CHAPTER 382: CHAPTER 371: .... VON ROXWELD

He stood amid the ruin of it all. The silence after battle was a strange, living thing—too vast, too heavy.

It pressed on his chest like the hand of a sleeping titan. Smoke curled from fissures in the broken ground, rising to join the blood-red clouds. The air tasted of iron and thunder.

Atlas did not know if he breathed or drowned. His lungs shuddered with every ragged gulp of air.

He could still hear the echo of his last blow—the strike that felled Asmodeus—rolling through his bones like a memory that refused to die.

"Did I... won?"

The words came out in a rasp, broken by pain and disbelief.

Then the adrenaline drained away, and the truth of his body arrived. The pain came like a tide—first at the edges, then all at once.

He felt his bones, every single one, like shards of molten glass beneath his skin. His hands trembled. The law he had bound into his fists—

He tried to rise, but the world tilted. The sky spun, and with a dull, wet sound, his knees gave out.

He hit the ground with a hollow thud. The weight of his armor was unbearable now; it felt like grief made metal.

His fingers curled in reflex. He felt nothing solid there anymore—only pulp and pain. Bone turned to mush. Muscles shredded under their own tension. Blood seeped through his gloves, dark and sluggish.

’So this is what victory costs.’

He had imagined triumph would feel clean—pure, ascending. Instead, it felt like drowning in his own body.

He fell backward, limp. His vision dimmed, collapsing into shadow.

Somewhere distant, a voice broke the silence.

"Atlas!"

Aurora’s cry tore through the smoke. She was running toward him, her boots splashing through blood-slick mud. Her voice was a chord of fear and fury.

"Atlas, stay with me! Damn it—wake up!"

Gabriel, Raphael, Jenny, Galaith—all of them appeared like ghosts through the haze. Faces streaked with ash and disbelief. They looked down at him, and their eyes reflected the same thought: the impossible had happened, Asmodeus was defeated, defeated by a mortal. A broken Mortal.

And surely the world faded completely. His vision drowning in darkness.

.

.

When he opened his eyes again, there was no pain—only cold clarity. The air was different here, thinner, older.

Before him stood a throne of ancient ironwood, its back carved with runes older than stars. On it sat an old man, his silhouette framed by a window that showed the heavens themselves spread beneath.

Atlas did not need to see his face. He knew the shape of that stillness, the weight of that silence.

Odin.

He rose slowly, uncertain whether he was dead or dreaming. The hall around him was vast, built in the Viking tradition—pillars like the trunks of mountains, banners of wolf and raven swaying in unseen wind.

Golden mead spilled from toppled cups frozen mid-fall, as if time itself bowed here.

He did not like it. He did not like the feel of the place or the presence that ruled it.

"....I should be dead," he muttered, tasting bitterness. "Not here."

He had hoped—if hope was the word—that death would greet him in the forms he knew: Fate or perhaps the faceless arbiters who judged warriors beyond the veil. Not this—not the old god who called himself father of gods.

He took a step forward. His boots echoed on the runestone floor like strikes of a hammer.

Odin did not turn. He sat gazing through the window at the expanse of Valhalla—the golden fields, the rivers of light, the endless chorus of warriors laughing in eternal feast.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried the calm weight of storms long conquered.

"You won, boy," Odin said. "Truly won. Against a foe as old as myself.... That’s not a small thing."

Atlas’s throat tightened. He wanted to feel pride, but all he felt was exhaustion.

Odin went on, almost amused. "Thor’s been itching to fight you. His hammer hums whenever your name crosses the hall.

His son, Ouserous, won’t stop boasting he could take you down. Youth, eh?"

"I don’t give a shit," Atlas snapped. "I asked you one thing. Why. am. I. here?"

The old god turned then. His one good eye, bright as a dying star, fixed on him. There was no malice there—only a vast patience that made Atlas’s rage feel small.

"Haa... young fire. Always burning," Odin sighed. "Alright, then. I called you here because things are shifting. The deal we made—it must change."

Atlas’s pulse spiked. "What? No. Fuck you. We had a deal. I give you the key, you give me the Amrit."

He shouted the words like a curse, the echo of them shaking the rafters.

Odin merely waved a hand.

In an instant, Atlas’s lips vanished. His mouth was gone—smooth skin where words should be. He clawed at his face, panic flaring. He tried to scream but could only make a strangled breath.

"Listen first," Odin said softly. "You’re still weak. You barely survived Asmodeus. And the Fourth Layer—that’s no child’s game." He stood, the weight of eternity in his movements. "Worse, the other gods are stirring. Recklessly."

Atlas’s eyes burned with silent fury.

"Zeus is moving to wage war on the Three Empresses," Odin continued, pacing toward the window. "And by the old pact, I must join him—me, Zeus, and Ra against them. A war that would shatter every reality we know."

He looked back, and for a moment, even Odin seemed tired. "Do you want that, boy? Do you want all of existence to burn?"

He extended a hand, fingers glowing faintly. "All I ask is one thing more—bring me the crown of the Third Empress. That’s all I ask. In return, I offer you something in kind."

Atlas glared, breathing hard through his nose. Rage coiled within him, a serpent seeking escape.

Odin flicked his wrist.

From the city below—a living city of light and song—something rose, cutting through the air with a keening sound. Atlas instinctively reached out. It struck his palm with the weight of inevitability.

He looked down.

It was an axe—massive, ornate, carved with runes that glowed cold blue. The handle was wrapped in leather dark as storm clouds, and the edge shimmered with reflected galaxies. It hummed faintly, alive, hungry.

