CHAPTER 240: CHAPTER 241: ANOTHER DEAL

The silence that followed was brief but sharp—like a held breath that knew it was being dared to exhale.

Aurora stared at him.

Her voice was soft, but stiff with disbelief. "...You’re serious?"

Atlas nodded. "Dead serious."

She stood slowly, joints protesting as if they’d rusted over. Her legs had grown used to the vigil by Loki’s side. To the stillness. To helplessness disguised as patience.

The candle beside his bed flickered. The flame thinned, bent away from the window like it sensed something coming.

Aurora folded her arms. "Do you even know what... Hell is...?"

"Veil does," Atlas replied simply.

The shadow creature behind her chuckled with bitter amusement. "Unfortunately."

That word hung in the air. Unfortunately.

Aurora took a breath, trying to pace herself. She rubbed her temple, her thoughts spiraling between past and present.

"This isn’t a joke, Atlas..." she said, voice dropping into something grim. "Hell isn’t some game where you flip a coin and hope to level up. It’s not your twisted playground."

Her voice cracked slightly. Her mind flashed—visions of fire licking at bones that didn’t burn, whispers of things that sounded like her but weren’t. A staircase that never ended. And somewhere down there... someone she hadn’t been able to save.

She didn’t say it aloud. She never did.

"...Whatever," she muttered, cutting her own thoughts short. Her gaze sharpened. "Why do you want this key anyway?"

Veil shifted behind her. His head tilted. That question hadn’t crossed his mind until now either. He had just trusted Atlas. Blindly. Stupidly.

"Yeah..." Veil murmured. "Why?"

Atlas didn’t flinch.

"Loki can’t wait too long," he said. "You know that, and I know that. So I took a shortcut."

Veil’s eye widened. "...I don’t have a good feeling about this..."

Aurora narrowed her eyes, her chest growing tight. "Shortcut..? Atlas, speak clearly. How would we save Loki with one of the Seven Keys of Hell?"

Atlas turned away. Faced the window. Early morning haze was seeping through the broken shutters like fog inside a dream. The light cast pale shadows across the floorboards, long and uncertain.

".....I prayed," Atlas said.

The words dropped like stones in still water.

Aurora blinked. "...What?"

"After taking your advice. After mending what needed mending. I... prayed."

His voice was quieter now. Not ashamed. Not proud. Just resigned.

"And... They listened."

Aurora’s stomach flipped.

Her instincts shrieked.

Something had gone wrong—horribly, irreversibly wrong—and it was waiting for her in the silence between his words.

"And...?" she asked, her voice sharp, strangled with warning. "Don’t tell me..."

Atlas turned.

He began unwrapping his forearm slowly, the cloth peeling away like old bandages, revealing skin scorched with divine geometry—a mark of thunder, burnt in black and gold, like a lightning strike had branded him from within.

A divine contract.

"Fuck!!! Atlas. You didn’t!" Aurora choked out.

Her breath caught in her throat. The room tilted, even if just slightly.

Veil took a step back, his smoke form glitching at the edges. His voice was barely a whisper. "What did you do..."

A flicker appeared at the far end of the room.

Merlin.

He stepped out of the shadows like he’d always been there, as if fate had invited him to this moment.

His eyes locked on Atlas’s arm. He didn’t speak at first. Just approached slowly, carefully, like Atlas was holding a bomb that hadn’t finished counting down.

"...Boy," he finally muttered, kneeling, taking the arm gently.

He ran a finger across the burnt skin, tracing the jagged edge of the lightning mark.

"You are either the smartest person I’ve ever met... or..." he trailed off, not finishing.

Atlas gave a crooked smile. "Or what, old man?"

Merlin’s hands trembled as he released the arm. "...I mean... who in his right mind would make a deal with the fucking gods?"

Aurora moved before she thought. She shoved Merlin back—hard. The old mage fell against the wall with a grunt, eyes still locked on the mark as if trying to will it out of existence.

She stepped in front of Atlas. Her voice shook now.

"Atlas...Are you sure about this?"

Atlas didn’t answer immediately.

He turned, walking to the side of Loki’s bed. The silence was thick, reverent.

Loki still breathed.

Shallow. Fragile.

His chest rose like a dying wave and fell again.

Atlas stared at him. Something tender passed over his face—too brief to last. His hand hovered inches over Loki’s chest, fingers trembling as if afraid to touch.

"We don’t have much time," Atlas murmured.

"I won’t let him die."

He repeated it like a vow.

"He won’t die."

"I won’t let him."

Aurora swallowed. Her heart twisted. She didn’t know whether it was from fury, or fear, or something deeper. Something that had always been there between them but never spoken.

She stepped closer. Her voice lowered.

"...Do you actually believe this is the only way?" she asked. "Becoming a conduit for gods and demons?"

Her eyes found his. Searching.

"Do you really think they’d just give you their elixir out of mercy?"

Atlas’s expression didn’t change.

His fist clenched.

For a moment, she saw it again—that crack in the armor. The scared boy beneath the legend. The child beneath the miracle.

"...No," he admitted.

A beat passed.

"But I need to."

Time didn’t feel real after that.

The air in the room turned colder, denser, as if history itself was holding its breath.

No one spoke.

No one needed to.

Hell.

The word itself was a scar.

A place where time bent sideways, where pain became scripture and hope a heresy. Even the gods treaded lightly near its borders. Yet they—three broken souls—were about to walk into it.

Not for glory.

Not for revenge.

But for someone they couldn’t bear to lose.

Aurora quietly pulled open her satchel and packed her staff. It shimmered briefly with white light before dimming again. Her hands were steady, even if her mind wasn’t.

Veil shifted, his form contorting—becoming sharper, more angular, more weapon than friend. He said nothing. But his silence was a kind of loyalty. A kind that didn’t need to be explained.

Atlas still stood at Loki’s side.

Still not touching him.

Just watching.

"Don’t die," he whispered softly to the unconscious boy. He bent down, brushing a lock of scorched hair from his forehead.

"We’re coming back with a miracle."

They turned to leave.

But before they could open the door—

Loki stirred.

His lips parted slightly, trembling.

Tears rimmed his eyes. He was barely awake, barely aware. But he felt it. The absence. The cold air. The goodbye unspoken.

The room was empty now.

No footsteps.

Not even Merlin’s breath.

"Haaah..." he exhaled, regret thick in his throat. His heart felt like it was beating out of rhythm with the world.

...Is it done?...

A voice echoed faintly in his head. He knew whose....

"...Yes," Loki whispered.

A single tear slid down the side of his face, carving a trail through the soot and ash.