Devil Slave (Satan system) Chapter 1398 1398: The losses.

Gabriel's features contorted into a profound scowl, the white flames within his wings dancing wildly as he gazed at the limp young girl carried away from the arena by her father. Rage brewed in his gaze—a chilling, heavenly wrath.

Just one defeat? Against a mere kid? The notion was beyond comprehension.

The heavenly forces behind him stirred restlessly, their golden halos fading slightly amid collective astonishment.

Yet worse events loomed ahead. Much worse. The ensuing spectacle would carve its place in the records of universal lore as Heaven's most profound humiliation since the Fall.

Father Black summoned the subsequent fighter for the second match in the lesser demon category: a lean twelve-year-old lad called Jax, dotted with freckles and sporting a tousled crown of red locks.

Faint shadow runes twisted along his arms, appearing solely upon flexing them.

"Shadow runes once more?" Gabriel expressed surprise. Father Black merely laughed. Naturally, he kept silent about Lenny being the secret architect of it all.

His rival: an angelic projection boasting four wings, brandishing a blazing lance that left trails of sacred sparks.

Gabriel's cue ignited the clash. The angel surged ahead, lance stabbing in a streak of brilliance and accuracy—backed by eons of sacred training in every motion.

Jax evaded the first strike, then the second, yet the third nicked his flank, spilling blood and eliciting a sharp intake of breath. The angel advanced relentlessly, lance whirling into a fiery vortex that charred the arena floor to ebony.

Jax hacked out wisps of smoke, his runes flaring to life. He clapped his hands, unleashing shadows from his palms that burst forth like lashing tendrils.

These struck out, encircling the lance during its advance and wrenching it off course.

The angel recoiled—only for Jax to vault forward, shadows shaping into talons over his fingers. He clawed downward, shadowy force tearing through the projection's plating as if it were parchment. Sacred glow faltered while dark lines radiated from the gashes.

The angel retaliated with a flare of brilliance, demolishing the shadow talons—but Jax had slipped within its defenses. A punch infused with runes dented the chest guard; a follow-up to the wing base ripped away plumes.

The projection reeled, lance falling away, as shadows surged from Jax's stance, ensnaring its limbs. A concluding upward blow, threaded with eroding shadows, fractured the angel's headpiece and toppled it in a pile of diminishing glimmers.

Jax raised his fist triumphantly. "Earth!" The spectators bellowed in response.

Gabriel's scowl intensified. From his perch, Michael folded his arms more firmly.

Father Black grinned.

Athena leaned into his side, "See, Lenny was right. Opting for shadow runes in the children over darkline or chaotic energy proved the wise decision."

Father Black agreed with a nod. "Indeed, we simply embedded the system within their souls prior to birth and made certain their souls fulfilled quests in the soul realm even before delivery."

"A hundred years?" He let out a laugh. "You haven't the faintest clue."

The third category match arrived next: Lila, a serene fourteen-year-old with braided hair, her shadow runes forming graceful designs around her neck akin to a choker.

Her adversary: a triple-winged projection equipped with a luminous bow, its shafts howling like tormented spirits.

The angel loosed shots right away—barrage upon barrage, projectiles detonating into sacred flares upon striking. Lila slipped past the initial ones, but a single grazed her thigh, hurling her rearward amid a burst of grit and crimson.

She collided with the enclosure, hacking up scarlet, yet her runes hummed alive. Shadows gathered beneath her, ascending into a protective dome that swallowed the following volley, shadowy essence consuming the radiance.

The angel drew three shafts simultaneously, launching a coordinated assault.

Lila dismissed her barrier and struck back—shadows exploding in filaments that caught the arrows in midair, ensnaring and pulverizing them to oblivion.

Then she rushed in, runes enhancing her velocity, bridging the distance in a flash. The angel retreated, shooting at close range—but Lila's shadows crafted a edge in her grasp, blocking the discharge and severing the bow's cord.

In tight quarters, she struck without mercy: an elbow laced with shadows to the midsection bent the projection double; a knee blow splintered bones; a closing palm thrust, empowered by runes, released a shadowy surge that ate away at the angel internally. It unraveled in a cry of luminescence, appendages dissolving into dust.

Lila offered a slight incline to the Earth supporters, brushing perspiration from her forehead. The ovation erupted once more.

