CHAPTER 246: CHAPTER 247: FALLEN

Atlas kept floating, the air around him heavy with the aftertaste of the explosion. Shards of rock still spun lazily in the thickening smoke, bits of shattered stone glinting in the dim light like fragments of a dying star.

The sound was a low, constant hiss — debris grinding in the air as if the world was chewing on its own ruins.

The acrid scent of burnt sulfur clung to his lungs, each breath scratching down his throat. Somewhere behind that gray curtain, the battlefield’s edges were dissolving, shapes fading in and out as though reality itself was deciding what to keep.

"Aurora...?" Atlas’s voice was steady, but it carried that slight echo of uncertainty he hated letting slip.

"Atlas..." she replied, her tone both answer and tether — a confirmation that she was still there, pressed against him, part of the weight he carried.

He scanned the swirling haze, eyes narrowing, as if he could push the fog back through will alone. "Are they still watching us?"

"...Yeah... what, you worried, Atlas?" There was that lilt of mockery, but her staff’s faint tremor on his shoulder told him she was tracking their unseen spectators just as closely.

"Haha... granny, you are the one who can’t—"

Tukkk!!!

The soft but insistent thud of her staff interrupted him. Aurora didn’t even look at his face. She just kept leaning on him, the weight of her presence oddly grounding, the motion almost lazy — almost.

"...You know it doesn’t hurt, right?" Atlas said, tilting his head just enough for his voice to cut under her hood.

"...But you got the point." Her reply was measured, and she didn’t stop resting there. If anything, she seemed more settled.

"..." Atlas nodded once, a silent concession.

"Veil, be ready... and... what’s your name?" he asked into the haze. Towards the red demon.

The demon’s reply came low, deliberate, like a stone dropped in still water: {Azezal....The name is Azezal Marcus Golfitha.}

Aurora’s head tilted sharply. Surprise flickered in her eyes — demons weren’t supposed to hand over their names like sweets to a child.

"...Just like that?" she asked, suspicion wrapped in disbelief. "...I can make you my slave if you’re not lying?"

Azezal’s lips peeled back into that cruel, almost theatrical grin. {...Haha... I am demon, yes... but no lies here. Cross my heart... hope to die...}His taloned hand tapped twice over his chest in mock sincerity, the gesture dripping with irony.

Aurora glanced down at Atlas. "Is this guy for real?"

"...What... why are you asking me? I don’t care what he does. You think we’re related just because I vomited him out??"

"...Then can I make him my slave?" she asked, a little too quickly — excitement flickering through her voice like she’d just spotted a priceless blade lying unattended in the dirt.

Atlas’s smirk was almost invisible. "Please... by all means."

The demon pressed his hand to his chest again, his grin twisting into something faintly wounded. {...Ohh... that hurt, Atlas. I thought we had something... special.}

"Oh, fuck off," Veil cut in, his voice like a knife — sharper than it needed to be, maybe a bit too quick.

Azezal’s eyes gleamed as he turned his attention toward him.

{...All the memories we had together. Remember the time when you were absolutely weak and pathetic... and you chopped off your own arm to escape my grasp...}

"...Noo..." Atlas muttered, looking away as Aurora and Veil both stared at him in awkward, almost stunned silence.

Aurora began murmuring under her breath, the syllables of her spell curling into the air like black smoke.

She aimed it at the demon — the old, well-worn magic of ownership, the kind that would etch a mark onto her own skin and burn a matching one into his.

Crack!

The spell snapped apart like dry bone. She blinked, refocused, tried again.

Crack!

Again it failed, the air around her palm shattering with a brittle sound that left her fingers tingling.

It was rare — no, ’unheard of’. The name was real; she felt it register in the weave of her spell. But something deeper resisted her, something that didn’t belong to her to claim.

"...Are you some kind of evolving demon king?" she asked, almost accusing.

{...You still don’t get it...} Azezal lifted one clawed finger, first pointing at himself, then at Atlas.

Aurora’s eyes widened until the whites gleamed in the haze. "Fucking stupid... you own him." The words burst out of her like an involuntary curse.

"...?" Atlas blinked, then the memory slid in.

’Oh... that’s why he said it was a gift...’

He turned to Azezal. "So... if I say... go die... you’ll go die."

The demon’s expression twisted, lips curling back from his teeth. "...Yes. But hopefully you won’t do that."

Flap. Flap.

Flap.

Flap.

Doom!!

The smoke peeled away in thick, slow curls, forced back by a single, deliberate gust. Massive black wings unfurled from the shape ahead, each beat stirring the debris until it scattered like frightened insects.

The air shuddered with the movement, the sound less like feathers and more like heavy leather snapping in a storm.

"Colorful bunch..." The voice was male, smooth but carrying a thread of predatory amusement. His face remained hidden in shadow, but the wings — the sheer span of them — were visible, their edges ragged like torn banners.

"Yeah... one monster. One human. One demon. And one... I don’t know what that one is either."

Aurora’s smirk grew sharp. "See? Even the Fallen don’t register you as human," she said to Atlas, savoring the jab.

"Huh....one of them is laughing..Are they ignoring us?" one of the other winged figures murmured from behind.

"They don’t dare," came the reply. "Let’s just poach them before they reach the restriction ground. If they enter there, we can’t sell them..."

Atlas chuckled under his breath. The sound was quiet but edged — like metal brushing stone. Hell apparently had its own version of ragged, winged highway robbers.

He turned his gaze to Azezal, giving the faintest nod.

{...Really... they look strong...}the demon said, voice low.

"Then just die... if you’re weak, you die," Atlas replied, almost lazily.

Azezal exhaled in a sound halfway between a sigh and a growl, stepping forward toward the Fallen. {...I feel like you’re taking some kind of revenge.}

"...Exactly. Took you long enough."

The Fallen ahead grinned at first — the sight of a lone demon approaching made their stances loosen, confidence rising. But then, recognition rippled like cold water through the group.

"Wait... fuck. You....i know you.."

"He’s ...He’s an elder. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He’s the Crimson Lord. The Blood Baptist—"

Their leader’s voice cracked, the words tumbling over each other as instinct took hold. Wings drew tighter, feet shuffled backward.

Azezal didn’t slow. His claws flexed once, the faint smell of iron blooming around him like a stormfront.

{...Too late....too fucking late...}