The screaming of London's death throes came in tremendous waves, spreading out into the world like a tsunami. In the streets throughout the city, the people of London were decaying where they stood, bodies coming apart in torrents of disintegrating flesh.

The people thronged in the streets to die, keening their terror up at the sky, imploring whatever gods they believed in for deliverance. Millions of people screamed at once and the result was a terrible black–stained gale of death. Not even the heavens were safe. A plane soared overhead, carrying passengers to another part of the world, but it had been flying too low and upon takeoff the Angel caught up to it, found its way in and tore through the insides of the plane and its occupants. It fell like a shot bird, twirling towards the dying below.

A white, bulky shape walked through the streets unaffected. Malachi Greymist strode through the Trafalgar Square, watching cars and buses crash into one another as their drivers succumbed to the same carnage which seethed between the buildings and inside them. Kill every muggle, the Angel of the Lord had been commanded, and Malachi was not a muggle.

It seemed that when he first declared himself Dark Lord, he had also sworn an oath to never appear as one. He wore black combat boots, slim white cargo pants, a white trench coat, the only splash of color on him being the deep red sweater he wore beneath the trench coat and combat gloves in the same deep red colour. In his right hand he held a black gas mask. Soon enough he would need it. The deathly wind swirled harmlessly around him as he watched the city's death unfold, apparently unmoved, yet he was here to bear witness, to see it all, to force himself to feel every one of those millions of deaths.

A dark lord, dressed in white. But then, why not? The ancient Egyptians believed a god of primordial darkness was also the one to usher in the light, seeing as he was there before it. It seemed only logical then that the one to usher in a new age, an age of darkness and chaos, would be clad in such brilliant white clothes it hurt to look upon him.

Someone grabbed at his ankle and he looked down to see a man his age with curly hair look up at him with eyes that seemed to be... pleading? Malachi returned the gaze, staring blankly as the corruption that was eating away at the young man finally claimed his eyes and nothing remained but a pair of shoes and pants with a wallet sticking out of the back pocket, and a green hoodie.

With ten million people decaying so rapidly, it was only to be expected that the stench of death would eventually become too much to endure. Those still above ground who somehow survived the Angel's rampage would find themselves suffocating as the weapon consumed all oxygen within 607 square miles and replaced it with a miasma of rancid, putrid gases of decay. Soon the dark lord stood alone, the only note of peace in the screaming horror of London's death. The stench was now too much, and slipping on a Bulgarian PDE–1 black gas mask, Malachi Greymist became something resembling a modern day plague doctor.

The act of murder ripped the soul apart, it was a violation against the natural order, and for this reason integral in creation of horcruxes. How many pieces had his own soul splintered into just now? How many horcruxes?

Nearly ten million.

He paused, trying to really take in the magnitude of this act. The trauma caused by the destruction of this city reverberating through the ages, a scar upon the face of the Earth. His soul, split into nearly ten million fragments, rising like black soot from a burnt offering and scattering far from each other into every corner of the world, seeding the planet with himself.

There are no speeches nor languages,
where their voices are not heard.
Their sound hath gone forth into all the earth:
and their words unto the ends of the world.

Those who sought to kill him would first have to kill this horror. They would have to kill the world itself. He was no Tom Riddle and he was no Sauron, to be kept alive by means of a ring, but this would have to do.

He recalled something then. A song, the lyrics of which seemed appropriate for this occasion. He took out his phone once the screams of the city grew quiet and, though there was no one left alive to hear it, he played a requiem for London.

Repent! Repent!
For the LORD has risen high and proud
His chariot drawn by rats and vultures
And adorned with heads of skeptics!

Yes!
The LORD is on the prowl tonight!
The LORD will be diligent!
For there are many to be smitten
And the LORD loves holocausts!

The hand of the LORD is eager to bestow!
Yes, yes, the LORD will bestow his grace!

Until you pray for the fall.

He shall distress the weary!
He shall disgrace the meek!
He shall rip out the eyes of the lame!
And he shall cripple the blind!

Repent, praise!
Repent, praise the Lord of Hosts!
Of pestilent human filth!
Of blistering gangrene!
And crawling carnage!
Of death piled upon death!
The great sower descends to reap the crops!

Masses of mucus–like flesh choked the streets, half–formed human corpses piled on one another, faces melted and rot–bloated bodies split open. Hundreds of thousands of people lay in rotting heaps and thick streams of sluggish black corruption gathered around the storm drains, the Angel's power entirely spent. The air was thick with foul gases released by a city's worth of decaying matter. One giant, swirling cloud arose, choking the empty London.

Malachi stood, watching, waiting. All it would take was a single spark. Somewhere in the city of millions someone would have been cooking when they died. Their stove would have been left on, unattended. The gas of decay would have been ignited and a fire would break out, a fire that would rapidly engulf the entire city.

Yes, it probably would. But Malachi was not the kind of man to leave such things to chance. Taking out his wand and making sure he was first shielded, he uttered a spell. „Incendio."

Indeed, all it took was a single spark. It was released into the choking miasma and instantly ignited it with a tremendous whoosh. In a second the fire was spreading, ripping across the cityscape, a howling maelstrom. The river Thames boiled, the buildings were seared down to their skeletons, their decayed inhabitants vaporised as the wind of fire swept through London in a deadly gale of blazing destruction. Gas lines went up, blazing towers of fire only adding to the frenzy of the storm. Flesh, stone and metal were vitrified or melted in the unimaginable temperatures.

Like the wind which driveth the dust from the face of the earth.

Buildings collapsed, the bodies of their former occupants reduced to ashen waste on the wind. St. Paul's Cathedral, Buckingham Palace, the Palace of Westminster and the adjoining Elizabeth Tower, nothing was spared as the storm of destruction swept through London relentlessly, mindlessly, a vision of Hell of Christian reckoning brought to dwell on Earth.

The wizards were untouched by the Angel. Some of them now sought to find the foul wretch responsible for the initial attack, only to find themselves consumed by the flames before they had the time to protect themselves with magic or run back for shelter in the hidden districts of their wizard kindred, where flames displaced the clear sky but did not kill.

Millions had died. London was no more.