[Suzerain of Sheol]

Winded, stunned, his spine feeling ready to snap, Shealtiel shares a brief glance with Michael, almost disbelieving. As he regains some of his composure, he hears cheering from the city, and is about to make a bitter comment about the people soldiers hiding behind those walls while they were risking their lives out here... when a wave of utter horror suddenly washes over him, stealing the strength from his limbs in an instant. He falls.

Landing with an impact, he is nonetheless distracted as his spiritual senses light up with the twisted, ravaged specters of no less than 8 Emim, moving in formation directly toward the city, sending psychic assaults out ahead of them.

It's over, he thinks. We can't stop them. We can't even stand against them. How could we?

And yet, when the Emim are nearly upon them, Shealtiel finally realizes that Michael -- still under the effects of his courage capsule -- is screaming at him to look in the sky, pointing back toward the city.

Over the wall, floating, wreathed in a blazing cloak of silver and gold fire, Saint Typasius, clad in Savior Armor, a Wrath Sword erupting in each hand, soars toward the Emim. As he closes, bolts of golden lightning arc out, transferring pure theurgy into the undead psychics. Their howling is like the cacophony of a thousand banshee's in Shealtiel's mind. And yet, they are overmatched by the Saint.

Struggling to his feet with Michael's help, they both have the same idea: get out of here. Now.