CHAPTER 361: CHAPTER 350: WE DISCUSS

There was silence above the inferno.

Not peace — never peace — but a silence that followed awe, as if even the air had forgotten how to breathe.

Atlas hovered above the ruined citadel of Dagon, his white cloak whispering against the dead wind. The black towers beneath him glowed with the reflected fire of the battlefield below.

Every gust carried screams — divine and infernal — and the wet percussion of dying gods. The war of realms unfolded beneath his feet, a tapestry of ruin painted in gold and ash.

And beside him, floating as if gravity itself bowed in courtesy, was the Elder.

The Elder of the demons — ancient, inscrutable, his body draped in robes that shimmered like molten obsidian. His eyes, however, were still human. Too human. They watched the chaos not with fury or fear, but with the quiet of one who had seen too much and survived it all.

They stood — or rather, existed — in the heart of stillness, while around them the world screamed itself apart.

The Elder’s voice broke the silence first, low and rasping, the sound of sand shifting over old bones.

"Beautiful, isn’t it?"

Atlas didn’t answer. He simply watched — watched as his legions of Fallen rose and fell like waves against the shining wall of demigods. He could taste ozone in the air, the metallic bite of mana discharges as Uriel’s fire clashed against heavenly steel. The storm of souls below was both horrifying and magnificent — creation’s first music playing in reverse.

The Elder tilted his head, his gaze trailing the arcs of lightning and shadow.

"There was a time," he murmured, "when the sight of a single demigod would make the world pause. When their footfalls split mountains and their breath stirred storms. And now..." His lips curved faintly. "Now there are fifty of them. Like locusts from Heaven."

He turned to Atlas. "Do you understand what that means?"

Atlas’s eyes remained on the horizon. The golden light of the demigods burned there, flickering like the last fever of a dying sun.

"It means Heaven is afraid," he said quietly.

The Elder chuckled, deep and knowing. "Afraid... or desperate. Either can birth madness." He paused. "You’ve seen their kind before?"

Atlas nodded once. "I’ve fought gods."

"That wasn’t my question."

The Elder’s tone held no challenge — only curiosity, like a scholar testing the texture of fire. His gaze dropped again to the battlefield.

Even from here, the heat licked against his face, hot and acrid, carrying the stink of burning angelic blood — a smell like copper and ozone. "I know their bloodline," he continued. "I know that power. Because it is mine too."

At that, Atlas finally turned.

The air between them vibrated — not with threat, but with realization. The Elder met his gaze calmly, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that might once have been a smile.

"Yes, Prophet," he said. "I am a demigod."

The admission fell like a stone into deep water. Ripples spread — unseen but felt.

Atlas did not act surprised. He had known. His system — had told him the moment the Elder’s mana signature registered. Yet hearing the confession aloud gave it shape. Gave it weight.

"Why tell me now?" Atlas asked softly.

"Because you will soon understand what we are fighting." The Elder’s eyes shone faintly, twin embers behind the veil of age. "When I was young, the gods walked this plane.

They claimed dominion over the laws of reality itself. Their children were their weapons. Their seeds, planted across mortal worlds to wage divine war in flesh."

He gestured to the heavens, where the demigods cut through shadow like golden meteors.

"Once, their number was few. Now—look. The heavens breed them like dogs of war. That is no divine order. That is fear."

The Elder’s gaze softened, growing almost reverent. "And yet... you changed it all. The moment you entered Hell, the order trembled.

The underworld twisted to your presence. The seas of the Second Layer boiled. The sky of the Third cracked open. The Eighth froze in silence. Even the oldest demons felt it — the ripple of design rewriting itself."

He turned his full attention to Atlas now, his voice almost tender. "You are not just a prophet. You are the contradiction that makes prophecy possible."

Atlas listened without reply. His expression was unreadable — a marble mask carved by centuries of restraint.

He had heard many call him names — prophet, usurper, savior, abomination — and none had ever fit. He had long since learned that the universe never gave names to things it did not fear.

The Elder’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Tell me, Atlas. Do you ever wonder how much of your fate is yours?"

Atlas looked down at the armies below.

"I don’t believe her...," he said. "Only choices."

"Then why do you hesitate to act?"

That question pierced more deeply than any blade could. Atlas turned his gaze skyward. Above the burning horizon, Aurora’s light flickered, faint and distant — but still there. He could sense her life through the chaos, each flare of her mana a heartbeat against the storm.