At this point, the trend stood evident—and mortifying. Match succeeding match, progressing from lesser demon levels into deeper demon domains, Earth's juvenile warriors prevailed. All displayed shadow runes, that uncommon universal gift, converting expected imbalances into overwhelming victories. A fifteen-year-old lad conjured shadow bindings to ensnare and demolish a four-winged projection's massive blade; a sixteen-year-old maiden spun deceptions from her runes, bewildering her foe into self-inflicted blows until it collapsed.

One angelic projection after another tumbled—torn by shadowy beasts, eroded by dark tendrils, outpaced by rune-enhanced nimbleness. The heavenly assembly whispered in mounting distress, their flawless harmony fracturing with every defeat.

Michael's scowl had morphed into a stormy glower, his blade's handle groaning beneath his clasp.

Even Lucifer, reclining at a distance, observed with mounting astonished amusement—bending ahead, snickering initially, then bursting into full guffaws as the indignities mounted.

He admitted the shock himself. Yet he discerned that Father Black had orchestrated something covertly.

At minimum, this forewarned him of what lay in store.

"How?" Gabriel whispered to himself, his wings quivering. "These… youngsters?"

The celestial warriors were receiving a harsh lesson—brutally, completely—from Earth's rune-endowed adolescents. And the deeper demon tiers marked merely the onset.

Defeats accumulated for Heaven, each more degrading than the previous. Gabriel's glower had settled in enduringly, his horn dangling slackly as he declared victor after victor: Earth.

Michael clenched his blade more fiercely, the fires tracing its edge wavering with bottled fury.

Lucifer's mirth resounded softly through the emptiness, his followers chiming in with derisive shouts. Yet the deeper demon tiers neared their close, and the arena's sand, infused with shadows, lay strewn with the waning flickers of vanquished angelic projections.

Then arrived the clash that broke the run.

Father Black beckoned Earth's contender for the ultimate deeper demon tier: not among the rune-gifted youths, but a deity. Ares, the Hellenic god of conflict incarnate—reinvoked from Wirshio following the prior one's demise two centuries past, prior to Earth's confinement.

Odin had endorsed him personally.

His stature loomed immense and savage, armored in crimson plating inscribed with tales of bygone conflicts. His lance, a serrated artifact of bronze and godly ire, crowned by a helm with a crest that appeared to ooze ghostly crimson. Ares had stepped up willingly, bellowing of "smashing heavenly dolts" in his rough timbre. The Earth faction urged him onward—after all, what figure more fitting to embody the divinities among Earth's guardians?

His challenger: a five-winged angelic projection, elegant and subdued, grasping a plain rod of luminous bone. No ornate mallet or lance—merely calm, steadfast poise. Gabriel proclaimed the commencement in a tense tone, evidently yearning for reversal.

Ares barreled in first, the ground erupting beneath his stride as he vaulted the field. His lance stabbed ahead in a haze, targeted to skewer the angel's core—a blow refined across countless ages of human battles, from Troy to lost clashes. The projection evaded with fluid elegance, rod spinning to parry the lance's point. Divine sparks erupted—sacred metal meeting consecrated bone—and Ares pursued, sweeping the armament in a broad sweep capable of splitting peaks.

The angel crouched swiftly, appendages tucked close, and replied with a quick prod of the rod to Ares' joint. The deity growled, limb giving way briefly, but he rallied with a feral chuckle. "That your best, wing-nut? I've felled tougher in dreams!" He whirled, lance sweeping low to unbalance the projection, then unleashed a descending blow that gouged the surface where the angel had lingered instants prior.

The projection somersaulted rearward, appendages unfurling for a surge of momentum. It touched down nimbly, rod shining fiercer, and released its initial true assault: a slender ray of unadulterated sacred illumination from the rod's end, fine as thread yet burning with verdict. Ares hoisted his barrier—a colossal, scarred construct from Hephaestus' forge—and the ray collided, blackening the surface. The deity bellowed, surging past the agony, barrier ram aimed to pulverize the angel's appendages.

They smashed together. Ares' ram struck, propelling the projection sliding back, one appendage twisted oddly. But the angel contorted during the skid, rod lashing to strike Ares' headgear. The clash pealed like a fateful knell—godly force resonating through the deity's cranium. Ares faltered, sight hazed momentarily, and the angel seized the opening: a flurry of fast blows, rod fading into phantoms. One to the side, splintering plating; another to the leg, spilling divine fluid (golden deity essence); a third to the lance limb, compelling Ares to release his armament briefly.

