His skin, red and inflamed as it is, hisses as it is bathed in the holy light of the High Heavens. Beneath him, the elegant white marble that paves the High Heavens' gardens cracks and shatters beneath his weight. Unable and unwilling to support the weight of the demon Lord of Terror.
The few angels that dare to stand against him are swept aside by a single sweep from his mighty and spike-laced tail, the stragglers he leaves to his demonic minions, who pour into the sacred realm by the hundreds every second.
He can sense the Nephalem, who even now cuts through wave after wave of his minions in a desperate race to stop him from destroying the High Heavens. Deep in his core, he laughs a loud, booming laugh at the thought.
Not even the Nephalem can hope to stop him now.
No, tonight is the evening of his victory. Tonight he will shatter the angels' Silver Spire, and condemn the world beneath the High Heavens to a new age of terror and darkness.
The people of Sanctuary will have the meaning of terror redefined for them when Diablo once again walks upon their mortal plane. But this time, there will be no hero to save them from his new, demonic age.
He will make sure of that.