Devil Slave (Satan system)

In the silence of the void, Father Black clashed with the two Fallen.

The last one—the colossal eye, wings stretched across the darkness like veils of night—merely watched, unblinking. Its monstrous gaze followed every movement, as if the struggle below were nothing more than an experiment.

Perseus had been ready to join, but Father Black's command had been absolute.

It had been centuries since Perseus last obeyed an order from the old man, yet discipline was carved deep into his bones. He held his ground, jaw tight, eyes narrowed as he watched.

His gaze shifted briefly to Demeter. Her expression betrayed her heart—confidence tempered by worry. She knew her husband's strength, but she also knew the stakes.

Behind them, the gods hovered in silence. Even Odin stood still, though his face was thunderous. Kanada's dismissal of him for leadership had wounded his pride, and though he longed to leap forward to prove himself, he knew better. Interfering in another's duel was dishonorable, and he would not risk the disgrace.

Yet, one of the black crows perched on his shoulder turned its head, eyes gleaming with cunning malice, watching the fight as though plotting something unseen.

---

Father Black, meanwhile, looked to be struggling.

He had attacked first, switching the smoldering cigarette from his lips to a carved pipe etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the starlight. Without hesitation, he drew deep, and the smoke that poured forth formed a massive storm-cloud in the void, stretching wide until it seemed like a piece of night itself had grown teeth.

Arcs of black lightning forked violently within the haze.

The Fallen were cocky, smirks carved into their unnatural faces. But the instant one bolt of black lightning lashed against their flesh, the arrogance faltered. The first angel hissed in fury, wings snapping wide, and the second followed without hesitation.

They moved together—like two halves of a broken whole, flowing in a twisted synchronicity.

One surged low, claws of nail-blades extending from its legs like swords slashing for Father Black's feet—

the other struck high, arm-blades tearing down from above like guillotines.

Their voices rose together, twin echoes overlapping, finishing each other's sentences with chilling unity:

"Cut him—"

"—until nothing remains."

Father Black slipped into a stance—a boxer's stance. His fists, wrapped in smoke from the rune pipe, crackled with black lightning every time he struck.

BAM! A straight punch landed on one angel's jaw, the blow detonating into an arc of lightning that wracked its body.

CRACK! An uppercut forced the other back, its blade-legs screeching as they scraped against the storm-cloud.

For a moment, it seemed he was pressing them.

But the Fallen were relentless. Their rhythm adapted quickly. Their movements became sharper, their voices crueler.

"Left side—"

"—open, bleed him."

A blade skimmed across Father Black's forearm, opening a shallow line of blood.

Another carved across his ribs, sparks of blood scattering in the void.

Still, the old man did not falter. He only gritted his teeth, smoke curling from his lips as he drove forward, fists a blur of strikes that made the black lightning dance.

The gods watching tightened their grips on weapons, unease stirring in their hearts.

Demeter's face tightened when the first cut appeared across Father Black's forearm. A twitch ran through her fingers, almost as if she wanted to step forward herself. But she did not move. Her eyes remained locked on him, confidence still there, but threaded now with sharp worry. She knew him better than anyone—his pride, his fury, his stubborn will—and she knew he would never accept help while still standing.

Perseus caught that look. It wasn't panic, no. Demeter never panicked. Even when he had first met the god all those years ago. It was something deeper, something only a wife of so many decades could wear: a mixture of trust and dread.

The gods behind them stayed silent. Even Odin, whose teeth ground in frustration, said nothing. He noticed Demeter's expression too, and it made his blood stir. For the first time in a long while, he realized that even this proud god wife feared loss.

One of Odin's crows fluttered its wings. Its eye gleamed with amusement as if savoring the old man's blood being spilled.

Meanwhile, Father Black's fists smoked and cracked with lightning. Every strike landed like a cannon, but the Fallen were like shadows split in two. Their nails whistled through the void, their voices mocking in sick unison as they twisted around him.

"Slow."

"Bleeding."

"—Old."

Black blood trailed in little beads across Father Black's chest and arms now. His pipe glowed brighter with every drag, the smoke around him thickening, but still the pressure mounted.

Demeter's hand gripped her robe at her side, knuckles white. She whispered something, so low even Perseus could barely hear.

"Don't you dare fall, old man…"

The battle seemed to reach its breaking point when one of the Fallen snapped its head toward its twin, their voices slithering together like a hymn of mockery.

"Brother…"

"—finish this."

At once, blackened holy energy erupted from its wings, a corruption so thick it rippled through the void like tar set aflame. It condensed into a jagged spear of power, shrieking toward Father Black's chest.

For a heartbeat, the old regent did not move. Blood still dripped from his arms, his chest heaving. Then—just before the attack could tear into him—he gave a side smile.

"Got you."

In an instant, his body blurred. White flames—pure, absolute, holy—ignited in his palms, shaping themselves into a blade. With one fluid motion, precise as the hand of time itself, Father Black cut upward. The white flame hissed through the void, slicing clean. The Fallen Angel split in two, its scream tearing through the cosmos.

Everyone froze.

Even the gods watching from afar widened their eyes. Perseus, however, narrowed his gaze. His warrior's mind dissected the moment.

The Fallen had been dangerous, even without releasing their Arcane domains. Father Black had let them think they were winning—let them press him, bleed him, wear him down. He had baited them. And when they overreached, when arrogance made them careless, he revealed his trump card.

Will.

It was more than focus—it was unbendable intent, a binding of every muscle, every nerve, every drop of his essence toward the single, perfect strike. A gift reserved for the Regent of the Lenny royal family. Others among the bloodline carried fragments of Lenny's vast power, but Father Black… he received the finest cut of it. And now, he had wielded it.

When Lenny used WILL in battles, it had always yielded incredible results.

The white flames burned hotter, lengthening into a sword in his grasp. The second Fallen, shrieking in anguish, rushed forward. But its emotions betrayed it. In combat, fury was weakness. Father Black stepped in smoothly, his blade flashing. The head came clean off, spinning into the darkness.

"Fallen brats," he muttered, chuckling through his teeth.

A roar of triumph carried through the comms. Gods, devils, humans—they all erupted in relief, in cheers, in hope.

Father Black turned, pointing the blazing sword outward. His gaze locked upon the last of them, the giant eye as vast as the moon itself.

"Now it's your turn."

But the Eye did not retreat, nor did it rage. It mocked. Its gaze shimmered with derision, as though it pitied him.

Then came the light.

A white, divine radiance burst from its pupil, not like a beam but like the birth of a galaxy. The void cracked with its brilliance. Father Black and the others raised their powers in unison, shielding their forms as the wave crashed through them, threatening to scour flesh from bone, soul from vessel.

When the light passed, silence reigned for a heartbeat. Smoke curled from the void. The survivors steadied themselves.

And then—a sound.

A chuckle. Behind him.

Father Black's eyes narrowed. He turned.

And froze.

The bodies he had cut down—the two Fallen Angels—were knitting themselves back together. Torn flesh wove like silk, bone fused, wings unfurled once more.

They rose, eyes glowing with fresh malice.

Father Black's cigarette nearly slipped from his mouth. For the first time in a long, long while—he was shocked.