CHAPTER 283: CHAPTER 282: SHE KNOWS

Aurora drifted ahead, body weightless, her long legs folded neatly beneath her as though she were lounging on the air itself.

Her silver hair swayed as if a current of unseen water carried her. Behind her, Atlas floated too—though his posture was less graceful, more soldier than angel, the stubborn weight of his thoughts clinging to him even in this gravityless abyss.

"Aurora..." His voice carried, low, sharp, heavy with questions.

"Yes?" She tilted her head, eyes glimmering with that mischief that always felt both playful and cruel.

"Where the fuck are we going?"

Aurora’s lips curved, laughter hiding in her throat. "...Hehe... Azezal is waiting for us. You’ll see."

Atlas narrowed his eyes, though she couldn’t see it from ahead. It was always like this. Always.

Since his childhood—or what passed for it in this warped life of stolen memories—it had been her way: speaking in fragments, syllables dipped in riddles, never giving the truth until the very last second.

A constant, gnawing reminder that his life wasn’t truly his own. That the pieces of memory inside him didn’t fit, but still belonged.

He muttered, almost to himself. "...I hope it’s worth it..."

"Come on..." Aurora’s tone was sing-song, teasing, almost cruel in its levity. "Stop worrying about your pregnant woman, and live the life for now."

Atlas exhaled hard, a sigh that felt dragged from his chest by chains. The sound echoed faintly against the dungeon walls, swallowed by the deepening dark.

Her words pressed against his ribs, heavy, sharp. He carried that weight every second—responsibility, guilt, the life growing because of him.

Yet, for a moment, the heaviness thinned. At least someone else knew. At least someone else saw the burden with him.

"It better be good, Aurora..." he growled, louder, his voice bouncing in the cavernous dark.

Aurora only smiled. Her silence was louder than any answer.

The tunnel bent downward. Darkness thickened, swallowing the dim glows of torches until there was nothing but pressure, like a cave was folding around them.

Then, ahead, crimson light cracked open. The air smelled of copper and old fire. Atlas’s golden eyes adjusted fast, narrowing as the figures revealed themselves beyond the bars of a blackened cage.

He froze. Not at their faces, but at their eyes. Eyes seething, not with casual malice, not with the typical cruelty of demons.

These were eyes that had tasted betrayal, eyes that wanted revenge so personal it curdled into poison.

’The fuck...? They’re looking like someone raped their woman,’ Atlas thought, unease coiling tight in his chest.

Voices slithered from the dark.

{...Fucking cunt. Why didn’t Orcus kill this fucker for good...} Blam’s voice oozed from his blob form, dripping contempt.

{Ease... be at ease. It’s good he didn’t kill him. Torture suits them better.} Azezal’s oily whisper followed.

Atlas floated closer, intrigued despite himself. His gaze caught the movement of dark feathers—broken, half-burned, yet still regal in their ruin. Wings. Four of them. His heart stalled, then slammed hard against his ribs.

"...A fallen?" His voice cut the silence. "Why the fuck are you making a fuss about a fallen?"

Aurora leaned lazily, flipping herself upside down, hair spilling like liquid moonlight across Azezal’s face. "Just watch clearly..."

Atlas’s golden eyes sharpened. And then he saw.

Chains coiled around the prisoner’s limbs, heavy black iron drilled into bleeding flesh. Her body was a ruin of scars, gold-stained blood streaking from torn wounds.

Fabric clung to her in tatters, exposing bruises, slices, evidence of a thousand torments. Yet none of that mattered—not compared to the moment her eyelids cracked open.

Golden light flared. His light.

Atlas’s chest tightened, like a fist squeezing his lungs.

’...Is she...?’

"Hehe..." Aurora’s voice dripped, teasing. "You know her, Atlas?"

His mind raced. His other knowledge—the fragmented gaming memories. Pixels. Dialogue he’d skipped. Boss fights where he’d focused only on health bars, ignoring lore. But here, now, the line between game and reality collapsed. This wasn’t data. This was blood. Flesh. Breath.

"...Don’t know," Atlas muttered, voice rough.

Aurora’s smirk sharpened. "Oh really? I thought you knew everything."

He ignored her, eyes pinned to the figure. Her four wings hung limp, bleeding feathers dripping light like molten stars. Her blood was a paradox—gold and white—spilled across the filthy stone, desecrating purity with decay.

Atlas didn’t need confirmation. He knew.

’Uriel...’

"Uriel." Aurora said it aloud, tone lilting with both reverence and mockery. "One of the high fallen angels."

Atlas’s pulse kicked harder.

"I don’t know how Orcus bound such a powerhouse but... she’s here."

Blam oozed closer, pressing his grotesque body against the bars. {...She should be condemned. Condemned all the way to the bottom. The demon empresses should judge her—for the millennia of shit she’s caused.}

Atlas cut him a look, then flicked his eyes to Aurora. She shrugged, expression careless, like the answer wasn’t worth her time.

"Release her," Atlas said.

Every head turned. Even Uriel, lips torn and face battered, blinked in shock.

"Atlas..." Aurora’s tone shifted, the playfulness cracking with real alarm. "You may not know, but let me tell you: she has four wings. She isn’t just another fallen angel." Her voice sharpened into syllables heavy with weight. "She is a fallen archangel. A-r-c. Archangel."

{The slayer speaks truth, my lord. Few exist, but even one could slaughter three or four demon kings—and a hundred demon lords besides. This is unwise.} Azezal’s tone, for once, wasn’t sycophantic. It was edged with fear.

Atlas stiffened. That was rare. The ever-bootlicking, praise-drenched mutt was denying him.

"...Still. Release her. If she goes haywire, I can handle her."

"No!"

{No!}

Atlas’s lip curled. The weight of their fear pressed around him like heat. They didn’t know what he knew.

They hadn’t fought her—in the other life. They hadn’t studied her patterns, her weaknesses, her blind spots when rage overtook her.

"...Fine," Atlas muttered. He threw up his hands, voice layered in irritation. "Keep her chained. I don’t give a fuck." His chest burned with frustration, but he didn’t have time to convince them. Not now.

"Let’s just get the damn Key of Heaven and move on. I want this city rebuilt. Properly."

Aurora, unfazed, floated near the cage. She plucked a few broken feathers, twirling them between her fingers, eyes glittering. "...I got what I wanted." She flipped midair, tossing a sky-blue key toward Atlas. "Oh, you mean this?"

Atlas snatched it, brow furrowing. The key was longer than his hand, carved with intricate runes that shimmered like veins of living sky.

It felt cold and heavy, heavier than metal should, as though holding it pressed the weight of heaven into his palm.

"What the fuck do I do with this?"

Aurora’s grin widened. "Haha... plot demands you have the key. That’s all."

Atlas stared at her, jaw tightening. Suspicion flickered sharp between them.

"Hmmm. Do you know something?" he asked.

"Do you know something?" she volleyed back, eyes narrowing in mock challenge.

"...I asked first."

"Well, I’m still asking."

They glared. Silence stretched, thick, broken only by the distant drip of blood from Uriel’s wings.

Atlas broke it with a mutter, turning away. ’Does she know something? About my system?...games.. ...No. She’s suspicious, yeah, but I’m basically Superman now. Anyone would suspect...’

Aurora’s voice cut his thought like a blade.

"Sometimes you say System." Her tone was sharp now, stripped of playfulness. "What’s the deal with that?"

Atlas froze. His heart lurched hard.

’Fuck. She knows.’