Somewhere, Malachi Greymist raised a chalice filled with an oily black liquid and commanded, „Every muggle in London."
Most citizens of London realized their doom was upon them almost instantly. On the macroscopic level though, these sudden changes took a while to register. The city of London was a living thing in its own right, a giant which moved at a glacial pace, and when the Dark Lord declared himself, it scarcely had the time to react. Outside of the most dedicated and insane survivalists, few muggles would manage to see another day. The Angel of the Lord was unleashed, its orders clear: kill every muggle in London. Some were on the highways leading out of the city and the alchemical weapon actively chased after them in their cars before wearing itself out or finding other victims. Those were the lucky ones.
The black liquid writhed through the air as if alive, carried along by the air currents. The people of London fell to their knees as the weapon overwhelmed them, their clothes offering no protection. Men, women or children, all screamed as the Angel wormed its way inside and broke down cellular bonds at the molecular level and its victims literally dissolved into a soup of rancid meat within minutes of exposure, leaving little but puddles of molten flesh and half–rotted clothes behind them. Even many of those insane survivalists who reached the safety of their nuclear shelters died in agony as they shut the doors only to find they had brought the Angel inside with them, clinging to their clothes.
The Angel spread through the muggles of London at the speed of thought, leaping from victim to victim in the time it took to breathe in its foul contagion. People dropped where they stood, the flesh sloughing from their skeletons as their nervous systems collapsed and their bones turned to the consistency of jelly. The very lethality of the Angel was its own worst enemy; consuming oxygen and its victims to spread, soon it would find itself deprived of both, consume even itself, and die out. However, Malachi had his captives brew enough poison that this property of the Angel would not be a problem.
1977 years ago, London was founded by the Romans. When queen Boudica burned it to the ground, it arose from the ashes. It endured the incursions of the Vikings, it saw kings and queens come and go, plagues and revolts barely left a dent in it. Wars were waged for it, men fought over it in the streets, it burned anew in 1666, it was bombarded in the First and the Second World War, and yet each and every time the city endured. The city grew stronger. Until now. Now the city fell without ever even realizing why, its people obliterated within a minute of Malachi's announcement, the blood which pumped through the city's arteries destroyed, millions dying in screaming agony as their bodies betrayed them and fell apart, reducing them to rotted, decaying matter.