CHAPTER 396: CHAPTER 394: HIGH ELDER

The halo pressed into Atlas’s skull like a burning hand.

The world vanished in a slab of white. Light. Pressure.

Heat sharp enough to carve bone.

And then—

A scream.

Not from the arena.

Not from any Elder.

From inside him.

{{{{ STOP. STOP. STOP. }}}}

The Guide’s voice tore through Atlas’s mind—raw, primal, furious in a way he had never heard.

{{{{ THEY CANNOT NAME ME.

THEY CANNOT NAME US. }}}}

Atlas staggered, knees buckling as the halo completed its descent.

He tasted metal—like blood turning to lightning.

The air shook.

The arena, moments ago a roar of worship, fell into stunned silence.

The Elders froze—every hooded head snapping toward Atlas.

Something was wrong.

The halo, instead of settling, began to spin.

Slowly at first.

Then faster.

Then violently, the light distorting into a burning ring.

Cracks spidered through the air itself.

The crowd gasped.

Some demons collapsed as if struck by invisible hammers.

Fallen warriors clutched their temples.

Michael fell to his knees, dropping the Book of Acclaim.

Lara cried out, reaching toward Atlas—

But he couldn’t hear her.

He couldn’t hear anything—

Except the Guide.

{{{{ LET ME IN. I CAN STOP IT. }}}}

Atlas’s heart lurched.

"No," he whispered.

{{{{ YOU NEED ME. }}}}

"No."

The halo shrieked—

a sound like ripping stars.

Then it exploded.

Light flooded the arena, knocking thousands backward.

Balconies cracked.

Elders shielded themselves with shimmering barriers.

Atlas was thrown to the ground, breath punched from his lungs.

The Guide hissed—

{{{{ FOOLS. They’ve awakened what should never be touched. }}}}

Atlas tried to push himself up, but his arms shook like wet paper.

His vision swam.

Across from him, the Elder who led them here—Sarthos, the one with the staff of living stone—stumbled, gripping his chest.

"This... this shouldn’t happen," Sarthos rasped, eyes wide with horror.

"The halo recognizes him. It should accept him!"

One of the other Elders snarled.

"It isn’t rejecting him..."

Their hood tilted.

"...it’s rejecting you."

Gasps echoed around the ring.

The Guide spoke again, colder now.

{{{{ They don’t understand what I am. What we are. You can’t repeat the cycle...you are better, better than every other reincarnation...}}}}

Atlas shook his head, vision blurring.

"Stop talking. Stop—"

But the Guide’s voice only grew louder.

{{{{ The deeper they dig...

... the more they wake things neither Heaven nor Hell can survive...One below all, he’s not a thing to be worshipped.... }}}}

A violent pulse of power erupted from Atlas’s chest.

Demons screamed.

The arena floor cracked.

The Elders staggered back.

Lara moved toward him again—but Aurora dragged her aside just as another shockwave rippled outward.

"Atlas!" Lara shouted, tears streaking down her face.

"whats happening...!"

He tried.

God, he tried.

But something ancient was being peeled open inside him.

THE MEMORY

A flash—

A throne of bones beneath a bleeding sky.

Demons kneeling in circles of ash.

A tall figure standing before them—

A figure with Atlas’s face.

But older.

Sharper.

Eyes cold enough to quiet storms.

And behind him—

the Guide.

Or something shaped like the Guide.

A being of shadow and broken halos.

A god that had worn a name the universe tried to forget.

Then—

A blade of heaven

piercing that god’s back

as the Elders of a past age watched in silence.

And the last whisper of that dying being:

"Names... are chains."

The vision shattered.

Atlas gagged, clutching the arena floor as the memory ripped away.

Sweat poured down his back like molten wax.

The Elders watched, shaking.

One of them—the youngest, voice cold and razor-thin—stepped forward.

"He is not the Guide. He carries the Guide, yes. But this reaction—this instability—proves he is no rightful vessel."

His hand lifted, glowing with lethal light.

"We end him now. Before he becomes a breach."

Atlas lifted his head.

For a heartbeat, the Elders saw the Guide’s shape flash behind his eyes.

The youngest Elder froze.

Lara screamed:

"NO!"

But the Elder thrust his hand forward—

—and a spear of black fire shot toward Atlas.

Aurora moved to intercept it—

too far.

Too slow.

Michael let out his swor...

But something else moved first.

Lara.

LARA’S AWAKENING

Her eyes burned golden.

Not holy golden—

Fate’s Golden.

The red of the first who weaved destiny, the mother of all beings, the mother of lara’s bloodline.

A shockwave of crimson erupted from her chest.

The spear of black fire shattered—

splitting into smoke and dust.

The Elder who cast it staggered back, eyes wide.

"You— You carry her bloodline?!"

Lara didn’t answer.

She stepped in front of Atlas, trembling but defiant, power flickering like embers around her.

