Devil Slave (Satan system) Chapter 1400 1400: The Next Battle.

The defeat burned sharply, like salt poured into a raw cut. The arena's golden radiance seemed to jeer as the liberated weaver offered a single bow—profound, elegant, wordless—before striding away from the combat ground in silence.

Those golden threads had vanished, melted away by the horn's resonant tone, yet she carried herself with identical tranquil poise, viewing the setback as just one more strand woven into a vast design.

Behind the scenes, within the dim passage under the spectator tiers where Father Black's runes throbbed softly like living arteries, Father Black and Kanada stood ready.

Here the atmosphere grew chillier, heavy with the aroma of charred earth and fading sacred static.

The weaver appeared, her form still blank except for that tiny, composed mouth. She halted in front of them and inclined deeper in respect.

Kanada moved ahead at once. "Young one… did you get it?"

The weaver's palm unfurled gradually. Resting there was a lone feather—Gabriel's very own, pure silver-white, now marked at the end with subtle golden blood that gleamed like molten dawn. Faint remnants of her destiny threads still adhered to it, fragile yet persistent.

Kanada accepted the feather with care, flipping it once prior to handing it over to Father Black.

He inspected it closely, his gaze sharpening in subtle approval. "More than enough."

The weaver dipped her head again, her mouth forming the slightest curve of a grin. "I am happy to have been of service."

Kanada rested a soft hand on the weaver's arm. "Return to the plane of precedent. Finish the other preparations. We'll call when we need you again."

A gateway unfurled at the weaver's back—gentle gold edged in darkness, vibrating like far-off chimes. She passed through without pause, fading as the opening sealed with a hushed exhale.

Kanada lifted her eyes to Father Black, her tone hushed. "And the gods? Ares wasn't the only one who shifted allegiance today. They've been watching. Some are already whispering about 'pragmatic alliances.'"

Father Black slipped the feather into his robe's layers, his beard quirking in a sardonic grin. "Let them whisper. If the enemy needs a few wins to believe they've already won the war… give them the illusion. It makes the final blow sweeter."

Kanada offered a brief, affirming tilt of her head.

Together, they pivoted and headed back to the arena's viewing area.

As Father Black entered the brightness, young Elara shot from Alexander's shoulder like a bolt. She collided with her father's torso in a joyful cry, looping her arms around his neck and her legs about his midsection. Alexander barely reacted—just grinned and crossed his arms, evidently accustomed to serving as a perch for the nine-year-old whirlwind.

Demeter stood swiftly, worry carved into her face. "What happened back there? The weaver looked… diminished."

Father Black tousled Elara's ringlets with one hand as he adjusted her securely on his side. "Nothing we didn't plan for. The girl just needed a little scolding for getting too cocky. She'll be fine."

He grinned—warm, avuncular, completely at ease.

Elara laughed into his beard. "Did she get in trouble, Daddy?"

"Only a little, sprout," he whispered. "Only a little."

The arena buzzed with suspense as the next match was declared—the second Archdemon rank duel. Murmurs spread across the Earth sections, the pain of the weaver's defeat lingering sharp. Father Black summoned yet another celestial partner from Earth's mythologies: Poseidon, deity of oceans, tremors, and steeds. The god appeared amid the sands in a vortex of salty fog, his build brawny and immense, flesh shining like damp stone beneath the arena's shine. His trident—crafted from timeless coral and godly metal—dripped spectral liquid that hovered just above the surface. Beard untamed and foam-pale, eyes turbulent azure, Poseidon drove his weapon earthward, unleashing a gentle undulation of tides over the pale grains.

His rival dropped from Heaven's lineup: not the typical feathered figure, but a far odder sight. The angelic form was a massive orb of vision—spanning ten feet easily, its iris a twisting maelstrom of golden radiance, pupil vast as a void. Lesser orbs, each man-sized, circled it like sinister satellites, their stares flicking on their own. No torso, no appendages—just this drifting eyeball nightmare, emanating an essence of relentless scrutiny. Its special ability: the Gaze of Revelation. Anyone ensnared by its look would see their core flaws unveiled—deceptions broken, powers reversed, hidden truths exposed in crippling bursts of divine clarity. The surrounding eyes boosted this, generating layered sight zones that could foresee and target defects with chilling accuracy.

