CHAPTER 262: CHAPTER 263: FAITH DETECTED

Atlas raked a hand through his dark hair, the strands clinging damp with sweat and dust. His knuckles were still buzzing, aching faintly from the blows he hadn’t yet given.

He had thought—no, hoped—that finally there’d be someone worth the effort. Someone to punch until the ache in his bones stopped feeling like an absence. Someone who could stand after one hit. Someone who could let him breathe through violence.

In truth? He wasn’t helping Blam.

In truth? He wasn’t trying to save the city.

In truth, Atlas simply wanted to let go. To tear the leash, even for a heartbeat.

The giants had looked like the perfect outlet. Great hulking silhouettes blotting out sections of the night sky, moving with the kind of arrogance only size could grant. His first thought had been simple: maybe he should drop every single one of them. They were the bad guys... right?

But the moment his gaze lingered, they hesitated. A ripple passed through their ranks. They stepped back, massive feet cracking flagstones, the sound echoing like distant thunder.

Half were already swallowed—literally—by Veil, that endless shadow mouth consuming with quiet inevitability.

The other half had been shredded under the combined barrage of Azezal and Blam, their magic like a storm breaking over the battlefield.

[Faith towards host detected]

"...Huh. What now?"

Atlas frowned at the glowing text floating in the corner of his vision. His hand twitched upward, clicking the interface with an irritable jab.

Instead of answers, a loading bar appeared. "System Upgrade: In Progress." The little bar crawled forward like a worm.

"This is just making me more frustrated," he muttered.

Behind him, light footsteps crunched over broken stone. Aurora’s shadow fell over his back. Her eyes swept over the torn remnants of his shirt, catching on the jagged red burn marks sprawling across his shoulder blades—angry welts etched into him by the mana blasts meant for her. The faint metallic tang of scorched flesh curled in the air.

"...So you are vulnerable at some point," she murmured, her voice both observation and something softer, fingers brushing one raw stripe.

"...Of course. I’m not God, Aurora," he replied, glancing back at her.

"...Duh. I know you’re not God, Atlas. You’re... much more," she said, and the weight of the pause before those last two words made the air thicken. She pushed off the ground and drifted upward, leaving the scent of ozone and battle in her wake.

Atlas hovered for a moment, watching her retreating back. Confused. But he wasn’t in the habit of unravelling other people’s cryptic thoughts. He didn’t even fully know himself yet—only that he was something beyond high human, mutated by his evolution. Something the system had named Genesis Human... whatever that meant.

Maybe the upgrade would tell him. If it ever finished.

He glanced at his shoulder, at the shadow curled there, faintly trembling. Sleeping.

’He must be tired...’ Atlas thought, letting Veil dissolve into his own shadow.

When he landed beside Blam and Azezal, their demon army was perched along the wall like carrion birds. The air was thick with iron, smoke, and the low growl of surviving titans retreating.

{...As expected of our GUIDE,} Blam said, his tone stretched thin between pride and fear.

{...Indeed. Such raw power. Such raw strength...} Azezal’s voice trembled, but it wasn’t fear—it was reverence. Faith saturated every syllable, heavy as incense.

It was like watching a martyr step out of prophecy. The one who would claim the Dreaming for Hell. The one they had been waiting for.

Azezal sank to one knee again as Atlas touched down before him.

{...Oh, Atlas. How can I—how can I express this happiness? This overwhelming awe?} His voice cracked, and he reached forward, trying to kiss the Guide’s feet.

Atlas stepped aside, ignoring the gesture entirely. His skin prickled under the weight of so many eyes.

The city was saved—in its own way. Titans had come and gone, leaving rubble and relief behind. Blam’s whispers filled the air, tales of past sieges and the losses they’d always suffered. How the giants could never breach the walls, but their boulders could crush a street in a heartbeat.

Tonight had been different. They’d expected to lose everything when the demon lord herself approached. But Atlas had been there. And everything had changed.

"Oh... Atlas!" Aurora’s voice called from above. "Check this view."

He rose to meet her, boots skimming the stone. His eyes widened.

The city sprawled below, lit by the last orange fingers of sunset. The wind carried the mingled scents of dust, smoke, and cooking fires reignited after fear had passed. Every statue along the wall—stone guides carved in his likeness, worn by weather—was ignored.

Instead, every living soul, dwarf and beastkin, demon and demoness, knelt. One knee pressed to the cracked streets, heads bowed not to the effigies, but to the living Guide standing at the wall’s edge.

They looked at him not as flesh, but as prophecy. Messiah. Anchor.

[Faith towards host detected]

"Nice view, right?" Aurora said.

Atlas only nodded. He didn’t care much. And even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the space inside him to feel it right now. His thoughts were already turning elsewhere. Time was moving too fast.

The sound of whispered prayers rose like a tide behind him, and he walked away from it without looking back.

"Blam," he called as he approached.

The demon’s grin wavered, truth or falsehood unreadable.

Atlas rested a hand on his shoulder, then the other—like a priest’s anointment. "Here. You’re also the apostle now. Take us to the third layer. Like you promised."

Blam’s gaze dropped to the stones, fingers twisting against each other.

"...Blam."

The single word landed like a falling axe.

{...Yes, your unholiness?} His voice wavered, just enough to betray something—fear, guilt, or the awareness that both were now the same thing.

Atlas didn’t blink. "...Did you lie to me?"

The green demon’s throat worked, skin quivering beneath its rough, warty texture.

{No... no... never. I have the way. But...}

He didn’t get to finish.

Atlas’s hand shot forward with a speed that made the air pop in protest, fingers clamping around the thick, damp column of Blam’s neck. The skin there felt slick, almost amphibian, under his grip. In a single motion, he hauled the pig-faced wretch toward the wall’s edge until the wind howled up from the drop below.

Stone scraped under Atlas’s boots. The wall seemed to hum with the weight of what might happen next.

"...So." His tone was flat, like the cold before a blade’s swing. "You’re going to talk straight. Or I let go."

Blam’s stubby legs kicked in the air, scraping at nothing. The tendons in his neck strained against the iron clamp of Atlas’s hand, his skin shifting from green to a mottled purple.

{...Please. Please. I beg of you... please.} The words came wet, desperate, pushed through a throat being slowly closed like a fist.

Atlas’s eyes didn’t waver. "...Then what’s stopping you?" His grip tightened—he could feel the pulse flutter against his palm like a trapped bird. "I just made you my apostle. What more do you want?"

The demon’s pupils shrank, the black of them bleeding thin under the pressure. A tremor ran through him—not from the strain of breath, but from the cornered knowledge that the Guide did not bluff.

{...}

"Blam..." Atlas’s voice softened into something worse than anger, a razor’s whisper against the ear of a man about to be cut. "Give. Me. My. Path."