CHAPTER 381: CHAPTER 370: PATHETIC THEN, PATHETIC NOW.

A few moments before.

Atlas tore through the battlefield like a storm unchained from heaven’s leash. The ground screamed beneath his steps, split open by the weight of his blows.

Blood sprayed in arcs of crimson mist as titan after titan fell before him—colossal beings of flesh and divinity, their organs bursting under his fists, their bones turning to dust beneath his heel.

He felt them die through the vibration in his knuckles, through the crunch of matter breaking, through the heat that rolled over his body like a second skin.

His faith points fluctuated like a pulse—rising, falling, then rising again—as if the universe itself couldn’t decide whether he was to be punished or rewarded. He could feel it, that ebb and surge within the depths of him, like twin tides colliding in a single heart. He should have felt triumph. But unease crept in—slow, deliberate, like frost forming on warm steel.

It was too easy.

The thought flickered, unwelcome. He smashed another titan into ruin, its last breath dissolving into a hiss. But still, the doubt lingered.

At this rate, he would win. The beast from the Fourth Layer would perish beneath Michael’s blade, Asmodeus’s legions were being scattered by Aurora’s light, and his own Fallen were pushing through the ranks of the damned. Victory was inevitable.

But The prophecy had said another. Aurora herself had sworn to it.

So—his instincts twitched like nerves before lightning.

What if inevitability was the trap?

{{{{{Don’t overthink it. You will win this.}}}}}

The voice of the Guide slid through his consciousness, smooth, reassuring, cold.

Atlas exhaled, forcing himself to nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

He tried to believe it—to let the certainty settle like armor around his heart—but faith was not armor. It was fire, and it burned even when he tried to control it.

He looked to the horizon, to where the light fractured against the ruins of heaven’s gate. Asmodeus would come. Of course he would. And when he did, Atlas would meet him—not as a lone warrior, but as the sum of all who had fallen and risen beside him.

He would fight with the strength of his demon kings, the rage of his armies, the defiance of the fallen who had found purpose again. He would fight with everything he was, and everything he refused to become.

But then—

The mark on his arm pulsed.

A streak of white lightning, bright as a dying star, seared across his skin. The rune Odin had branded upon him—gift or curse—flared alive. Pain lanced through his body. The world blinked.

And he saw.

The vision came in flashes—each more unbearable than the last. Death. Decay. A collapse not of one realm but all. Heaven, Earth, and Hell folding in on themselves like paper burning in cosmic fire.

Asmodeus and the Guide, standing as twin rulers above the ruins.

Eli and Claire—gone.

Lara—bleeding out beside him, her eyes full of confusion, betrayal.

Her voice a whisper: Why? Why, Atlas?

He reached for her in the vision and found only ash.

When consciousness snapped back, the taste of copper filled his mouth. His hands trembled.

"......" His voice was hoarse, raw. "You....You will betray me."

{{{{{.....what?}}}}}

The Guide’s voice quivered, uncertain for the first time.

Atlas didn’t answer. His gaze had already shifted—past the smoke, past the ruin, to where the air rippled and the temperature dropped. A distant tremor echoed across the field. The shadow of the perpetrator emerged, massive, majestic, inevitable.

Asmodeus.

Aurora’s forces faltered for a breath as the arch-devil appeared, a storm given form. Black fire crowned his head. His wings were blades of smoke, tearing the sky itself. Atlas felt the weight of him like gravity intensified, like the air had chosen sides.

Atlas didn’t care about heaven or hell or the fragile thread of prophecy. He cared about Lara. About Eli. About Claire. About the fragile moments that made him remember he was more than war.

"Fuuuuccckkkk..." he roared, the sound trembling mountains.

Then he launched himself forward.

{{{{{{Calm down, calm the fuck down, Atlas.}}}}}}

The voice in his skull barely reached him. Rage had already become his heartbeat.

.

.

.

Present time.

The world had shrunk to impact and agony.

Each blow between Atlas and Asmodeus was a small apocalypse.

Their strikes didn’t clash—they collided like worlds, detonating in ripples of divine shock that cracked the air itself. The ground beneath them liquefied, metal and stone melting together.

Atlas felt his bones vibrate with each strike, splintering in places he didn’t have names for. He hit back anyway, every motion a denial of destiny.

He could feel the damage stacking inside him—bone shards grinding, blood flooding into lungs that should have stopped working long ago. The heat from Asmodeus’s blade seared through his shoulder; the cold from his own counterpunch burned Asmodeus’s jaw to frost. Pain and fury danced together until they were indistinguishable.

He needed to last. That was all. Last long enough to end this before the vision became truth.

Asmodeus’s laughter echoed like the sound of tectonic plates grinding.

"You fight like a god who’s seen his own death," he said, eyes alight with black joy. "Tell me, Atlas—do you think defiance can change the stars?"

Atlas spat blood, the taste metallic, almost sweet. "I’m not here to change the stars." He raised his fist, trembling. "I’m here to break them....break you..."

He struck. The air shattered. For a heartbeat, even the sky hesitated.

Asmodeus staggered but didn’t fall. His grin widened, cruel and knowing. "Break me, then. See what remains when everything you love burns with them."

Those words dug deeper than any blade.

Because that was the fear—the vision had shown him not his failure, but his success. Victory that cost everything. Triumph that left him hollow.

He remembered Lara’s smile—the way she had looked at him when he first tried to explain the endless war. The way she had brushed the blood from his face like it didn’t matter. He remembered Claire’s laughter, Eli’s unshakable loyalty.

He couldn’t lose them. Not again. Not after everything.

He screamed, the sound breaking through clouds. The energy around him surged, faith points flaring, numbers too volatile for the universe to count.