Gabriel indicated the beginning. The eye-angel lingered motionless initially, its main pupil expanding as it locked onto Poseidon. The deity sensed it right away—a drilling examination that delved into his thoughts, unveiling glimpses of his old furies, his susceptibilities to dryness and calm. The circling eyes whirled quicker, rays of golden brilliance shooting like rays, each zeroed on a "uncovered" vulnerability: one struck Poseidon's trident limb, flipping his might to make it quiver; another clipped his lower body, revealing a brief doubt and dragging his pace to a halt.

Poseidon bellowed, the noise echoing like pounding surf. "You think to unravel the sea with a stare, watcher?" He lunged his trident ahead, calling forth a rush of liquid from nowhere—salty, roiling, charged with godly wrath. The deluge rushed at the eye-angel, but the orbiting eyes foresaw the flow's route, launching opposing rays that vaporized sections of it in flight. One ray skimmed Poseidon's arm, imposing sights of his former downfalls (the Titanomachy, defeats by humans) that caused him to stumble, hacking brine as uncertainty seeped in.

The core eye throbbed, its Gaze growing fiercer. Poseidon's shape wavered—his fluid essence fading, advantages turning to brittleness. He sensed his mastery over waters ebbing, form rigidifying like cracked soil. The satellite eyes advanced, rays uniting to hold him in place, capitalizing on each bared imperfection: a hit to his core exposing inner storms, dulling his heartbeat; another to his sight, fogging it with compelled visions of disloyalty.

Yet Poseidon knew turmoil well. He fought back by yielding to the ocean's wild nature. With a roar, he plunged his trident into the ground, seismic force shaking the arena. The surface warped, dark runes igniting as fissures appeared—then burst with jets of conjured sea, wild and fierce. The torrents twisted erratically, resisting foresight; the eye-angel's stares failed to chart the disorder fully, rays veering off or scattering in the mist.

Poseidon plunged into his own tempest, form blending with the liquid—turning supple, elusive. The Gaze sought to fixate, but he diffused across and beyond, flaws concealed in the current. A satellite eye shot aimlessly, only to get swallowed by a surge and cracked, sacred fragments melting in brine. Another ray twisted a wave's force, but Poseidon reshaped it aloft, redirecting the reversal onto the angel—swamping its main lens with murky reality, hazying its sight.

The deity reemerged at the avatar's rear, trident stabbing forth. The eye rotated, rays piercing out, but Poseidon foresaw—his waters had worn down fates in the past. He deflected with a liquid barrier, then landed the blow: the trident impaled a circling eye, detonating it in a flare of brilliance. The primary eye faltered, its Gaze splintering without complete satellite aid. Poseidon advanced, tides twisting like cords to snare the leftover eyes, crushing until they ruptured sequentially.

In the end, just the enormous central eye persisted—sightless, drained. Poseidon hoisted his trident upward, invoking a massive wave that slammed down, submerging the avatar in godly floods. It quaked, pupil widening in alarm, then exploded in a fountain of sacred force, vanquished.

The Earth faction burst into roars of triumph. "The sea god prevails!" "Take that, eye-ball freak!"

Shockingly, Earth had seized back a victory—Poseidon's turbulent seas serving as the ideal foil to unyielding disclosure.

Still, the surge proved short-lived. Following this success, two additional deities entered the subsequent Archdemon clashes… and crumbled.

The first was Thor, the Norse storm-bringer, his hammer Mjolnir sparking with bolts. His angelic foe commanded links of restraining glow, coiling and neutralizing his tempests until he lay trapped and compelled to surrender. Father Black's scowl deepened, his glance darting to Odin seated apart in the tiers—the Allfather's single eye inscrutable, Gungnir laid over his lap.

Then arrived Ra, the Egyptian solar deity, hawk-visaged and blazing. His adversary: an angel bearing reflective pinions, bouncing and intensifying his fiery eruptions back upon him until he burned and waned, expelling sparks before yielding.

Once more, Father Black's scowl intensified, his stare fixing on Odin anew—the ancient one simply petted his corvids, face inscrutable.

Doubt stirred in the Regent's gaze. The deities' defeats seemed… overly timely.