"No," he says.
And when the fifth seal broke, it was not a lamb who opened it, but a man with horns grown through his skull. apocalypse of the devilman
The sky screams. The ground turns to salt. The last clock stops. "No," he says
The Devilman looks down at his hands. They are red to the wrist. He has killed demons. He has killed saints. He has killed the part of himself that prayed. And somewhere, in the ruin of his ribcage, a tiny ember of the man he was still whispers: no. The ground turns to salt
None did.
They called him devil before the end. Now there is no one left to name anything. The sky is a wound the color of spoiled wine. The earth is a mouth full of broken teeth. The angels came down not with harps but with surgical blades of light, and they cut the cities open to see what prayers would spill out.