CHAPTER 378: CHAPTER 367: I AM WHO I AM.

The Mirror Realm was not made of glass. It was made of empty memories, taking reality and copying it, just like a mirror, but without the living in it.

Every reflection shimmered not with light, but with regret.

Each step Asmodeus took sent ripples through the mirrored ground, waves of his own failures reflecting back at him — his rise, his triumphs, his endless hunger for power — all turned hollow.

He was lying on a fractured obsidian plain, his body torn open by the Guide’s law, the command still echoing through his essence like a divine curse.

{Die}.

The word had not merely struck his body; it had branded itself upon his soul.

The air tasted of iron and smoke. Black ichor dripped from his wounds, hissing as it met the mirrored floor, burning his reflection away only for it to return seconds later.

The realm itself rejected his suffering — it would not let him hide from it.

He had been called the Strongest Demon King.

And yet, as he lay there, his breath ragged, his heart echoing like a cracked drum, the words tasted like mockery.

Strongest?

He wanted to laugh, but the effort sent blood into his mouth.

A voice — soft, crystalline, far too innocent for this place — broke through the silence.

"I told you, the Guide is with him. Your defeat was inevitable, uncle."

The small figure crouched beside him, her horns slender and silver, her eyes reflecting the mirrored world around them.

Two dim halos hovered faintly above her head — an inheritance of both curse and blessing.

Asmodeus tilted his head toward her. Even that simple motion felt like a weight crushing him.

His mind clawed back through centuries of wars, betrayals, conquests — all undone by one mortal.

"...You were right," he whispered, his voice gravel and ash. "He is inside him. But why? Why choose a mortal? Why not me?"

His horns dripped molten light as they began to melt. Skin sloughed off in pale ribbons, revealing the man beneath — the human he once was.

A truth he had long denied. His reflection showed not a king, but a child of dust and bone.

The girl smiled faintly — not mockery, but melancholy.

"You told me once," she murmured, "that life happens not to us... but for us. Do you remember that, uncle?"

He closed his eyes. He remembered.

A thousand years ago, before his coronation, before the fall.

A young scholar kneeling in the Temple of Bloodfire, whispering prayers he didn’t believe. That was before the One Below All had whispered back.

The memory burned.

And the curse — {Die} — coiled through his veins again, a serpent of divine rejection.

"But..." he rasped, defiance kindling behind his eyes, "I deserved it. I became stronger. Stronger than any. I served the One Below All.

I became His hand. I gave Hell centuries of conquest, bled for it, rebuilt it when the stars themselves fell.

And what did I ask for in return? Only power — to rule, to hold the Empresses beside me..."

His words faltered. His gaze dimmed. The girl listened in silence, her hand resting lightly upon the mirrored ground.

The surface rippled with every word, reflecting their faces again and again until the horizon itself was filled with their infinite duplicates — each echo slightly different, each one whispering the same word: Why.

She sat down beside him. Her reflection did not move.

"And yet," she said softly, "you still dream of ruling. Still see yourself as king, even now — with that cursed magic burning through you. The magic that forces you to see every future you can never have...."

The sound of his laughter was hollow. Bitter. Beautiful, in a way.

The kind of laughter born from a heart that had stopped breaking long ago because there was nothing left to shatter.

"Yes," he breathed. "Yes, I will still rule. I will merge with the One Below All. I will become Hell.

That is my destiny. Trials like this mortal... they will come and go. And I will endure. I will crush them all. Even if it is the Guide Himself reborn — I will destroy Him."

He stood, his demonic flesh returning, veins lighting with infernal fire. The sound of his transformation was like the grinding of tectonic plates — bones fusing with stone, soul with flame. His horns regrew, curling like burning crescents.

The mirror beneath him groaned, unable to bear the weight of his existence.

The girl’s eyes dimmed.

There was sadness there — not for his pain, but for what he had forgotten.

She looked at her reflection instead of him. The mirrored version of herself looked back with disappointment, shaking her head as if to say: He’ll never change.

"Men..." she whispered to herself. "Always building thrones from their own graves."

