"For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places."
— Ephesians 6:12
It was a bitter winter night.
To the north, tucked between long-forgotten hills and veiled in the breath of the earth, stood a desecrated church. Fog crawled through the withered grass like a patient predator. Its tendrils slid over moss-covered gravestones, through cracks in the stone walls, and crept up the crooked path leading to a once-grand oak door.
The church had long lost its color. Where rich hazel wood once stood strong, rot and termites had declared victory. The brass door handle, once shining gold, now wore a dull, cancerous grey, its surface crusted with rust and the scurrying mites that gnawed on what remained. Each screw was a battlefield. Inside, shadows draped over the pews like shrouds over coffins.
And then… footsteps.
Slow. Measured. Confident.
A tall figure stepped into the threshold. His coat flared slightly from the wind — long, black, and dusted with snow. Under its hood, raven-black hair peeked out in uneven tufts. One eye stormy grey, the other a faint, glowing ruby, scanned the interior with theatrical boredom.
Luciel Virell had arrived.
He clicked his tongue as he stepped over a broken hymnal.
"I always forget how much churches smell like regret and mildew."
From the altar, the thing that wore the priest's skin tilted its head.
"You shouldn't be here, Nephilim," it hissed. Its voice echoed — warped, as if dragged through layers of static and flesh. "This is sacred ground."
Luciel popped a communion wafer into his mouth like candy.
"And you reek of desperate possession and cheap sulfur. Tell me — do you demons all go through the same bad dialogue school, or is that just instinct?"
The demon stepped forward — a little taller than a man, but the priest's body was beginning to stretch in ways that bones shouldn't. Its eyes bled gold, its mouth split at the cheeks, and a second row of teeth pushed forward like jagged obsidian.
"Very funny, Nephilim. So many before you have come… shouting prayers, waving relics, crying the names of saints."
"Yet here I still stand. What makes you think you, of all the wretched half-breeds, can harm me?"
Luciel shrugged, brushing ash off his lapel.
"Well, for one, I bathe. That's usually where most demons tap out."
The demon flinched, eyes narrowing. Its body twitched violently.
"IMPUDENCE!"
It lunged — a blur of snapping jaws and clawed limbs. But Luciel didn't move. He'd already stepped into the center of the nave, one foot sliding back like a dancer finding his mark.
From beneath his coat, he drew a silver pistol, its barrel engraved with glowing runes. In his other hand, he traced a glowing magic circle mid-air — a sigil flaring to life in ghost light, surrounded by a halo of divine runes, each orbiting with a pulse like a heartbeat.
Then came the invocation.
"I STAND ON MY AUTHORITY IN CHRIST —
REVEAL THE THREADS OF FATE —
AND SEVER THAT WHICH BINDS —
FATE WEAVE."
The air snapped.
Dozens of glowing threads bloomed into view — gossamer lines stretching between the demon and the world around it. Luciel's eyes shimmered, the ruby and storm in perfect harmony. He grinned.
"Let's clip your strings."
The demon lunged — claws first, wild and wide — but the instant its foot touched the ground, it slipped. A splintered hymnal snapped beneath its heel, forcing its balance off just long enough for Luciel to casually step to the side.
The claws missed his face by inches.
Luciel didn't even blink.
"Mind the hymns. They haven't forgiven your kind."
He raised the silver gun, fired once — a clean, ringing shot. The bullet whistled through the demon's side, not fatal but enough to sting. Holy silver. The creature howled, stumbling into a cracked column.
"What… was that—?"
It stopped. Looked down.
A thin golden thread shimmered across its leg — tied to the bullet's path. As it moved, the thread tugged, guiding its fall into another pile of debris. Fate Weave had already rerouted the battlefield.
Luciel exhaled through his nose, annoyed.
"You really are new to this, huh? Let me guess… second-tier entity? Maybe a third? You don't even smell ancient."
"You dare mock—!"
Bang. The demon ducked — too slow. The black gun this time, darker in tone, its muzzle flaring with corrupted light. The shot grazed its arm, but the wound didn't burn — it froze, like the shot disrupted the soul directly.
Luciel twirled the black gun on his finger.
