CHAPTER 393: CHAPTER 391: THEY SPOKE.

The Fourth Layer was not a world—it was a wound that never healed.

They stepped into it like travelers stepping into a god’s dying memory. The ground shimmered underfoot, shifting between glass and blood, reflecting constellations that didn’t belong to this reality.

The air was heavy—too heavy—each breath thick with mana so dense it vibrated in the bones. Even light bent differently here, folding around them in ripples, as though unsure of its own existence.

The stories had not lied.

Here, time did not move forward. It coiled.

Here, echoes of the divine and damned lingered like ghosts that refused to fade.

Here, gods came to die, and monsters came to ascend.

Atlas walked in silence. His axe rested across his back, the ancient steel humming like it remembered every battle that had ever been fought. It pulsed faintly with his heartbeat, attuned to him in ways no mortal weapon should be.

Each vibration felt heavier than the last. The weapon knew where they were.

He tightened his grip on its hilt briefly—more for comfort than necessity. He could feel the hum of the Fourth Layer pressing against his skin, its power whispering beneath his veins. It wasn’t just mana.

It was something deeper. Older. Like standing inside the chest of a living god and hearing its heart still beat.

And still, beneath the awe, Atlas felt the faint, almost tender ache of doubt.

He had come far. Too far. But what if Lilith was right? What if this place didn’t crown them— consuming them first?

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice, deep and weathered, yet carrying that familiar undertone of mirth.

"So, you’ve come at last," the Elder said.

He stepped from the mist as though the air itself had been holding him in place, tall and thin, his cloak a shifting tapestry of runes and constellations. His eyes, bright and inhuman, reflected entire galaxies in their depths.

Atlas recognized him instantly.

The same being who had guided him before—whispering secrets in the Third Layer, testing him, tempting him with glimpses of destiny.

Now he stood in the flesh, older, wearier, but still smiling that same knowing smile.

"Welcome to the Fourth Layer," the Elder said. "A place of wonder. A place of disaster."

The words carried weight. Like prophecy.

Lara took a hesitant step forward. "This... doesn’t feel like any realm I’ve ever seen..."

Her voice trembled slightly. Not with fear, but reverence. The horizon stretched infinitely before them—mountains that floated, seas made of light, and broken temples suspended upside down in the clouds.

Eli brushed his fingertips along the ground, where fragments of luminous sand scattered under his touch. "This isn’t real," he murmured. "Or maybe it’s too real."

Merlin nodded, eyes narrowed. "You’re not wrong. This layer’s reality bends around thought. It feels like a dream, like What you believe can manifest. What you fear can kill..."

A silence followed.

Atlas’s gaze met the Elder’s. "You knew I’d come."

"Of course." The Elder’s smile deepened. "You were always meant to arrive here, oh Guide."

There was something in the way he said the title—Guide—that made the hairs on Atlas’s neck rise.

He felt the faint pull again. The voice inside—the system born of faith. It thrummed faintly, whispering data across his consciousness like prayer. Faith points rising. Resonance increasing.

[System is resonating]

’... resonating..? System?’

The fallens. The humans. Even the demons. They had begun to believe in him—not as a savior, but as a force.

And belief was power.

Still, it didn’t sit right in his chest. Power gained through faith was a fragile thing. It could be devotion one day, delusion the next.

They began to walk.

The Elder led them through the shimmering expanse, where ruins turned to gardens and gardens turned to flame in the span of moments.

Each step distorted the air, sending rings of rippling light through the ground like water.

The temperature shifted constantly—warm one breath, freezing the next. The scent of ozone lingered in the air, mixed with the sweetness of decay.

The distant sound of whispering voices rose and fell, too faint to decipher, too close to ignore.

Claire stumbled once, catching herself against Atlas’s arm. "Do you hear that?"

He nodded slowly. "Memories."

"Whose?"

"All of them."

The Elder chuckled softly. "This realm remembers every being who’s ever entered it. Their pain, their ambition, their failure. It stores them like scripture. Listen long enough, and you’ll hear your own echo."

Lara frowned. "Then what happens to those who pass the test?"

"They stop echoing."

No one spoke after that. As they, they had past the test

They reached a plateau—vast and open, its surface carved with spirals of glowing script. At the center stood a single obelisk, black as the void, pulsing faintly with inner light.

"This is the heart of the Fourth Layer," said the Elder. "Where the Empresses first tamed chaos."

Merlin tilted his head. "Three of them, wasn’t it? The Demon Empresses."

The Elder nodded. "The only ones who ever conquered this realm and lived. Their thrones still linger—empty, but not abandoned."

Raphael frowned. "You speak as if they still rule."

"They do," the Elder said. "Every storm, every shifting sky, every fracture of light you see—it’s their breath. Their will. Their lingering divinity."

He turned back to Atlas, the smile fading. "And they’re watching you now.... Atlas, son of Lilith."

With those proclamation, The air thickened.

