CHAPTER 345: CHAPTER 334: ASMODEUS

Hell — The Third Layer: The Maw of Chains

The campaign began beneath a sky that bled iron.

Where the Ninth Rift burned wild and open, the Third Layer was a furnace made of law. Chains the width of mountains coiled from horizon to horizon, anchoring the very crust of the realm to a core of molten shadow. Every breath carried the metallic tang of rust and ancient blood. Here, motion itself was a sentence: the ground shifted like a living gear, every stone etched with bindings older than time.

The Fallen called it the Maw of Chains because nothing here moved freely. Even the wind scraped along the iron walls as though shackled.

Atlas stood at the front of his host on a black rise overlooking the chasm below. His armor still smoked from the last battle; the Key at his chest flickered between gold and crimson light, each pulse echoing like a heart that had forgotten which realm it belonged to.

Behind him stretched the newly-forged infernal legions — angels burned clean of their halos, demons tempered by faith. Between their ranks marched the standard-bearers of Uriel and Raphael, banners torn from celestial cloth and stitched with sigils of Hell.

Gabriel approached, helm under one arm, face drawn tight. "The scouts confirm Bel’Azar still rules the Maw. He’s fused himself to the citadel’s heart. Every gate is locked by his own flesh."

Atlas looked out across the plain. From here, Bel’Azar’s citadel was a single vast silhouette, a mountain of moving chains and molten rivets. The thing breathed; each exhale sent sparks spiraling into the ash sky.

"He was the Warden before Galiath’s reign," Raphael muttered. "He knows every bond that holds Hell together. Break him, and we break the oldest of the laws."

Atlas flexed his fingers, feeling the echo of power under his skin. Since his descent, the Guide had been silent, but its presence lingered like a hum behind his heartbeat. He still remembered the last words it had whispered before vanishing: Rule through remembrance.

Uriel descended beside him, her wings shivering under the weight of the heat. "The Maw has never fallen," she said quietly. "Even Lucifer avoided it. It is where angels were first chained."

Atlas’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than it should have. "Then it’s fitting we start there."

He raised his hand. A ripple passed through the army, a sound like steel grinding on steel.

"March," he said.

The ground trembled in answer.

They descended into the belly of the Third Layer like pilgrims returning to a wound. The path was carved through mountains of rusted iron and obsidian ribs; everywhere, the world creaked under its own weight. Chains crossed the skies like constellations, dragging titanic corpses through the dark.

Each step was heavy — not from exhaustion, but from the weight of memory. This was where rebellion was punished, where angels had first been made examples. The air shimmered with echoes of screams that had never stopped.

Uriel moved beside Atlas, voice low. "your companion .....aurora was it? She passed through here once. Before she vanished into the lower layers. Her light still lingers, faint as breath."

Atlas’s jaw tightened at the name. Aurora — the high mage who had taught him how to wield power, how to survive.

The one who he had sent to maple the way for him.

"Where did she go?" he asked quietly.

"To the southern frontier of the Third Layer," Uriel replied. "To face the one who guards the descent — the Demon King of Kings, Asmodeus the Gatekeeper of the Fourth."

A silence rippled between them. Even Raphael paused at that name.

Asmodeus — one of the oldest rulers of Hell. A creature so ancient his existence predated sin itself. He had been granted the title "Keeper of the Veins," for he guarded the flow of essence between the Third and Fourth Layers. Every soul that fell passed through his gates.

Raphael’s voice was low, grim. "If she faced him... she’s either dead, or worse."

Atlas turned toward him, the glow of his eyes hardening. "Then we finish what she began."

He looked over the map projected in the air by Gabriel’s conjuring. Lines of molten light traced across the iron plains — strongholds, forges, citadels bound by chain-bridges. Each one pulsed faintly with infernal runes.

Gabriel pointed to one cluster. "Bel’Azar’s forces cover the northern gate. We can breach his citadel by breaking the locks at the Three Pillars. Once that’s done, we march south — straight into Vhal-Torr’s territory."

Raphael frowned. "That means war with every lord in between. There are seven — all sworn to him. He won’t stand alone."

Atlas’s lips twitched, almost a smile. "Then let them stand together."

Uriel lowered her head, feathers flickering with sparks. "It’s not that simple, Prophet. The Demon King of Kings commands the ancient legions. Some of them were demi gods before the fall of the first realm. Their power... it’s not like Bel’Azar’s."

Atlas turned to her, his voice quiet but sharp. "I know. But if we stop now, they’ll rebuild. Heaven is watching, waiting for us to hesitate. This is the moment Hell must remember.."

The air thickened around him. Even the ground seemed to listen.

Gabriel exhaled slowly. "Then we strike in sequence. We’ll crush the citadels of the seven lords — one after another — until the Gatekeeper stands alone."

Uriel nodded. "We’ll need time. And more allies."

Raphael stepped forward. "Leave the first strike to me. My spear can breach their wards — and my temper can break their pride."

Atlas smirked. "You’ll have both chances soon enough."

He turned back toward the horizon, where Bel’Azar’s fortress burned faintly like a heart buried beneath chains.

Beyond that, far in the smoke-veiled distance, he could feel it — a pulse of something vast and ancient, like a slumbering god’s heartbeat.

The Gate.

Even from here, he could taste the aura of it — raw, thick, holy in its corruption.

He clenched his hand, feeling the Key at his chest thrum in answer.

"Prepare the legions," he said. "We take the Maw first. Then the frontier. Then the Gate itself."

Uriel hesitated. "And if he ... awakens?"

Atlas’s eyes burned gold. "Then I remind him who built the chains he worships."