Devil Slave (Satan system)-Chapter 1399: Fate Weaver Vs Gabriel

The arena's atmosphere shifted as the next bout loomed—the first of the Archdemon ranks proper. The shadow-stained sand had barely settled from Ares' defeat when Kanada, seated just to Father Black's right, leaned forward slightly. Her marble-smooth skin caught the arena's mixed holy-and-shadow light, making her look like a statue come to life—beautiful, terrifying, and utterly calm.

"Let me take this one," she said, voice low but carrying the weight of inevitability.

Father Black glanced at her, then nodded once. "Floor's yours."

Kanada raised one pale hand and waved it in a slow, graceful arc.

Below, in the center of the battlefield, golden mist coalesced. It swirled and solidified into a figure that was almost a perfect mirror of Kanada herself—same height, same lithe build, same long silver-white hair that moved like liquid moonlight. But where Kanada's face now held sharp, holy-terror eyes, this duplicate had none. No eyes, no nose, no ears—just smooth skin and a single mouth curved in a faint, knowing smile.

Just the sane way Kanada had been when Lenny first net her.

Around her body drifted dozens of thin golden threads, shimmering like spider silk spun from starlight—the visible strings of fate itself.

Father Black's bushy white brow arched high. "Didn't know you'd been busy making friends."

Kanada's lips curved faintly. "My kind have always been tied to the Sisters of Fate and the threads they weave. Over the last century… I found one of their servants. A lesser weaver, trapped in their service. I cut her loose."

She glanced sideways at him, eyes glinting with quiet defiance.

"The Sisters are probably furious. But they're no longer on my level. It doesn't matter."

The girl—no, the freed weaver—stood ready in the ring, golden strings drifting lazily around her like curious cats. Her power radiated at the second stage of the deep demon realm—immense, precise, and utterly alien.

Gabriel, floating above the central platform, gestured once. From Heaven's side descended his own avatar: a perfect human-scale replica of the Herald himself—six wings of searing white fire, silver armor unadorned but flawless, and in its hand… the trumpet. Not a copy, not a mimicry in appearance only—this one carried a very real echo of Gabriel's legendary horn, pale gold and humming with the power to sever any bond, any connection, any fate.

Father Black's beard twitched. He leaned forward. "That's cheating, isn't it? Sending your own holy tool down with the clone?"

Gabriel's expression remained cool, almost bored. "The tool in my avatar's hand is, at best, a pale mimicry of the true horn. It possesses only a fraction of its power." His wings shifted slightly. "Besides, there is no rule stating avatars cannot wield their own sacred instruments."

Kanada's frown deepened—the first crack in her serene mask all day.

Father Black glanced at her. "Bad matchup?"

She nodded once, eyes fixed on the weaver below. "Very. Gabriel's horn—true or mimic—can destroy any connection in existence once it has tasted the opponent's blood. Threads of fate, soul bonds, even conceptual links… one note, and they snap like dry twigs." Then she looked at lucifer, "that was what cut his connection to heaven."

Down on the sand, the freed weaver tilted her featureless head toward Gabriel's avatar, golden strings tightening around her like a protective cocoon.

The herald avatar raised the horn to its lips.

The arena held its breath.

Round one of the true high-tier battles was about to begin… and for the first time since the children's streak, Earth's side looked uncertain.

The bout began with Gabriel's signal—a simple wave of his hand that sent a resonant hum through the arena. The freed weaver stood motionless at first, her featureless face tilted slightly as if listening to whispers only she could hear. The golden strings of fate around her body stirred like living vines, coiling and extending in lazy loops. Across from her, Gabriel's avatar raised the mimic horn to its lips but didn't blow—yet. Instead, it tucked the instrument into its belt and extended one hand, summoning a blade of pure holy light from its palm. The sword hummed with celestial judgment, edges flickering like contained stars.

The avatar moved first, gliding forward with angelic grace. It slashed in a wide arc, the blade trailing white fire that scorched the sand and tested the shadow runes embedded in the floor. The weaver didn't dodge; one of her golden strings whipped out like a lash, intercepting the sword mid-swing. The thread wrapped around the blade, yanking it aside with surprising force. The avatar stumbled a fraction—enough for another string to dart forward, slicing across its armored shoulder. Holy sparks flew as the thread cut deep, drawing a thin line of golden ichor that evaporated before it hit the ground.

The Earth benches murmured in approval. "She's got this." "Those strings are nasty!"

Kanada watched intently, her frown easing slightly. The weaver pressed her advantage, golden threads multiplying—ten, twenty, weaving a net around the avatar. She predicted its every move; as the angel feinted left and thrust right, a string was already there, parrying the blade and countering with a razor-sharp loop that nicked its wing. Feathers scattered, holy light dimming where the thread sliced. The weaver's mouth curved into a faint smile, as if amused by the patterns unfolding.

The avatar spun, wings flaring to create a burst of wind that scattered the threads momentarily. It charged again, sword swinging in precise, overlapping patterns—thrust, slash, overhead smash—euach honed from eons of divine combat. But the weaver was one step ahead. Her strings danced like extensions of her will: one coiled around the sword hilt, pulling it off-balance; another sliced low, cutting into the avatar's leg armor and slowing its advance. A third predicted a defensive block and looped around from behind, tightening like a noose around the angel's neck. The avatar choked, holy aura flickering, as the thread constricted, dark fate-energy seeping in to corrode its light.

Father Black leaned back, arms crossed. "She's unraveling him. Literally."

The weaver pulled tighter, her strings now forming a deadly web. She lashed out with a cluster of threads, each one honed to a cutting edge—they sliced across the avatar's chest, carving furrows in the silver armor and drawing more ichor. The angel staggered, dropping to one knee, sword arm trembling. The weaver advanced slowly, threads coiling for the kill: one to bind the wings, another to sever the sword hand, a third to predict and preempt any counterattack. The avatar's movements grew sluggish, its experience no match for the inexorable pull of fate she wielded. She wrapped a final string around its throat, ready to snap it clean.

Gabriel watched from above, his frown returning. Lucifer chuckled distantly, intrigued by the upset.

But it was a trap.

The avatar had let the last slice hit deeper than necessary—intentionally exposing a weak point in its armor. As the weaver's thread cut across its side, a deliberate spray of ichor arced out… only for the avatar to twist at the last second, flicking its own blade in a subtle counter. The holy sword grazed the weaver's arm—just a nick, but enough. Crimson blood—her blood—welled up, a single drop clinging to the blade's edge.

The avatar moved like lightning now, all pretense of weakness gone. It smeared the blood onto the mimic horn with one swift motion, then raised the instrument to its lips.

A single, piercing note blasted through the arena—low and resonant, like the final toll of destiny itself.

The weaver froze. Her golden strings shuddered, then frayed at the edges. One by one, they snapped—connections severed, links to fate shattered by the horn's power. The threads dissolved into glittering dust, floating harmlessly away. She collapsed to her knees, mouth opening in a silent gasp, now utterly powerless. No predictions, no weapons, no fate to weave.

The avatar lowered the horn, its wounds already mending in the holy glow. It advanced calmly, sword raised.

The weaver tried to stand, but without her strings, she was just a shell—vulnerable, exposed. The sword came down in a merciful arc, and she yielded with a faint whisper before the blow landed fully.

Earth's side went quiet. Kanada's frown deepened into regret. "I should have warned her about the trap."

Gabriel's expression smoothed into satisfaction. "A mimic it may be… but effective."

The bout ended. Another loss for Earth—this one stinging deeper.