"Silver wounds the flesh. Black carves the soul. Bit of a hobby project."
"You don't know which one's worse, do you? That's the fun part."
The demon's form twisted further — its host's ribs cracking outward like wet branches. Tendrils began to sprout from its back. It screamed in a blend of Latin and ancient Sumerian, warping the air with unholy resonance.
"I AM LEGION! I AM—"
Luciel raised one hand. Not in fear — in timing.
A sudden flick of Fate Weave's threads — and a support beam overhead, cracked ages ago, gave way. It fell in perfect synchronicity, smashing the creature to the ground.
Dust and splinters bloomed into the nave like a slow explosion.
Luciel stepped forward into the cloud. The golden threads trailed behind him, wrapping gently around his ankles and wrists like obedient snakes. He whispered something — the circle flared again.
"Thread tension adjusted… probability locked."
The demon erupted from the rubble, roaring, broken wood jutting from its arms — but Luciel was already mid-stride, stepping just past a claw swipe that should've split his chest. Another thread had tugged subtly at the demon's elbow, just enough to redirect the swing off-course.
Luciel holstered both guns.
"I'm waiting, by the way," he said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a small butcher's knife — square-bladed, stained at the edges, the kind you don't use unless you mean to finish something.
"For what?" the demon spat.
Luciel grinned and licked a smear of blood from his lip.
"Company. I don't want to kill you before they get here. That'd be rude."
The demon snarled, limbs twisting at impossible angles, mouth splitting open until it reached across both cheeks — revealing not teeth, but eyes. Human eyes. Hundreds, blinking and weeping blood.
"YOU THINK YOU'VE WON, HALF-BLOOD?" it roared, voice like breaking stone and bone at once.
"I AM WRATH MADE FLESH. I AM THE SWORD IN THE DARK—"
Luciel sighed. Loudly. He holstered the black gun and glanced at his watch — broken, as always.
"God, you talk more than I do. That's saying something."
With a practiced flick, he drew the silver gun again. This time, he loaded a single bullet — etched with runes, glowing faintly gold.
Then he whispered:
"Karmic End."
A single karmic thread shimmered — the one connected to the demon's heart, taut like a violin string. Fate Weave hummed.
Luciel raised the gun with both hands. Calm. Steady. The golden light from his circle pulsed, and the runes along the floor glowed in unison — all part of the same weave he'd set when he walked in.
"Your soul's not even your own anymore. Just a name on someone else's tongue."
"So let's fix that."
The demon's form began to unravel as it lunged, veins glowing red-hot, its body cracking, black smoke hissing from its mouth.
Luciel's voice dropped into a calm whisper:
"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit… Amen."
BANG.
The bullet sailed clean through the fog — no arc, no resistance — guided by threads only Luciel could see. It pierced the demon's chest exactly at the node where all threads converged.
Silence.
Then came the collapse.
The demon's body folded inward, threads snapping one by one, its vessel disintegrating like paper dipped in holy oil. The possessed priest's body dropped to its knees, then crumpled forward — still, at peace.
Luciel twirled the butcher's knife once, then sheathed it.
He popped a peppermint into his mouth with a satisfied hum and stretched his arms overhead, yawning.
"Show's over," he muttered to no one. "Time to collect the applause—"
BOOM.
The heavy cathedral doors burst open — splintered wood flying.
Three exorcists stormed in, weapons drawn, magic circles primed.
"LUCIEL! Are you alive?!"
"Where's the entity?!"
"Is the priest still possessed?!"
Luciel turned slightly, smoke curling from the barrel of his gun.
He looked at them. Then at the smoldering heap of demon ash behind him.
Then back again.
He raised one eyebrow.
"Nice of you to show up. I saved you some ambience."
The junior exorcist looked around at the shattered pews, the pulsing circle beneath Luciel's boots, and the faint outline of a soul being severed mid-air.
"…We missed it again, didn't we?"
Luciel grinned, chewing lazily.
"You didn't miss it."
"You were part of the plan."
"…You were just the bait I never needed."
The others groaned. One of them cursed under his breath. Luciel just winked.
"Now, who's buying dinner? I'm starving. Holy work really burns through blood sugar."