CHAPTER 254: CHAPTER 255: THE FIRST.

The statues stood, tall, like gallaioths—stone titans that dwarfed the columns and gates they guarded. Their arms were crossed over chests carved to look as if armored in eternal warplate.

Heads were held high and straight, chins angled as if they were forever about to speak an order that could send legions to die. Eyes stared outward with a gaze that seemed to tell you to go to war and never return until victory was carved into the bones of your enemies.

And yet... they looked older than that command.

The age was in the hairline cracks running from crown to chin, in the way the pupils—chiselled black stone—were ever so slightly clouded. It was the same feeling as the times during the war in the Dreaming, when the spirit of the GUIDE took Atlas whole and let him see with the weight of centuries. These statues felt like they had once burned with purpose... and now endured only because they didn’t know how to fall.

"Was it like this when you were here?" Atlas asked, his voice low, like he wasn’t sure if the stone ears could hear. He turned to Aurora.

"...No... no... no." She shook her head slowly. "There was only a kind of belief which I felt... not... blind worship like this."

Her eyes darted up to the nearest statue’s gaze, as if the word "blind" might provoke something. The air between them felt warmer for a heartbeat.

{...It’s not blind worship.} Azezal’s voice slithered into the space, steady but carrying that crimson weight that could make even truth sound like a threat.

"It is," Atlas said, his gold eyes cutting toward the demon now.

He exhaled a long, sharp "Haaa..."—not anger exactly, but something heavier. He pulled his cloak from his pack in a single motion and swung it over his shoulders, the fabric’s weight settling on him like a curtain between him and the world. The hood shadowed most of his face.

If he’d known he was ever so popular here, he thought, he would have changed his face before coming. Thank Jesus Christ the GUIDE had chosen a slightly more mature version of him for whatever image had reached these people—because if they’d carved the boy he used to be into stone, there would be no hiding it. He’d be spotted in a heartbeat.

The utter problems that would cause... would be non-sensical. Unlivable.

"...Let’s proceed." His voice was quieter now, but the decision in it cut like a blade.

They entered Babylon.

It was one of the famous cities of the First Layer—a jewel of heat and dust, influence and shadow. A place that, if the whispers were right, lay under the constant watch of the Elders. Elders who believed their prophet had come. Their messiah had come.

Atlas’s gaze flicked to the crimson demon again, the thought biting at the edges of his mind: had Azezal done something? Led them here knowing this would happen? But Aurora had already vouched for him, vouched for this place. And Atlas... despite the knots in his gut, believed her. For now.

They walked deeper. The city was alive in a way that pressed on all the senses at once. Smells rolled through the air—spices both sweet and bitter, the iron tang of hot metal being hammered somewhere unseen, the faint rot of fish long out of the water. Voices stacked in layers: merchants barking, children laughing in sharp bursts, arguments snapping like dry twigs.

Atlas’s eyes moved constantly, darting left and right under the shadow of his hood. The cloak still covered half of his face, but from under it he could see—see them.

"One, two, three... twelve." He counted silently. "I’ve already seen twelve dwarves."

They moved in small clusters, stocky and deliberate, each carrying some kind of weight—tools, sacks, ledgers. Their beards were braided tight, their eyes quick.

He remembered Azezal talking about this city being connected with the underworld of the mortal realm. But what exactly had he meant?

There was always some form of underworld in any kingdom—law and order on one side, thievery, scandal, arson, and criminal decay on the other. The good and the bad, both necessary to the machine of a city.

And then—

’Oh... a bunny girl,’ Atlas thought, his gaze snagging on her without permission. She was buying groceries at a stall, her long ears twitching atop an otherwise human head. Her hair was tied in a loose braid down her back, and as she turned, he caught the round bump of a fluffy tail against her skirt.

"Atlas..." Aurora’s voice carried a warning.

"...What?"

"...Please put your dick inside your pants. I don’t want drama in hell as well."

"...I’m just looking."

"You were doing more than just looking, mate," Veil’s voice chimed in, dry as bone.

Atlas sighed and crooked a finger toward the shadowy form. When Veil came close enough, Atlas leaned slightly, letting him swirl up onto his shoulder like smoke. Words passed between them in low, clipped whispers.

"...Yeah, okay, sounds easy," Veil said finally. "You know we’re in hell. I can do more heavy lifting if you ask me..."

"...That’s my job. And I still remember our promish... you want to evolve, right?"

"...Oh, I thought you already forgot because of our mission."

"No. A promish is a promish. So until it’s fulfilled, heavy lifting is on my shoulders . And yours..."

"I know, I know... I’ll go," Veil said, and in the next instant he dropped down from Atlas’s shoulder, melting into the shadows. His presence flickered between alleyways, slipping past the legs of netizens until he was gone.

Atlas’s steps slowed as he looked around. The buildings were all clay—no wood anywhere. The walls were painted in earth tones and adorned with intricate carvings that told stories in lines and spirals. He ran a gloved hand along one wall as they passed. The clay was warm, almost alive from holding the day’s heat.

Aurora’s pace had slowed too, and her breath came heavier with each block. He caught the faint rattle in it before he spoke.

"Is there something like night here? I don’t see any source of light... but there’s light."

Aurora tapped her staff once against the ground before answering.

"...The light—or the sun we have—is the blessing of the Sun God."

"But the Sun God doesn’t like hell. Like any God. Hell was claimed by eternal darkness—its only source of light from the eternal fire it had. But... the Three Empress, who now reside deep within hell, they changed hell. One held the sky, one held the ground, and the last held whatever was between... including light, air, and the chaotic mana."

She glanced at him from under her hood. "Did I answer your question?"

"I really...don’t know what you’re talking about. Instead, I have more questions."

Aurora groaned softly and turned toward a nearby building—a three-story structure with an arched entrance and carved balconies. "...Later. I’m tired for now."

{oh Atlas...} Azezal’s voice threaded into his ear. {As your servant....I also want to make some rendezvous. I want to be useful like your shadow pet, instead of this....walking around.}

"...Huh. Go. I don’t care. I prefer you don’t come back."

{...Please, oh Guide. I am your apostle. The first one. I still need you and your unholy guidance.....}

"Guidance from mee?...What the fuck you are gonna do anyway?"

The crimson demon sneered { Search for your Next Apostle...}

The demon vanished before Atlas could respond. But his golden eyes caught the flicker of crimson moving toward the horizon—toward the chaotic sprawl of castle-like towers far away, where the heat shimmered so much the walls themselves seemed to ripple.

"...I have a bad feeling about this."

Aurora didn’t even look at him. "You’re in hell. Get used to it."