The battlefield had already stopped looking like Heaven.
It looked like a memory of Heaven after someone had dragged it through fire.
Angels were falling in burning streaks.
Gods were roaring old names into the white.
Titans were tearing through ranks that had once looked untouchable.
The host of Heaven had come in clean lines, perfect wings, perfect weapons, perfect faith.
Now those lines were broken.
Wukong was the reason for half of it.
He had clones everywhere. Some serious, some stupid, some doing both at once. One was riding on the back of a Throne while smacking another angel across the head with a shrunk-down staff. Another clone had stolen a trumpet from some radiant herald and was blowing nonsense through it while dancing on a fallen Seraph's chest.
"Left side's folding!" one clone shouted.
"No, right side's folding!"
"Oh, then I'll fold both!"
He swung.
