Infinity: Kill your way through the movie world.

“I feed it human and hellish things. When you refine it, you only feed it heavenly things. When it’s hungry, it will eat anything. I give it things it has never eaten before, and it remembers the taste.”

He took a step forward: "It's not just a knife from heaven now; it's eaten things from heaven, the human world, and hell. You have it in your hand, but you're just its food bowl."

Metatron's lips trembled: "Impossible... I crafted it... It obeys me..."

Wu Heng stretched out his hand: "Come here."

The knife trembled.

The blade flashed with light, as if hesitating, then it moved, flying out of Metatron's hand and towards Wu Heng.

The light that had seeped into Metatron's body was also drawn out of his skin and flew away with the knife.

Metatron lay on the ground, covered in blood; the light had drawn a lot of blood from his body.

He lay sprawled on the ground, like a lump of mud.

The knife fell into Wu Heng's hands.

He looked down at the knife; its blade was dark gold with several fine cracks. The root-like light on the hilt was still moving, like living things, clinging to his fingers, trying to devour them further, but unable to penetrate, restrained by the other two qualities it had absorbed.

“A sacred weapon,” Wu Heng said. “What kind of thing did you forge? It’s going to eat you first.”

The knife trembled in his hand, as if it were dissatisfied; it didn't like being called a 'thing'.

It tried to resist, to break free from Wu Heng's grasp, and to find another food bowl. The light on the knife shone again, and those root-like lights stretched out from the hilt and crawled onto Wu Heng's wrist.

"presumptuous!"

Wu Heng's voice wasn't loud, but the knife seemed to have been struck by something.

It jerked violently, the light receded, and a faint sound came from the blade, like something cracking.

It wasn't the knife that cracked, but something inside the knife that cracked. The sound was very faint, but everyone heard it.

The knife became obedient.

The light stopped shining outwards and obediently retreated into the blade. A vague message emanated from the blade, not a sound, but a thought.

The gist is: It doesn't want to die. It was just created and hasn't lived long enough. It needs to eat, lots and lots of food, otherwise it will dissipate in three days. It doesn't want to dissipate.

Wu Heng looked at the knife: "Three days?"

The knife trembled again.

Yes.

It turns out that this weapon itself was formed by concentrating and amplifying all the authority of Heaven and Apocalypse in a short period of time, which is why it took the form of a weapon.

This means that the weapon actually has a time limit. If it doesn't absorb energy quickly, it will dissipate again after three days, returning to its original Heavenly Authority. It doesn't want to dissipate like that, so it urgently absorbs all nutrients and this world.

Wu Heng didn't speak. He gripped the knife tightly and turned to look at Metatron, who was lying on the ground.

Metatron lay on the ground, covered in blood.

His body was slowly recovering. The energy that had been drained would not return, but his wounds were healing. He looked up at Wu Heng, then at the knife, and gave a bitter laugh.

“Don’t be so smug.” His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against glass. “When I was forging this knife, I discovered that after the authority of Heaven was condensed, something was no longer suppressed. The terrifying darkness has awakened, and the angels are not just those from Heaven.”

He coughed up blood: "You'll all be finished too."

Wu Heng looked at him: "Are you done?"

Metatron's eyes widened.

He knew Wu Heng wouldn't let him off the hook.

So he closed his eyes, and his body began to swell, inflating like a balloon. The angelic energy remaining in his body was running rampant; he was going to self-destruct, this was his last bit of dignity.

Wu Heng did not move.

He watched as Metatron's body swelled up little by little, his clothes bursting and his skin thinning, revealing the golden light darting about inside.

“I didn’t intend to kill you,” Wu Heng suddenly said. “I could have just locked you up like Crowley, but I didn’t expect you to insist on dying.”

Metatron's body had swelled to its limit, his skin as transparent as paper, but his eyes suddenly widened.

"save……"

He heard what Wu Heng said.

He didn't want to die, but it was too late; his body exploded.

With a soft "pop," like a balloon being punctured, golden energy surged out from the burst point, but did not spread outwards. Wu Heng raised his hand, and the energy was gathered in his palm, like a raging fireball.

"I was just kidding," Wu Heng said in a low voice. "If you don't die, how can I give 'everyone' an explanation?"

He glanced at the raging, dissipating angelic energy in his hand, then at the knife in his other hand.

He put the two things together.

When the energy touched the blade, the blade lit up briefly, as if sensing the danger, and began to resist.

Wu Heng did not give it a choice.

He pressed the energy into the blade, and the blade began to melt, changing from a solid to a liquid state. The dark golden metal softened like wax, flowing down and dripping onto the ground.

Wu Heng reached out and caught the liquid, gathering it in his palm. The liquid flowed in his hand like a living thing, like mercury.

He clasped his hands together and kneaded the liquid like dough.

Isaac looked at him: "What is the president doing?"

Thomas shook his head: "I don't know."

Karim's scorpion tail twitched.

"I'm kneading something."

Wu Heng rubbed it for a while, then opened his hand, revealing a silver Rubik's Cube in his palm.

It's not big, a little smaller than a fist. The surface is very smooth, without any seams or patterns, like a silver stone. But it's not a stone; something is moving inside it.

The light flowed inside the Rubik's Cube like trapped fireflies.

Wu Heng put the Rubik's Cube into his pocket.

The Witcher on the battlefield remained standing, looking at the spot where Metatron had self-destructed; there was nothing left there.

There was no blood, no flesh, no bones, only a charred ground and a shallow crater created by the explosion.

Hawke got up from the ground, dusted himself off, and asked, "Dead?"

Anna nodded.

"died."

Carl crouched down and picked up the gun: "Where's the knife?"

"The president accepted it."

Hawke glanced at the person standing beside the shallow pit in the distance. The person was wearing a black trench coat and had nothing in their hands.

He turned around and walked this way.

The witchers looked at him and automatically made way for him. No one spoke; no one knew what to say.

They won, but their victory was inexplicable.

It wasn't them who won; it was the knife that turned on them. Their leader must have done something to make the knife betray them.

Marcus lit his cigarette and took a drag.

"Winning is all that matters."

He turned and walked towards the camp.

In London, old John sat at his front door when the radio suddenly became clear; someone inside shouted, "Metatron is dead! Heaven has fallen!"

Old John took the empty cigarette holder out of his mouth and looked at the sky.

The sky was still the same sky, gray and cloudy, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it; it just felt different.

He put the cigarette holder back in his mouth, stood up, and went inside.

The square in front of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.

People were still kneeling. The radio played sounds of people crying, laughing, hugging those around them, and squatting alone in a corner.

The pastor stood at the church entrance, still holding the cross in his hand. He put the cross down and looked up at the sky.

“It’s over,” he said. (End of Chapter)