Read Rising from the Ashes (Andrew and Lauren) Novel by Only For You Updated 2025 -26 - Rising from the Ashes (Andrew and Lauren) Chapter 3142

Rising from the Ashes (Andrew and Lauren) Chapter 3142

Everyone answered in unison, their voices thunderous. “Yes, sir!”

Andrew turned his head and looked west. The battle there was even more savage than the fighting at Throne City. The Cathedral’s Vindicators were trapped like soldiers sinking into quicksand—struggling desperately, yet unable to break free. White-armored bodies were strewn across the battlefield, and beneath those shattered helms were faces twisted with terror and despair. The fearless resolve once associated with the Cathedral’s faithful was nowhere to be seen.

Ragnar and Jorge, the two Dark Progenitors, had dealt the Cathedral army a devastating blow.

The first to fall was Lysander, cut down on the battlefield itself. His death nearly shattered Arya’s composure as she had pursued Andrew. She had always treated Lysander like a younger brother. As a fellow angel of the Cathedral, she had long been revered by those beneath her, cherished as their guiding elder sister. And now, he was gone.

Arya turned into an enraged juggernaut, charging again and again through the Dark Army. Her frenzied slaughter drew continuous roars of fury from the two Dark Progenitors. For a time, even their combined strength failed to suppress her.

With Kass and Makhaylus providing support from the flanks, the Dark Army gained no clear advantage. Overall, the casualty ratio stood at one to three—for every Cathedral warrior who fell, three from the Dark Clans died in return.

Gaston and Edmund, the two Dark Princes, had also become merciless killers. Light and darkness had been locked in confrontation for far too long, clashing more than once in the past. Yet never before had the fighting been this brutal, this absolute.

It felt as though the battle would not end until one side was completely annihilated.

The Vindicators’ losses continued to climb, and Kass could no longer remain composed. Such devastation was irreversible. Only vengeance—only crushing the Dark Alliance in a single decisive blow—could give meaning to the sacrifice of the fallen.

“Die!”

A roar filled with hatred tore across the sky. Seizing the instant when Makhaylus was locked in combat with Edmund, Gaston struck from behind. In a single savage blow, his razor-sharp claws pierced straight through Makhaylus’s heart, bursting out from his chest.

Makhaylus let out a strangled, incomprehensible sound before plummeting headfirst toward the ground.

Another Cathedral angel had fallen.

The sound of Kass’s rapid chanting cut off abruptly. Pain and reluctance flashed across his eyes, then vanished. He lowered his head and spat out a mouthful of blood. Standing before him was Kaelan, the werewolves’ newly risen Prince. With Kaelan holding Kass at bay, Gaston and Edmund had been free to join forces and kill Makhaylus.

Kass had the will, but not the strength. There was nothing he could do.

Arya threw her head back and released a piercing scream. The angelic wings on her back spread to their absolute limit. Tears streamed down her sacred, flawless face.

“Makhaylus… Lysander… I failed you. Forgive me!”

From the depths of unbearable grief erupted a surge of uncontrollable rage and hatred. Arya’s pure white wings rapidly darkened, turning pitch black.

Ragnar and Jorge’s expressions changed instantly. With a simultaneous roar, they struck together, and the world itself seemed to convulse.

Dark energy exploded outward, devouring everything in its path.

But it was useless.

From Arya’s blackened wings, glowing feathers shot forth one after another—unbound by space, unrestrained by time. In an instant, they tore through the dark barrier and rained down like divine arrows, piercing the bodies of the two Progenitors.

Ragnar and Jorge writhed in midair, their mouths releasing earth-shattering screams. Ragnar completed his transformation into a colossal werewolf, fighting desperately for survival. Jorge, the vampire progenitor, dissolved entirely into a cloud of blood mist, leaving behind only a floating skull. He, too, unleashed his ultimate power.

Andrew, who had been watching the western sky, finally withdrew his gaze. A smile tugged at his lips—one laced with mockery and pity.

Arya, no matter how pure, sacred, and exalted she once was, had now tasted true helplessness and despair. In her current state, faint signs of transformation were already visible.

She was on the brink of becoming a fallen angel.

That madwoman had finally paid a brutal price for her hypocrisy—for her naïve worldview that insisted the world could only ever be black or white.