’put all faith points to my strength.’

[⚠️ Warning ⚠️ Host’s Body can only absorb 400 points.]

’POUR IT ALL, I don’t care.’

His aura became molten light, wrapping him in arcs of gold and crimson. Every muscle trembled, not from exhaustion, but from the strain of containing what he truly was.

Inside his mind, the Guide whispered again.

{{{{{You’re losing control. Pull back, Atlas. This much power isn’t meant to—}}}}}

"I don’t care!" he roared aloud, shattering the air. "If control means losing them, then I’ll burn control itself!"

The Guide went silent. And in that silence, something ancient stirred.

The mark of Odin pulsed again.

Lightning bled through his veins, white fire threading beneath his skin. His eyes turned pure white, and for a moment, the battlefield saw not Atlas the warrior, but Atlas the myth—the one who carried the weight of heaven on his shoulders. The one cursed to bear eternity.

Asmodeus saw it too. His grin faded. His wings flexed in warning.

The next strike split the sky.

The sky cracked open like glass, revealing stars trembling above the smoke. Angels and demons paused mid-combat, shielding their faces from the blinding flare. The sound was not thunder—it was creation screaming.

Atlas felt every heartbeat of the world echo through his bones. He struck again, and Asmodeus staggered backward, blood like liquid night streaming from his mouth.

But with every blow, Atlas’s own body fractured. He could hear ribs breaking, muscles tearing, his faith leaking out in bright streams of light. His strength was becoming the very thing consuming him.

It doesn’t matter, he told himself, vision flickering. If I can end this, they’ll live.

But another voice—the quieter one, the one he tried to drown—answered: And what if they live only to watch you die?

He faltered. Just for a heartbeat. And in that heartbeat, Asmodeus struck.

The blade pierced through his side, hot and clean.

Atlas gasped, air rushing from his lungs. The taste of blood filled his mouth. He grabbed the blade’s hilt and pushed forward instead of retreating, forcing the weapon deeper into his body just to land a counterpunch that shattered Asmodeus’s jaw.

They both fell back, both bleeding, both laughing.

For the first time, Atlas saw something almost human flicker behind Asmodeus’s eyes—a kind of respect born from mutual ruin.

"Still standing," Asmodeus said, voice thick with blood. "You really are the chosen one, too stubborn to die properly."

Atlas coughed, spitting crimson onto the scorched ground. "Guess I’ll take that as a compliment."

He looked around. The battlefield stretched endless. The armies of fallen and hell were collapsing into each other—flashes of gold and shadow merging into gray chaos. Somewhere far off, Aurora’s light still fought to hold the line.

The air stank of ozone, ash, and the bitter tang of burnt wings.

For a moment, everything slowed. He could hear the wind. Feel the weight of his heartbeat. The world pulsed with the rhythm of a dying god.

And in that stillness, a memory.

He was in another world, years ago. A small room, dim light. A bottle half-empty on a table. His TV glowing blue. He remembered the smell of cheap alcohol and the hum of loneliness. Remembered thinking that if he died right there, no one would notice for days. He was a pathetic loser back then.

Living a lonely life. Losing everything, even dieing a pathetic death from an empty bottle.

Even Now, surrounded by gods and monsters, he still felt that same ache. The same quiet void whispering that maybe he didn’t deserve the life he found.

Lara’s face flashed before him again—her laughter, her warmth, the way she had looked at him like he was more than his sins.

’its different now, I have them....’

He had promised himself: Never again.

He roared and rose, tearing the blade from his side.

Power burst from him, a storm that erased color.

"I won’t let them die!" he shouted, voice cracking under the force of it. "Not today! Not ever!"

Asmodeus steadied himself, eyes narrowing. "Then let’s see how far your love will take you before it devours you whole."

They collided again.

Blow after blow. Fire meeting storm. Light devouring shadow.

Each strike sent shockwaves that turned the air to glass. The world around them broke and remade itself with every exchange. Their powers tangled, twisting the fabric of reality until even the gods watching couldn’t tell which one was winning.

Atlas’s hands bled light. His body was failing, but his will was endless. Every time he should have fallen, he remembered Lara’s hand in his, Claire’s voice, Eli’s trust. He remembered the pathetic man he used to be—the one drowning in bottles and regret—and he raged against that ghost with every ounce of strength he had left.

He wasn’t fighting for realms. He was fighting for redemption.

And redemption, he knew, was always paid in blood.

At last, Asmodeus fell to one knee, panting, wings flickering like dying flames. Atlas staggered forward, vision dimming. He could feel his heart slowing.

"You... can’t stop it," Asmodeus rasped. "The prophecy isn’t about me. It’s about you...what I saw in the future, you ruin, your life will be...."

Atlas froze. The words sank in like a knife made of truth.

"What...?"

"The Guide," Asmodeus whispered, a smile breaking through cracked lips. "He’s the true heir. The one behind all layers. You’ve been carrying his will, not yours....you think you outsmart him...."

Lightning crawled across Atlas’s skin again. The mark burned white-hot.

Inside his mind, the Guide’s voice trembled, faintly amused.

{{{{{I told you not to overthink it.}}}}}

Atlas fell to one knee, the world spinning.

Asmodeus laughed, blood bubbling from his throat. "You’ll see soon enough... what you’ve been fighting for."

Then he vanished—his body dissolving into smoke, retreating through cracks in the air. Back to the mirror realm

Atlas slumped forward, breath ragged, surrounded by silence. The armies had stopped. The sky wept light.

He stared at his trembling hands, the lightning mark pulsing like a heartbeat not his own.

He whispered, almost gently, "....did I ....won?"