Devil Slave (Satan system)-Chapter 1206: Double Paired wing Angel: Therion

A voice, smooth and chilling, with a pristine British accent, broke the silence right by Enel’s ear, "I know, right? My dear feathered siblings do seem to be losing dreadfully, don’t they?"

Enel spun, startled. He had heard the voice so close it felt as if the speaker’s lips brushed his ear. His reaction was instant; he leapt back like a cat with its tail stepped on, landing several meters away with his hands raised defensively. His eyes fell on the newcomer.

Suspended in the air as though perched on an invisible chair, an angel sat in serene calm, sipping tea from a porcelain cup held delicately between two fingers.

He was unlike any angel Enel had seen; instead of the usual two wings, he bore two pairs, each feather shimmering with an ethereal glow that pulsed gently, almost hypnotically. His manner was unhurried, entirely unaffected by the brutal carnage unfolding in the arena below.

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Enel felt the hairs on his body prickle in response to the stranger’s unsettling tranquility. This was no ordinary fallen angel.

The angel gave Enel a small, amused smile, as if acknowledging his reaction. "Ah, that should be quite adequate, I’d say." He murmured this to himself, setting the teacup down—though not on any visible surface. The cup floated in place, held by some unseen force as he rose, his elegant wings beating with an unhurried grace as he ascended into the sky. He cast a sweeping glance over the devastated battlefield below.

"Please, forgive the abysmal state of our little skirmish here. It seems affairs in Purgatory have become rather... underwhelming as of late," he continued, his tone casual, even cordial. "Our dear Morningstar, in his wisdom, draws what little strength remains from the lesser ranks to bolster the waning power of the Fallen Plane. However," his eyes gleamed as he glanced down with a light, almost mischievous smile, "that’s precisely why I was sent as a backup plan, shall we say."

With those words, the angel’s wings began to emit a radiant, otherworldly light, a pure, intense glow that spread across the battlefield like dawn breaking over a shadowed land.

The demons halted, shielding their eyes from the brilliance, while Enel and his siblings could only watch in stunned awe. The ethereal glow reached the lifeless bodies of the fallen angels scattered across the arena, enveloping each one in a silvery, restorative aura. The wounds of the dead began to knit together, torn wings reformed, broken limbs realigned. Feathers that had been scorched or torn regrew in glistening, perfect rows, glimmering like jewels in the light.

As the fallen angels opened their eyes, their expressions blank at first, the awareness and life returned to them. With each breath, they regained strength, pushing themselves back to their feet, their swords and shields reforming in their hands as though summoned by some unspoken command. The soft murmur of their voices, lifting in prayer or thanks, filled the air like a rising hymn.

The angel turned his gaze to Enel once more, his expression calm but his voice steely. "Come now, my boy, let’s cease this charade, shall we? Surrender yourself, and I will see to it that your dear people are left unharmed. I give you my word, upon my name, Lord Therion of the Purifying Light."

Therion’s wings flared, the radiant light intensifying with each graceful flap. It wasn’t just light—it was the pure force of his being, a holy energy that seemed to pulse in time with his words, resonating through the bones of everyone present, demanding awe, demanding obedience.

He looked down at Enel expectantly, one brow raised as if daring him to defy his offer.

Belakor’s shock at the angels’ resurrection was fleeting. He narrowed his eyes, a calculating gleam replacing his surprise.

Fallen angels were notoriously difficult to kill, and he had thought himself on the verge of a decisive victory. The demons he’d lost were inconsequential to him—pawns in a larger game. But seeing Therion’s raw power and the reborn angels standing once more, he realized this battle would require a change in tactics.

With a grim expression, Belakor murmured, "It seems I’ll have to compromise... How I loathe compromise." His frown deepened as he extended one clawed hand toward the ground, murmuring a spell under his breath.

The air darkened, and shadowy smoke spiraled from the ground, thickening into a portal rimmed with the eerie glow of darkline magic. From the portal emerged a new force: demons of the royal Greed family.

The Greed family demons were as imposing as they were grotesque, each embodying the vice they served.

Their skin was an unsettling shade of sickly gold, glistening as if oiled but with a reptilian quality. Their eyes were pits of green flame, burning with insatiable hunger, and around their necks hung chains weighed down with ornaments and amulets—the spoils of every conquest they had partaken in.

Their bodies were massive, muscular, yet slightly hunched as if they bore the weight of their own avarice. Arms were elongated, with fingers tipped in cruel, razor-sharp claws meant for clutching and tearing. Each demon carried weapons embedded with cursed jewels that pulsed with green energy, forged solely to drain the life from those they struck.

The last demon to emerge from the portal towered over the rest, a monstrous figure clad in an armor of tarnished gold, lined with spikes and emblazoned with the Greed family’s sigil. His skin was a mottled shade of bronze, tougher than iron, and his head was crowned by wicked, twisting horns. A fat cigar smoldered between his cracked lips, filling the air with acrid smoke that smelled of sulfur and decay. His every step made the ground quake, his massive figure casting a dark shadow over the battlefield.

The giant demon exhaled a cloud of foul smoke and sneered at Belakor, his voice a thick, garbled growl. "Well, well, Belakor," he rumbled, voice dripping with disdain, "knew you’d come calling sooner or later. Always was the deal, after all." His words slurred together in a slow, deliberate speech, making it clear he took pleasure in his disdain for the demon lord before him. "My half blood servant, Nate sneaks you into this pretty little city, and then you call us in. But you, you took your time, didn’t you? Greedy little Abaddon wanting all the treasure for himself."

Belakor’s eyes narrowed, his lip twitching, but he said nothing, clearly unamused by the accusation. He knew the truth—he had hoped to seize the treasure of the Eternal Spring for the Abaddon family alone. But this was no longer an option.

The Greed demon grinned, revealing rows of sharp, yellowed teeth. "Doesn’t matter," he said with a low chuckle, "we’re here now, and we’ll take what’s ours. Just remember, Belakor," he leaned closer, smoke curling from his cigar, "any double-crossing, and you’ll end up on the menu."

Belakor snarled, bristling at the veiled threat but held his tongue. He waved a hand toward Therion and the resurrected angels. "Enough talk. I summoned you to end this holy meddler. Take down the winged pests—leave the rest to me."

With guttural roars, the Greed family demons charged forward, their hulking forms shaking the ground as they closed in on the angels, claws outstretched and weapons primed for brutal combat.

On the other hand, Therion turned towards Enel that had taken a step back and lunged at him...