Devil Slave (Satan system) Chapter 1406: The Trap.

Michael spun toward Athena and Tomato, charging to strike at them too. Yet the two women swiftly jumped away, putting space between themselves and especially his sword.

Michael's sword.

This weapon was renowned amongst the elite circles of the mightiest entities.

The cause was straightforward. No material escaped its cutting edge.

Michael focused on Tomato next. He moved forward deliberately, step by step. He savored how the watching people of Earth saw their hopes fading slowly.

Tomato held real strength. Quite formidable, in truth, yet against Michael's blade, blocking seemed impossible.

Which meant a single graze would leave her in Alexander's state.

Dread filled her face as she retreated, stumbling to the ground and scrambling farther from the angel—

With tension at its peak. Viewers at home prayed fervently, Lucifer observed intently, then an unforeseen event unfolded.

Father Black's explosive laughter sliced through the heavy atmosphere.

Michael halted in his tracks, sword poised high, his golden gaze narrowing in bewilderment as he glanced at the Earth side.

Even Lucifer, reclined on his far-off throne, sat up with an arched eyebrow. Silence gripped the whole arena—angels, humans, gods—all eyes fixed on the elderly Regent.

Demeter let out a deep sigh and slapped her forehead next to him.

"Couldn't you hold it in just a little longer?"

Father Black dabbed a tear from his eye, chuckles still escaping.

"I couldn't. Those acting lessons Tomato endured for this were wasted... or she's hopeless at it naturally."

Tomato, sprawled where Michael had tossed her, rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in obvious irritation.

"Couldn't you have held it in longer?"

Suddenly, not only Michael but every Earth representative in the stands and billions viewing from home felt total confusion.

Whispers erupted everywhere. Global screens captured stunned expressions—cheers, prayers, cries of anguish from seconds before now turned to puzzled stares.

From behind Michael, Alexander's voice emerged, steady and entertained.

"Is it finished? Done with the performance?"

The conqueror rose, his bisected lower half gliding over the marble arena floor before snapping back into place with a slick sound.

Blood flow ceased at once. The crown hovering over his head rotated once—then a crystal gem split with a sharp crack, one fragment dropping and crumbling to golden particles.

That marked the cost of genuine death... followed by revival.

Michael's gaze intensified. Something felt off. Victory had been his. He had cleaved the king apart. Why did the atmosphere shift so abruptly?

Father Black's mirth subsided at last. He brushed his beard and declared loudly, his words booming through the domain.

"Truth is, our job was to keep you occupied. Distracted just right."

He gestured behind Michael.

The archangel whirled around.

Gabriel was there—positioned on the angels' side of the arena, now on his knees. In his grasp, a dab of his own golden blood, scooped from the spot where it had spilled during Michael's earlier strike. With purpose, Gabriel smeared the ichor over his trumpet's pale golden exterior.

Michael's features contorted in utter disbelief.

"Brother... what are you doing?"

Gabriel lifted his head. A faint, icy laugh slipped out.

"Claiming Heaven and every creation for my own."

Michael's eyes bulged with betrayal.

"Traitor!"

He surged ahead, sword igniting with fresh divine rage, set to slice Gabriel apart on the spot.

Yet it proved too late.

Gabriel lifted the horn and sounded it.

The tone reverberated—profound, vibrating, resounding through the universe. It reached all realms, stars, souls.

The fiery sword in Michael's grip dimmed instantly. Flames extinguished. The edge turned to plain metal and tumbled from his hand, hitting the marble with a clang.

Michael reeled. A savage recoil ravaged him. He hacked violently—golden blood erupting from his lips—as the sacred artifact's bond to his essence broke forever. His wings quivered. His presence splintered.

Alexander strode up steadily, stooped, and retrieved the dropped sword. He tested its balance briefly, then faced Gabriel.

"As promised," he stated firmly, "we've aided in stripping Michael of his Morningstar throne."

Gabriel applied more golden blood to the horn's surface, layering it on. Without pause, he brought it to his mouth and blew again.

This second blast boomed lower, rougher, akin to a world's shattering end.

Raphael wailed.

The cry ripped from him, primal and tortured, as an unseen power yanked him from his Arcane Domain. The Fortress of Divine Reckoning exploded around him in shards.

Golden barriers collapsed, fiery stars vanished, marble vanished to void. Raphael flew back through the sky, slamming into the angel benches.

He vomited a heavy gush of golden blood. His flawless skin decayed visibly—splitting, flaking, graying and crisping like ancient sun-baked paper. Dark corruption veins crawled over his face and limbs.

His holy tool wasn't a mere weapon.

It was his skin.

The severance was total. The flesh that had contained his might for ages now spurned him. It withered and tore from his skeleton, as though his form deemed him unfit.

Gabriel set down the horn and crossed the platform toward the stands holding Raphael's true body—unchanged in archangel shape, now shaking, eyes bulging in horror.

"Brother... help me..." Raphael pleaded, voice breaking, arms flailing feebly. "Please... Gabriel..."

Gabriel halted before him. His eyes stretched wide, serene almost innocently.

"Today," he murmured gently, "an archangel falls."

He lifted the sword—the same one seized from Michael—and swung it down in a swift, pitiless stroke at Raphael's neck.