CHAPTER 233: CHAPTER 234: A SHORT CUT

They say the gods’ roamings in their immortal realm predate this mortal world, their divine existence stretching back to an era before life ever stirred in the primordial chaos of this planet.

Their realm, a boundless expanse of shimmering ether and celestial fire, existed in eternal splendor long before the first spark of mortal life flickered into being. The gods’ mana-filled LAWS—absolute, unyielding, and woven into the very fabric of reality—governed existence itself.

These were not mere rules but cosmic mandates, pulsing with the raw essence of creation, their authority unquestioned and their origins lost to the mists of eternity.

It was a thought that gnawed at Atlas’s mind as he sat in the dim glow of his study, the weight of ancient truths pressing against his mortal understanding.

The candlelight in the room quivered faintly, shadows dancing in strange rhythms across the old stone walls like spirits still trying to make sense of their chains. A scent of burnt wax mixed with parchment dust and the faint, sweet rot of old magic. It made the air heavy—thick, like breathing through an old curtain left too long in the rain.

Atlas sat hunched in the ancient leather-backed chair, one leg tucked under him, the other resting near the half-dead embers in the hearth. His hands were stained faintly black at the edges—from ink, from ash, from touching things not meant to be handled. His fingers trembled slightly as he turned another page from a religious codex so brittle it crumbled at the corners.

The books gave no answers. They never did. Just stories—draped in metaphor, stitched with half-truths, and drowning in god-worship. He’d scoured them all. The hymns. The forbidden chronicles. Even the fringe writings etched in blood on tree bark found deep in the southern groves.

None of them truly described the beginning.

Mortal minds simply couldn’t comprehend it. Couldn’t fathom what it meant for something—or someone—to exist before existence itself. Before matter, before time, before breath.

But Atlas wasn’t trying to comprehend.

He was trying to break it.

Not out of arrogance. But out of necessity. Loki’s laugh was still in his ears—fractured, mad, bleeding irony in its rhythm. "Half, half... half-good... hahaha..."

Atlas closed his eyes. That sound. It didn’t belong in a body. It was the echo of a cracked soul trying to find humor in the place it shattered.

He hadn’t seen Loki’s other eye up close. But he could imagine it. Veins twitching in unnatural places. Flesh grown over bone that shouldn’t have been there. Divine lightning didn’t just strike—it carved its own logic into your biology. And Loki had taken it head-on.

Atlas leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring down at the floor. His knuckles whitened. The wood beneath him creaked softly as though bracing itself.

The gods were timeless, sure. But Amrit—Amrit was timeless in a way that made even them tremble.

He remembered the description from the game.

’The essence of eternity, born in the crucible of the cosmos, older than the divine, purer than the first light.’

Even when reading it in-game, his avatar had shuddered as the vial approached. It was almost too vibrant. Too real. Like it didn’t belong inside the game’s logic. The pixels felt wrong around it.

So if it existed in the game, and he’d tasted it through code, then maybe—just maybe—it existed here too. Hidden. Waiting.

But the game had told him one more thing: you don’t get Amrit without bleeding for it.

It wasn’t a "quest." It was a consequence.

And still, he remembered the way the game shifted when you even hovered near it. The weather changed. The wind grew still. NPCs whispered to each other like frightened children.

And something watched you. Always.

"So fuck me if I’m not wrong," Atlas muttered under his breath, staring at the dancing flames. "If it predates the Gods, This so-called liquid of immortality is either many, many billion years old... or maybe trillions..."

The word "trillions" didn’t feel real. His mind snagged on it like cloth on jagged metal. It wasn’t a number—it was a void. It was what came after thought. After time. After meaning.

And yet that was the age of what he now hunted.

He rubbed his temples, the skin there hot from stress. There was a buzzing beneath his skull, not quite pain—more like his brain trying to shed a skin it didn’t have.

There had to be another way.

The game didn’t restrict the player to one route. There were always backdoors. That’s what had made it infamous.

A secret side-path here. A forbidden artifact there. If you were clever enough, and if you didn’t mind giving up something... sacred.

The gods might guard Amrit. But the gods were not the only ones with power. There were beings older than them. Beings who never needed worship. Beings who remembered creation because they watched it from the outside.

And some of them bargained.

He took a breath.

The air in the room changed the moment he moved.

Static.

The kind of charge that crawls across your back before lightning strikes.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Atlas extended his left hand, drawing a half-circle in the air. It left a faint trail of light that pulsed once before vanishing. The hearth’s flame dimmed. The shadows pulled back like obedient dogs.

From the farthest shelf, something stirred.

A weight shifted where no hand had touched. And then: the sound of pressure collapsing in on itself.

The ’Book of the Damned’ slid off its resting place, drifting through the air. Its surface was cracked leather, black as scorched bone. The air around it smelled faintly of burnt sulfur and wet stone. It pulsed gently, like something breathing beneath it.

Atlas caught it with both hands. It was warm. Too warm. Like it had been left under a black sun.

He hesitated.

The book had a presence. Every time he touched it, it asked something from him. A memory. A whisper. A fragment of his name. It never took the same thing twice.

But this time, it stayed quiet.

As if even it knew what he sought was... beyond.

Atlas opened the book slowly. The pages groaned, resisting. The ink didn’t stay still. Words slithered, rearranged, challenged him.

"Where is it..." he muttered, flipping, scanning, feeling the heat rise off each page like fever.

His heart thudded like war drums. He felt a tension in the air—thick, like soup about to boil over.

Then he saw it.

The key.

Drawn in detail that didn’t belong to this realm. Its surface shimmered, part silver, part shadow, and ’something else’—a material that didn’t reflect light but absorbed it. Around it, the page was stained with a red so dark it almost looked black.

This wasn’t just a key.

This was an invitation. A tool. A wager.

A shortcut to the shortcut.

"Aha!" Atlas grinned, but it was grim. The expression of someone who’d just found the lever to move the world—but knew it might break everything else in the process.

"Oh, the gods are gonna love this..."

He spoke with venom and thrill, the cocktail of emotion that only came from walking directly into blasphemy.

Then, a whisper:

{{{...Are you sure?}}}

The GUIDE. That voice again. It sounded like it came from inside his ribcage. Soft. Ancient. And concerned.

Atlas paused. Fingers still on the page.