The Earth supporters muttered with unease. "Hang in there, Ares—finish it!" "He's a deity, damn it!"

Ares bared his teeth, snatching his lance during its drop and flinging it as a dart. The armament soared accurately, fueled by battle-deity wrath, directed at the projection's center. The angel batted it aside with a rod twirl—but the momentum hurled the lance rebounding into the enclosure, where shadow runes devoured the force with an eager drone. Ares bridged the space in a frenzied charge, knuckles pounding like falling stars. One blow skimmed the projection's flank, stripping plumes; another veered as the angel dodged, replying with a rod sweep that felled the deity.

Ares slammed into the grit harshly, tumbling to evade a plunging thrust. He surged up striking, seizing the rod amid its arc and dragging the angel nearer. "Taste Olympus' fury!" he thundered, slamming his helm into the projection's face. The collision split the angel's headgear, sacred glow seeping like vital fluid. Briefly, triumph loomed—Ares pressed with a knee to the abdomen, then a vicious elbow to the throat, battle essence twisting from his hits to erode the gilded halo.

The projection reeled away, appendages sagging, rod fractured. Gabriel inclined ahead, optimism sparking in his gaze. Lucifer observed with a cocked head, captivated.

Yet the angel persisted. It righted itself, radiance welling from its essence—repairing fissures, restoring plumes. With a tranquil spin, it funneled sacred force via the rod, reshaping it into a lash of gleaming fetters. The fetters whipped forth, coiling Ares' limb during its swing. The deity tugged fiercely, but the fetters scorched with cleansing blaze, charring his skin and draining his anger-driven vigor.

Ares howled, straining more—severing one fetter—but others lashed his lower limbs, securing him. He writhed, lance recalled to his grasp by godly command, hacking at the bonds. One fetter snapped; another remade itself. The projection neared, rod resuming its base shape, and issued exacting hits: one to the secured limb, wrenching the joint; another to the leg, folding it; a third to the torso, fracturing bones and provoking a spurt of divine fluid.

Ares battled like a trapped predator—head lowered, plowing through torment, lance stabbing haphazardly. He scored a shallow cut along the projection's appendage, shredding further plumes, but the angel evaded the sequel and struck back with a close-range eruption from the rod. Sacred illumination detonated against Ares' torso, flinging him rearward into the field boundary. Shadow runes throbbed upon impact, softening the blow yet not the harm—plating splintered, divine fluid streaming unchecked.

The deity shoved from the barrier, breaths heaving, gaze frenzied with ire. "You... pathetic light-bug! I'll pulverize your frame!" He invoked his complete battle halo—a scarlet mist that distorted the atmosphere, amplifying his swiftness and might. He streaked ahead, lance a maelstrom of lethal jabs: stab, cut, descending crush. The projection warded off the bulk, rod enduring, but one cut penetrated—gouging a profound wound across the form, sacred flickers scattering.

For an instant, the Earth faction rejoiced. But the angel's injury mended in a flash, radiance closing it flawlessly. It countered: rod blazing like a stellar blaze, emitting a widespread surge that hammered Ares like a godly mallet. The deity soared back once more, smashing through an altered landscape segment mimicking phantom boulders.

Ares climbed to his feet gradually, lance shaking in his hold. His halo wavered—battle force ebbing from the sacred erosion. The projection progressed, rod elevated. Ares attempted a final frantic dash, lance pointed precisely.

The angel deflected with ease, then thrust the rod past Ares' defenses—directly into his torso. Sacred illumination inundated the gash, cleansing and annihilating alike. Ares wheezed, eyes bulging, then sank to his haunches. His shape shimmered, godly core dimming as he conceded with a rasping oath.

"Enough... I yield."

The field fell quiet.

Gabriel's glower curved into a pleased grin. Michael's strain relaxed a touch.

Earth's initial defeat.

And it involved a deity—one of their sacred comrades—who had been bested.

Father Black stroked his chin, look contemplative instead of discouraged. Murmurs spread among the Earth seats: "A deity? Beaten by that?" "What implications for the upper tiers?"

Lucifer snickered quietly. "Oh, the twist. Deities falling while mortals stand firm?"

The contests continued, yet that setback lingered oppressively—a fissure in Earth's invincible front.