Devil Slave (Satan system) Chapter 1367: Kanada’s Arcane Domain Is Prophecy

The air shuddered, then cleared, like a held breath released.

Where Athena’s broken, misting body had collapsed, light gathered. It began as a whisper of warmth under the cold, then rose—tender at first, then roaring. Feathers, impossible and bright, knitted from threads of sun and smoke. The pool of tears trembled and steamed; from its surface a shape reassembled: a woman wreathed in living flame, not charred or ruined but polished, every wound sealed by light.

When she breathed, embers drifted like slow-falling flowers. Where her skin had been torn, new plumage grew—white at the tips, molten gold near the core—each feather humming with a low bell tone when the light struck it. Her eyes opened and the world exhaled.

As she did, Kanada spoke.

"The return cannot be chaotic. It is a ritual. A phoenix does not simply reappear; it is a pattern obeyed. The old body unbinds itself—ashes loosen into vapor, the past collapses into fertilizer. From that compost of loss and ruin something younger, wiser and fiercer rises. The phoenix is fire and memory: flame that consumes but also remembers what it consumed and uses that memory to shape its new life. Where others see annihilation, the phoenix sees fuel and architecture. Where death seems final, she sees a blueprint for renewal."

And Kanada was right.

This was the true comprehension of her Arcane Domain. Of course, this ability to come back was not infinite and had a cool down attached to it.

Nevertheless, these fallen did not know that. And that was the advantage she had. Their extreme pride in their race made them ignorant, and too pompous to want to know about their enemies.

And in battles of this magnitude, knowledge was undeniable power.

Athena’s first inhale after rebirth carried the scent of smoked cedar and warm rain. Her presence bent the light around her into slow, radiant ripples. The weeping domain collapsed as if a veil had been lifted; the tears that had held their own gravity evaporated into steam and then into a golden mist that clung to Athena’s feathers like dew. Slowly, the soundscape changed from the hysterical, hollow sobbing of the fallen angel to something near a hymn: the slow, sure cadence of wingbeats and the low chorus of beasts aligning to a new order.

Prophet Kanada watched and—unexpectedly—chuckled. It was not surprise at the miracle so much as recognition. She turned her head toward Athena as the returned Regent flexed her newly formed wings, as if testing a limb long lost and now reclaimed. Athena’s brow lifted; in the instant of that look a question hovered on her lips. How did Kanada know? How had she prepared for this?

"There isn’t time for stupid questions," Kanada said, voice dry as old parchment and sharp as flint. "Finish them."

Athena gave no argument. She let a small smile crease her face and then, with the composed motion of a warrior who trusts the old instincts carved into her marrow, she spoke the command that had already been singing in her bones.

"Arcane Domain—Rebirth’s Hell."

This was it. It was back.

Light folded and then reknit itself. Where the weeping realm had been a ruin of sorrow, Athena’s domain sank its roots into the same soil and turned the grief into furnace and forge. The hellscape braided itself anew: the pools of tears fed rivers of molten change; cliffs of lament became terraces of ember; the screaming miasma hardened into pillars of warm, living stone. Creatures of misery were reshaped by the logic of rebirth—where they had moaned, they now bellowed into battle; where they had crumpled, they now stood and reformed into guardians. Athena’s world took the enemy’s grief and folded it into its own skeletal plan. To be born again, her domain required an altar made of what had been broken—and it had found that altar in the fallen angel’s own sorrow.

The weeping fallen hesitated only for a season. Shock gave way to fury; fury to attack. It lunged, tears streaming as before, but this time its weapons met not soft victims but a world hardened by will and purpose. Steel and sorrow struck marble that changed into living flame. The fallen’s blows dented and were swallowed; its sobs became fuel for the phoenix’s wings.

Kanada did not wait. She touched the floor of Athena’s remade domain with a palm and spoke words older than empires.

"Arcane Domain—Fate of the End."

This was the fitst time she was using her own arcane domain since the start of the battle.

Golden filaments fractured the air like sunlit threads. They did not hang idle; they thrummed. Each strand hooked into the weave of the domain and into the moment-to-moment of battle. Fate-strings—thin, luminous, humming with probability—stretched between enemy and strike, between intention and outcome. They mapped the pathways of attack, the likely angles of counters, the tiny micro-decisions that decided who lived and who became kindling.

As the fallen swung, a thread vibrated and slid into place; Athena moved almost before the motion completed. The dodge was not reflex alone. The strings fed sight into her—the future in a dozen small increments—so her body read the next breath of the fight and answered it preemptively.

She flowed through openings she had never seen, struck down gaps before they opened, wrapped the fallen’s force around itself and unraveled it with the soft, terrible efficiency of a predator that knows exactly where the prey will run.

Athena turned once, her voice clean and cold, and in that moment the golden web glittered like a new constellation across the sky of the domain. She understood then—she could feel the strings inside her like the pulse of a newborn star—the gift Kanada’s web had given her: prophecy tuned to battle, foresight woven into muscle, the ability to read the storm before it broke.

Kanada’s smile widened, almost cruel in its neatness. She levelled her gaze at the weeping thing that had thought to make her domain a monument to sorrow.

"Kill them all," she said.