"There you go," Odin said, smiling faintly. "A divine weapon. I named it breaker, the Law-Breaker. Use it well. Now... go."

Before Atlas could respond, the hall collapsed into light.

He awoke with a gasp, lungs burning. Sweat drenched his body, and pain roared back like a tide returning. Every nerve screamed.

He was lying on stone, back in Hell—or whatever passed for it now. The scent of ozone and burnt earth filled his nostrils. His vision swam.

And then he saw it.

The axe.

It lay beside him, half-buried in dust, gleaming faintly. The same runes, the same hum, the same impossible presence.

For a long moment he just stared, his mind torn between awe and horror.

"What the hell..."

He reached out, fingers trembling, and touched the handle. The moment his skin met the leather, visions flared—mountains collapsing, oceans boiling, gods screaming. The axe pulsed with a heartbeat not its own.

He yanked his hand back, gasping.

Aurora’s voice came faintly through the ringing in his ears. "Atlas! You’re awake—thank the stars—"

He turned toward her, still dazed. Her face was pale, streaked with soot. Behind her stood Gabriel, Raphael.

"I thought you were gone," Aurora whispered, kneeling beside him. Her hand hovered just above his chest, afraid to touch.

"I was," Atlas murmured. "But I never seem to die..."

He looked at the axe again. Its glow reflected in his eyes like twin storms.

Aurora followed his gaze. "What is that?"

"A problem," he said softly.

For a moment they were both silent, listening to the faraway rumble of thunder.

Inside him, something deeper stirred. Odin’s words echoed—’things are shifting’. The war of gods, the crown of the Third Empress, the Fourth Layer.

’Zeus...why? Why does he want war.’ he thought. ’ or that old cunt is just making shit up....’

He could feel it now: the fabric of reality thinning, like an old tapestry stretched too far. The victory against Asmodeus had not ended anything. It had only cracked open the next gate.

He dragged himself upright, every motion agony. His body screamed, but his will refused to break. Aurora moved to help, but he waved her off.

"Hmm...I can stand," he said through clenched teeth.

[Yggdrasil’s Essence is Active]

’You won’, Odin had said.

Then why did it feel like loss?

He tried to walk. One step. Then another. The world tilted, pain biting through his side like molten wire.

His breath hitched. The armor across his chest was cracked in three places — proof of the infernal force Asmodeus had unleashed before he fell.

"Atlas!" Aurora’s voice tore through the haze. Her white hair was matted with dust and sweat, her face drawn in fury and fear. "Stop moving! You’re bleeding out!"

He ignored her, his jaw tight. Raphael was beside her, his usual calm shattered into shards of urgency. "lord, you need rest!" Raphael snapped, stepping forward to catch him. "You’ve torn half your ribs open. Please Sit down, before you collapse again!"

Atlas brushed him off with the back of his arm. "Where is he?"

Aurora blinked. "...Who?"

He turned, his eyes dim but burning. "Asmodeus."

A strange silence followed. The name lingered like a ghost in the air — unholy, heavy, alive.

Aurora swallowed, shaking her head. "Gone. He’s... gone somewhere."

"Gone?" Atlas frowned. "Impossible. He should still be here. He couldn’t have—"

"He’s not even in the Mirror Realm," Aurora interrupted, her voice low now. "I checked."

Atlas stopped mid-step, pain forgotten. "How.... would you know?"

Before she could answer, a sound cut through the ruin — the faintest patter of bare feet against stone. They turned as a small figure approached from the edge of the battlefield.

A child.

A girl, no older than ten, her eyes two deep mirrors that reflected more than light — they reflected memory.

Her skin shimmered faintly, not human, not fully real. The faint scent of crushed violets followed her, soft yet chilling, as if she carried a piece of the Mirror Realm with her wherever she walked.

Aurora’s face hardened instantly. "Atlas," she whispered. "That’s her."

He stared. "Her?"

"The child I told you about. The one from Asmodeus’s prophecy."

Atlas’s chest rose slowly, painfully. His voice was low, steady, but it carried the rumble of something ancient. "The one who would end me."

The girl stopped a few paces away, studying him with an intensity that belied her age.

"We finally meet Guide."

Atlas tilted his head slightly, his eyes tracing the curve of her face, the faint, almost imperceptible sigil glowing at her throat — the mark of Dagon’s bloodline. "So... you are the daughter of Dagon."

The child’s gaze didn’t waver. "Names," she said softly, "are like doors. I have many."

Her voice was clear, melodic, but behind it was a resonance — a hum of something vast and old, like the echo of creation before form had shape.

Atlas felt something stir in him. A flicker of recognition, not from memory but from instinct — a deep, ancient chord vibrating through his very core.

She looked familiar.

But why?

The curve of her cheek, the way her eyes glowed faintly beneath the dying sun... he’d seen that light before. Somewhere.

Someone. But the thought slipped like water through his fingers, vanishing before he could grasp it.

{{{{{...Interesting...}}}}}}

The voice coiled through his mind — the Guide, the ever-present whisper that shared his soul. It sounded amused, almost curious.

She met his gaze with a serenity that chilled him. Slowly, she raised a hand — small, unscarred, yet carrying the stillness of inevitability.

When she spoke again, her tone carried neither pride nor fear. Only truth.

"My name," she said, "is Eliana."

She took a single step closer. The air around them shimmered — not heat, not light, but reality itself rippling like disturbed water.

"Eliana... Von Roxweld...and I’m no child of Dagon...."