Atlas felt the pressure shift—an invisible weight pressing against his ribs, squeezing his lungs until breathing felt like defiance. The very sky trembled faintly, hues bleeding together in slow motion.

He could feel eyes. Ancient, vast, unseen—but there.

Watching. Measuring.

Atlas took a step forward. "Then take me to them."

The Elder tilted his head, amused. "You wish to stand before the Empresses already? You haven’t even learned what this place demands of you."

"I didn’t come to learn," Atlas said. "I came to fulfill. Fullfil what I promisef, fullfil my friendship..."

That word—fulfill—made the Elder pause.

Then, slowly, he laughed. Not cruelly, but with a kind of weary fondness. "You really don’t change, do you? Always so certain of purpose. Always so blind to its cost."

Atlas’s jaw tightened. "You talk as if you know me...."

"I do," the Elder whispered. "More than you think. After all, it was I who first saw you, came to you, ignited the faith around you .."

The world seemed to still.

Atlas’s hand froze mid-motion. His companions turned sharply, confusion etched into their faces.

"What do you mean?" Lara asked.

The Elder’s eyes gleamed like twin stars. "The power you wield—the one born from belief—it was not given by gods. It was born from me.

I am the architect of your faith, Atlas. The one who taught humanity to worship. The one who whispered your name into their prayers....it was me...."

The air cracked with tension.

Michael’s wings flared in disbelief. "You’re saying—"

"Yes," the Elder interrupted softly. "I guess it’s time to reveal who I am truly, I am the Elder of Faith. The first believer. The first lie...."

Silence fell like an eclipse.

Atlas felt something twist inside him. That word—lie—echoed through his chest.

He thought of the prayers, the offerings, the countless souls who had died in his name, during the war with Asmodeus.

He thought of the faith that sustained him, the power that lifted him higher with every believer.

And now, this being claimed it was all fabricated—a construct.

His voice came low. "Then what am I to you?"

The Elder stepped closer. "You are the answer to the question I could never solve: Can a god believe in himself?"

The words hit like a strike of thunder.

Around them, the air began to distort, colors spiraling out of control. The obelisk pulsed harder, reacting to the conversation like a heartbeat quickening.

Lara moved toward Atlas, her voice tight. "Don’t listen to him. He’s trying to break you..this...this might be another test...."

The Elder smiled faintly. "I don’t need to. He’s already breaking....you think you found peace from the trials...but sorry to say oh Guide. It’s only a ritual of phasing who deserve to come here.."

Atlas’s fingers twitched. His axe shimmered, hungry for release, but he didn’t draw it.

Instead, he closed his eyes for a heartbeat—and in that silence, he saw flashes of himself across the layers.

The first time he raised his weapon. The first time someone whispered his name in prayer. The first time he realized the more people believed, the more real he became.

’the system...did he gave me the system.. but..’

So many questions but again. He already knew asking questions and finding answers were worthless.

"Tell me," Atlas said finally, voice quiet but sharp, "if this was within your oh so grand planing, what’s the purpose of all this? Why bring me here?"

The Elder’s expression softened—not pity, but something older. "Because,oh guide, the Fourth Layer is not about power. It’s about truth. And truth is the one thing no god survives."

The words lingered in the air like smoke.

Atlas exhaled slowly, his chest heavy with the weight of it. Lara reached for his hand, grounding him. Her warmth cut through the chaos like light through fog.

He looked at her—at all of them. They were here because they believed in him. And maybe that was enough.

Maybe that was faith’s truest form: to keep walking, even when the path lies.

He met the Elder’s gaze again. "Then show me."

The Elder’s smile returned—smaller now, but real. "Very well."

He raised his hand, and the ground beneath them split open, light surging upward like a geyser. The script on the floor ignited, forming circles upon circles of divine geometry. The air roared, filling with the sound of unseen choirs.

The Fourth Layer came alive.

And above it all, two vast silhouettes began to emerge from the horizon—shifting, colossal, their forms too luminous to define.

The Empresses.

The rulers of chaos made flesh.

The sky wept fire as they approached.

Atlas squared his shoulders, the weight of countless faiths pressing behind his eyes. The axe on his back flared once, echoing his heartbeat.

He felt Lara’s hand tighten around his own. He didn’t look back.

For a moment, he let himself feel everything—the doubt, the awe, the fear, the fragile belief that still tethered them together.

Then he whispered, not to his companions, not to the Elder, but to the realm itself:

"...I’m not afraid of your watchful eyes. I’m not afraid of your world. I’m not afraid you lot. So hear me when I say this.

I am Atlas....the prophet, the Guide, the Prince. And I will have what I want and need. Mark my words!"

The ground trembled. The song began again—low, endless, and divine.

One of The Empresses opened their eyes.

And the Fourth Layer finally stirred.

{{{{{{Atlas, The Guide, son of Empresses Lilith... Truly, a child of Genesis}}}}}}