the marks of past battles.

Black blood oozed from the stump as he grabbed it, anger flaring in his eyes.

Malachi, a predatory grin spreading across his face, thought, *Alright, we're getting somewhere.*

He performed a *karmic infusion*, slamming his palm into his fist, the gesture visibly drawing energy into his arm.

Azazel's hand regenerated from flames, more robust and resilient, though still dripping with molten residue.

Malachi's fist then struck his jaw with bone-crushing force.

A sickening moment later, Azazel's abdomen erupted in a burst of dark ichor and gore, splattering the ground.

Observing the scene with mild surprise, he thought, *How did that happen? Did I do that? Shoot, I'll do it again.*

Maxwell quickly moved to support him.

"Again!" Maxwell's voice, low and urgent, came from a few feet behind.

There was no physical contact, yet Malachi felt it – a connection, a silent exchange of energy.

The power flowed, not as a shock, but as a smooth, seamless increase in his capabilities.

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He felt stronger, faster, his senses heightened, all without a visible source.

Landing on Azazel's back, Deon jammed sickles into both shoulders.

The demon's roar echoed as he spun, backhanding Deon into a bloody, spinning arc.

Malachi's voice, dangerously calm, cut through the air, "I don't appreciate that."

His fist connected with Azazel's jaw, sending the demon staggering.

As he glanced at his hand, he gave a grateful nod to Maxwell, whose power coursed through him.

A grin spread across Malachi's face as the fight became a brutal dance of fists and blood.

With each strike that landed, invisible forces healed his wounds instantly, a gift from Maxwell's abilities.

Yet, Azazel was relentless, raising twisted fingers with a guttural cry.

Golden light pulsed, forming a crystalline energy cube that deflected Malachi's next attack with a ringing clang.

"You goddamn fool!" Azazel's voice resounded across the battlefield, a furious echo.

Malachi, blood trickling down his face, watched as Azazel's wounds miraculously healed, the triangle hand sign still vivid in his mind—simple yet unsettling.

He wiped his face, eyes narrowed with determination.

In that charged moment, a silver line streaked through the air, shattering Azazel's energy barrier with a piercing *shriek*.

The line continued its lethal path, slicing through Azazel's head, leaving him gasping in disbelief before his body slumped.

The silver blur carried on, marking a stop sign and flagpole with precise holes.

Malachi's breath caught as he turned to see Deon, celebratory grin wide, crescent knives flashing in hands.

Azazel, clinging stubbornly to life, roared at Deon, shaking the earth beneath Malachi's feet.

Feeling a surge of power—*Maxwell's influence*, Malachi realized—he charged his fist.

Energy crackled around his knuckles as he delivered a devastating blow to Azazel's side, causing him to spit blood and crumple to his knees, overwhelmed by the soul-searing pain.

This power... it's not just mine, Malachi pondered, a realization settling in. *Maxwell is enhancing me.*

Azazel knelt, head bowed, a soft chuckle rumbling in his chest.

Malachi and Deon exchanged worried glances. Azazel's expression softened as he spoke, "Accept my apology.

I never knew… I never knew you were such dogs." The words held heavy implications.

He raised his hand, pointing towards the night sky.

The ground cracked loudly beneath them; fissures branched across the asphalt.

Malachi and Deon stumbled but quickly steadied as Deon shimmered beside Malachi, a moonlit flash, and, holding his arm, teleported them to Maxwell's side.

Maxwell's voice rang out, "Brace yourselves."

From the earth's wounds, thermal energy surged upwards like a fiery river, coalescing into a blazing supernova—a furious orb of blue-white fire against the night.

It pulsed with terrifying power, cars melting like wax and buildings aflame, heat unbearable and all-consuming.

Despite the inferno, Maxwell's healing held, though strained. Clothes ignited but burns healed instantly.

Malachi shielded his face, clothing reduced to ash. Deon's steady grip reassured them. "Ready for a dip?" he whispered above the chaos.

Maxwell, disoriented, blinked. "Huh?"

"We're teleporting to the ocean," Deon murmured urgently. "This force will erase Jamaica from the map."

Flames twirled on the hotel roof, illuminating Miguel—a beacon of hope. Seeing him, Malachi's heart swelled with relief.

"There he is," he breathed softly.

Azazel traced the sky with a grim smile. "You're alive… what a complication."

Miguel soared like a fiery comet, embracing the blue flames.

As their essence enveloped him, he shimmered with a captivating glow.

His gentle descent released a plume of smoke, a beautiful symbol of hope renewed against the night.

Energy radiated around Malachi, his spirit alight with wonder as the darkness was transformed by Miguel's presence.

Maxwell stood among them, an aura of quiet confidence illuminating his presence. Turning to Deon, he spoke with a gentle certainty.

"I'm about to attempt the greatest amplification and healing I've ever done."

Deon, apprehension shadowing his voice, asked, "Is it …safe?"

Maxwell's calm smile lingered. "No, it might fry my mind. But it's worth it."

As his eyes fluttered closed, Maxwell focused, the delicate lines around them multiplying into radiant purple patterns that glowed softly in the dim light.

With fingers interlocked, he murmured "quantum entanglement," weaving the spell that would embrace all awakened within a 400-foot radius.

A subtle wave of energy rippled through him and into the earth, spreading its gentle touch across the entire parking lot.

In this moment of enchanted warmth, Malachi felt a profound surge within him.

Yet, mingling with the newfound strength, a realization blossomed—a quiet acknowledgment of his own frailty compared to their power.

Even as the warmth infused him, Malachi's thoughts danced between admiration and a yearning to grasp the strength they wielded so effortlessly.

Nevertheless, nestled within the radiant glow of Maxwell's selfless act was the promise of growth—a hope that he too could one day harness such enchanting power.

To be continued…