He ignored her. His stride echoed like thunder as he walked toward the edge of the Mirror Realm — a boundary not of walls, but of will. The world fractured before him, light splitting into spectral shards. The glass screamed as he passed through.

She watched him go.

Her heart ached with an emotion she didn’t want to name.

He was her uncle. He was a god. He was lost.

"Once, you were mortal," she murmured as the fracture closed behind him. "Once, you were like Atlas. Maybe you still are... a genesis."

Her words fell into silence. The Mirror Realm absorbed them, then gave them back as a faint echo that trembled across eternity.

.

.

.

The skies of Hell were on fire.

Half of Asmodeus’ army lay in ruin.

The earth was cracked and glowing, magma spilling like veins of molten gold.

Atlas stood amidst the carnage — a storm in human form. His skin shimmered with the residue of divinity, fractured wings of shadow and light unfurling from his back.

Each motion carried a quiet violence, like the shifting of continents.

Aurora flew beside him, her golden light wings burning with molten radiance. Every beat of her heart ignited the air around her.

She had seen many wars, many champions, but this — this was different. The Atlas before her was no longer the same man she’d known before entering the depths of Hell. Something ancient stirred behind his eyes. Something neither mortal nor god.

She hurled a column of magma into a charging giant, the explosion shaking the horizon.

Smoke curled through her silver hair as she landed beside Atlas, breathing heavily.

"What happened there?" she demanded, her voice sharp but edged with worry. "That fight with Asmodeus — what was that? You were not the same. There."

Atlas didn’t answer at first.

He looked toward the torn sky, where lightning and fire danced like twin serpents.

His breathing was steady, almost too steady. His eyes reflected the chaos of battle — and something deeper, darker, calm as the void.

"It’s nothing," he said finally. His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

Aurora frowned. She knew him too well.

He was lying. Or perhaps he didn’t even know how to explain what had changed.

"Don’t lie to me, Atlas," she said softly. "I saw what you did. I saw something inside you — something that wasn’t human... Was it the Guide? Like what the Elder said..?."

Atlas turned his head slightly. The flames reflected in his eyes looked almost... tired. He exhaled, the sound carrying the weight of aeons.

"They’re here," he said finally.

Aurora blinked. "Who?"

"Eli. Claire. Lara. And..." He hesitated, a flicker of emotion breaking through. "Your master."

Aurora froze. "My... master?"

Her heart skipped.

"Merlin? You mean Merlin is here?"

He nodded once.

"Second layer. With Michael."

The world seemed to still.

Even the flames grew quiet.

Aurora’s mind flooded with memory — the old days under the High Towers of the Arcanum, Merlin’s cryptic laughter, his endless experiments with time and soul.

"How?" she breathed. "He... he wasn’t supposed to—"

Atlas raised a hand. "He found a way. Just like we did."

For a long moment, Aurora said nothing.

Her gaze wandered across the battlefield, watching the demons and fallen tearing each other apart — an endless, senseless cycle.

She wondered if this was all part of some grand design.

And beneath that thought, buried deep where she dared not look, was a flicker of fear.

Merlin never did anything without reason.

As they moved across the burning plain, Aurora found herself studying Atlas more closely.

His steps were measured, but there was a heaviness to them — like he carried a storm beneath his skin. The scars on his hands glowed faintly, ancient runes pulsing like living veins.

Aurora’s heart clenched. She wanted to inquire more. But she stopped.

She didn’t ask more. Some truths demanded silence.

As they descended into the charred valley, the remnants of Asmodeus’ army stirred again.

Black serpents of shadow uncoiled from the fissures, forming into knights of twisted glass.

Their armor was etched with runes of despair. Their eyes burned with borrowed hatred.

Atlas drew his blade — a weapon not of metal, but of thought, forged from the living echo of the Guide’s law.

Each swing tore through the world’s fabric.

Each strike left silence in its wake.

Aurora followed, her spells roaring like suns reborn.

They fought as one — god and flame, mortal and myth, a harmony of ruin.

But even as they cut through the endless swarm, Aurora’s mind lingered on Merlin, her master. On the prophecy that Asmodeus whsipered in her ears...

If they were all here...