He exhaled slowly. "Because a king does not move before his knights. If he steps into the field first, he shames their faith."

The Elder smiled faintly. "So you wait. While they bleed."

Atlas’s tone did not change, but the air around him grew heavy, the pressure of his restrained power rippling like heat. "If I move, it ends. But the world must see them first — the Fallen — not me. If they are to rise again, they must remember their own strength."

The Elder laughed softly, not mockingly — a laugh like rust breaking free from old iron.

"You speak as if you’ve ruled for millennia."

"I have died enough times to understand rule."

The Elder’s laughter faded, replaced by a quiet wonder. He looked once more upon the battle, where Uriel burned like a comet and Gabriel danced through lightning. "They fight for you, Prophet. The angels who once cursed your name now call it holy."

"Then let them prove it," Atlas said.

The Elder nodded slowly, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps you are right. Perhaps even Heaven must learn to bleed before it kneels."

A moment of silence passed — a fragile stillness between two beings who had both outlived too many truths.

Below, the war screamed louder.

The Son of Zeus broke free from the circle of Fallen around him, his lightning-scorched armor steaming as he tore through the sky. His eyes were blinding, burning with divine fury. Aurora fought on, her movements slower now, her breaths coming in ragged bursts. Blood traced lines along her palms where the staff bit into her flesh.

Atlas felt her pain — not as empathy, but as resonance. Her will pulsed through him, calling his name without words.

The Elder tilted his head. "Your ’mate,’" he said with a knowing smile. "You won’t intervene?"

Atlas did not respond. His gaze sharpened as the demigod rose higher, leaving Aurora below, wings of lightning unfolding behind him like a new dawn.

The Elder’s curiosity deepened. "You truly won’t move?"

Atlas’s answer was silence.

The Son of Zeus laughed as he ascended, his spear drawn back, golden lightning wrapping his body. He aimed directly for Atlas — the throne of this rebellion, the heretic prophet of Hell.

The Elder sighed. "So it comes to this."

But before the demigod could strike, the world itself paused.

A single word rippled across existence, resonant and absolute.

"{Hold.}"

It came not from Atlas.

Not from the Elder.

But from below — from Aurora.

The command struck like divine law.

Reality itself froze.

Lightning stilled midair. Flames halted in their flicker. Even sound seemed to bow. The Son of Zeus hung suspended in the sky, caught in a stasis of pure authority.

The Elder’s eyes widened, not in fear — but admiration. "She invoked her LAW."

Atlas’s expression remained calm, but within him, he felt the surge — the signature of Aurora’s soul expanding far beyond mortal capacity. She had tapped into something primal. Something older than Heaven’s edicts or Hell’s dominions.

Far below, Aurora’s form glowed, her hair flowing like liquid silver in the stilled air. Her staff pulsed, and the shattered remains of her charm burned into light around her.

She looked up at the frozen godspawn, and for a moment, she was no longer the wounded warrior of Babylon.

She was Revenge incarnate.

Uriel moved first.

Her blade, already aflame with celestial fire, cut through the frozen air like a stroke of scripture.

With a sound like thunder remembering its purpose, she descended.

The Son of Zeus fell.

He hit the earth beside Aurora with the impact of a falling star, the ground shattering beneath him. His lightning flickered out, leaving only smoke and the faint stench of burning divinity. Aurora landed beside the crater, panting, her Law still echoing through the trembling air.

The Elder exhaled softly. "So that’s her true face..."

Atlas said nothing. His gaze lingered on her, but his thoughts were elsewhere — on the shifting balance of power. On how each act of defiance, each use of Law, rewrote the fabric of their world.

The Elder’s eyes glimmered with intrigue. "You’ve changed her too...."

Atlas turned to him. "No," he said quietly. "She ... evolved."

For a moment, they both watched in silence as Aurora knelt by the fallen demigod. Her hand trembled, half reaching for his throat — half trembling with restraint. Even now, after all the blood, some part of her still clung to mercy.

The Elder folded his hands behind his back. "You’re certain you won’t move yet?"

Atlas’s eyes hardened. "If I descend now, it ends too soon. The war must break before it bends. Only in collapse can the world choose rebirth."

The Elder smiled faintly. "Spoken like a god."

Atlas met his gaze. "No. Spoken like a man who has seen gods die."

The Elder chuckled again, the sound dry and full of ancient mirth. "Then watch, Prophet. Watch as your faith burns the heavens... Odin’s Ragnarok coming to fruition...."