Her hair lifted in an unseen wind.

Her skin glowed faintly.

The crowd broke into terrified murmurs.

Michael whispered, awestruck:

"the heir... of fate..."

Aurora stared, speechless.

Even the Guide fell silent for a full second.

Then—

{{{{ Oh fate oh friend, here I thought you hated me... . }}}}

The youngest Elder snarled, lifting his hand for another strike—

—but Sarthos slammed his staff down.

"ENOUGH!"

The arena went still.

Sarthos pointed at the rebellious Elder.

"You would strike the vessel of the Guide? You would attack fate’s direct descendant? You would divide us now?"

The Elder spat.

"He is unstable! The halo rejected him! The arena nearly cracked! He is a threat to every layer of Hell!"

"He is our Messiah!" Sarthos roared.

"He is a bomb waiting to detonate," the younger Elder hissed.

The Elders around them shifted uneasily.

A fracture was forming.

A dangerous one.

Atlas forced himself to stand.

Every muscle felt like it was made of cracked glass.

The air around him still flickered with stray power.

Lara reached for him—

he steadied her instead.

Michael bowed his head, trembling.

Aurora kept her hand on her blade.

The crowd watched, breathless.

Atlas looked at the fourteen Elders.

At the tens of thousands of followers.

At the halo shards floating like dying stars above the arena.

He felt faith.

He felt fear.

He felt destiny trying its hardest to rewrite him.

And beneath it all—

the Guide whispered softly.

{{{{ I know you atlas. Even though you want their faith, but all hey want a proclamation. So Give them one. }}}}

Atlas lifted his head.

"No."

The Guide fell silent.

The Elders leaned forward.

The crowd stilled.

Atlas took one slow breath—

feeling Lara’s trembling hand on his arm,

feeling Michael’s hope,

feeling Aurora’s tension,

feeling the Guide waiting like a coiled serpent—

And he spoke.

"If you name me," Atlas said, voice rough but steady,

[Atlas is resonating]

"then listen."

The crowd leaned in.

Elders straightened.

The arena held its breath.

Atlas continued:

"I am not here to serve Heaven."

"I am not here to serve Hell."

"And I am not here to be your puppet."

Gasps rippled through the audience.

The rebellious Elder smirked—thinking Atlas doomed himself.

But Atlas raised his hand.

Power—not the Guide’s, not Hell’s—

his own—

flared from his fingertips like dark starlight.

"I will lead," Atlas said.

"But not as your chained Guide."

"Not as your rebirth of a forgotten god."

"And not as your weapon."

He stepped forward.

"I lead because you chose me—

not because destiny did...not because of fate ."

Silence.

Then he delivered the line that would echo through Hell for a thousand years:

"i will change what berect you all, I will change hell, I will change the heavens....i will change it all...."

The arena erupted.

Screams.

Cheers.

Cries of fear.

Explosions of faith.

The Elders staggered as a tidal wave of belief surged into Atlas—

+420 Faith

+560 Faith

+700 Faith

+840 Faith

Raw.

Unfiltered.

Explosive.

The Guide whispered, satisfied—

{{{{ Good. Now the next step— }}}}

But before Atlas could respond—

The sky tore open.

A single beam of divine gold light pierced the arena.

A voice descended from above—

cold, righteous, and infinite.

"BLASPHEMY."

The Elders gasped.

The crowd fell to their knees.

A figure stepped through the rift—

winged, armored, wreathed in celestial fire.

A high demon.

A high-ranking one.

And it spoke Atlas’s name like a sentence:

"ATLAS.

Your coronation ends now."

The arena froze.

The rift in the sky gaped open like a wound in reality, spilling divine light across the dark stone. The brilliance was too harsh, too pure—wrong in a place built from shadow and fire.

Atlas shielded his eyes.

Lara hissed in pain.

Michael collapsed to his knees, trembling uncontrollably.

Aurora’s hand flew to the hilt of her blade.

The Elders bowed.

Every one of them.

Even Sarthos.

Except one—

the rebellious Elder, who stared upward with a venomous smile.

The high demon stepped through the rift as though descending a staircase invisible to all but him.

His armor was forged from something brighter than metal, etched with scripture that writhed like living gold.

Wings of fire curled behind him in perfect symmetry—too perfect, as if sculpted by an artist obsessed with obedience.

His face was serene.

His eyes empty.

The angel’s voice rang like a verdict:

"Atlas.

You who harbor the Fallen Guide."

A murmur rippled through the Elders.

The Guide inside Atlas reacted instantly—

{{{{ Not him.

Not that one.

Stay awake, Atlas. }}}}

But Atlas felt himself slipping—

light pressing on his skull,

crushing the edges of his thoughts.

He gritted his teeth.

"Who are you?"

The angel’s wings flared, scattering sparks of gold.

"I am Seraph Haleon.

Bearer of the Ninth Mandate.

Voice of Judgment. A high elder."