CHAPTER 343: CHAPTER 342: OUSEROUS

Atlas stood amid the crumbling marble of the lower Heaven, the pulse of the Key burning against his chest. He felt it again—the latent law that slept within him, that power whispered once by Aurora, copied, memorized in muscle and marrow, the same force the Guide had wielded, the same force countless monstrous beings had used before him. A power he had thought was foreign, borrowed, alien to his own soul.

Yet now, in the haze of ruin and divine death, he sensed it awake. His limbs tingled. His veins hummed with golden fire that mirrored the pulse of Heaven’s fracture. Maybe it remembered, he thought. Maybe the Guide only showed me the way once, and my body never forgot.

But it was not time for maybes. Not now. Not here. They had been searching for Michael and Lucifer through the shattered corridors of the Citadel, moving from throne room to throne room, following the echo of wings and whispers of what had been their brothers’ power.

The palace itself had collapsed behind them, shards of crystal and fragments of divinity still drifting through the ether like dead stars.

Twenty-five of their own had been found—powerful Fallen, generals of the lost armies of Heaven, awakened by Atlas’s presence, by the Key, by the shattering of bonds.

Their faces were pale but determined, eyes flickering with recognition and awe. It was enough. For now.

Atlas looked at the horizon, the way the remaining shards of the Citadel glimmered, and the truth pressed against him like cold stone: they could not linger.

Not to search further. Michael and Lucifer were gone—hidden, preserved, or perhaps already fighting battles elsewhere that Atlas could not yet perceive. Every second spent hunting them here was a gamble against the unseen watchers above.

He turned to Gabriel, whose golden eyes glimmered with fire and sorrow alike.

"It’s time to retreat," Atlas said, voice low but carrying. He gestured toward the Key, now pulsing faintly as though urging him on. "We’ve done what we can. The generals are free. Twenty-five strong. Enough for now. We go back to Hell, to consolidate, to plan."

Gabriel’s wings flared briefly, a subtle display of reluctance and acceptance intertwined. He understood the calculus, the unspoken truth Atlas carried in his gut: even prophets, even demigods, could not defy the laws of Heaven indefinitely.

Raphael’s voice cut through the tense air, jagged and desperate. "No. We cannot leave. Not yet. Our brothers—Michael, Lucifer—they are still out there. We cannot abandon them!" His wings stretched, almost cracking the marble around them. Sparks of lightning danced across his feathers. "They are our blood, our oath. How can we leave them to rot?"

Gabriel hesitated. He turned his gaze toward Raphael, his face shadowed with the knowledge that the truth weighed more than grief.

"Raphael... our Prophet is right. If the Father had descended, if any of the major gods had chosen to come here, they would have been gone already. Their absence is deliberate. They survive only because the main gods do not linger in the bottom layers of Heaven. Their survival is a mercy—fragile, yes, but absolute. Every second we linger is a risk we cannot afford."

Raphael’s jaw clenched. He looked at the smoldering ruins of the Citadel, at shattered crystal columns, at the ghostly remnants of divine corpses still smoking. "And yet," he growled, "it feels like cowardice. It feels like leaving them behind."

Atlas met his gaze, his own heartbeat echoing the Key’s pulse. He knew the truth: hesitation could kill them all. "We do what we can now," he said quietly.

"Survival is a strategy. Every step we take must preserve what remains. Later, we strike. But not recklessly. Not until we have strength enough to match the heavens themselves."

Gabriel stepped forward, resting a hand on Raphael’s arm. His voice was softer now, a balm against the storm in the other angel’s mind. "Raphael... listen. We cannot save them all by dying foolishly. We can preserve what we have, gather what we can, and prepare. Atlas is right. It is our only chance."

Raphael’s wings drooped slightly. His amber gaze, usually sharp as a spear, softened with the quiet ache of truth. He exhaled, a gust of charged wind scattering ash and smoke from the ruins. "You are both... prophets of patience," he said through gritted teeth.

Before any further argument could ignite, the air shifted. A horn blared—deep, resonant, vibrating through the broken expanse of Heaven like a comet crashing through glass. The sound froze Atlas mid-step, made Gabriel’s wings twitch, and left Raphael’s hair standing on end with static energy.

From the sky, descending with impossible speed, came a figure bathed in blinding light. The sun itself could not compete. For a heartbeat, Gabriel and Raphael both again thought it was the Sun God, Helios in their trauma.

And yet... it was neither.

Gabriel flared his wings, shielding the others with a radiant barrier that crackled with divine energy. "Do not let him touch you!" he yelled. "This is not your fight alone!"

Raphael drew his spear, the lightning along its shaft dancing and snarling. "We will fight. But even together..." His voice trailed off as he swallowed, uncertainty flickering in the depths of his eyes.

Atlas’s heart hammered. He felt the latent law within him, the power that had lain dormant since Aurora’s teachings, stirring like a predator awakened from long sleep.

The golden energy thrummed along his veins, along the marrow of his bones, a memory of what the Guide had shown him. Perhaps the body remembered, even if the mind did not.

He exhaled, steadying himself. The Key pulsed, a reminder of the impossible—entrance without exit, the unforgiving geography of Heaven. And yet, he recalled Aurora’s lessons: If a part of Hell is conquered, the land remembers. The blood that rules there calls the realm home.

Hell had already accepted him as King. That memory of fire, of conquest, of loyalty and fear, anchored him. He could retreat safely. He could plan.

Atlas looked at Gabriel. "We go back. Now. There is no room for heroics here. Twenty-five are enough for now. We need to live to fight again."

Gabriel nodded, his gaze lingering on the ruins, on the columns that had once shone with angelic runes, on the blood-soaked marble. "He is right," Gabriel said softly. "The gods would not descend. If he did, we would already be ashes."

Raphael’s wings flared one final time, a silent declaration of protest. But he did not speak further. The sound of Floki’s approach was enough to remind them why prudence was survival.

The horn sounded again, closer, more insistent. And then, from the bright sky, came Floki’s descent, not alone. Dozens of solar warriors accompanied him, each one a shard of sunfire, each one more dangerous than the last.

Among them, a figure moved with the weight of legend—the son of Thor, Ouserous, the one who had wounded Loki in the great skirmish of old. His presence twisted the light around him, drawing it inward like gravity bending rays of sun. His eyes met Atlas’s. Recognition—and challenge—sparked.

Atlas’s jaw clenched. The latent law hummed in response. He did not falter. He did not bow. Not to the Guide, not to Floki, not to the solar heir.

Gabriel stepped close. "We retreat," he said. "We must. We can fight later, but not now. Trust the Prophet."

Raphael’s fists tightened, but finally he allowed himself to follow. Reluctant, fiery, human in his anger and pain—but he followed.

Atlas took one last glance at the Key. Its pulse synced with the rhythm of Hell’s distant heartbeat. It was a reminder: entrance was simple; survival required cunning, restraint, and faith in the law he barely remembered he still possessed.

The golden light of Floki’s approaching force painted the ruins with fire and shadow. The Citadel crumbled behind them, each step away a retreat into memory, strategy, and survival.

And as they descended into the shadowed layers below, Atlas whispered to himself, quiet, unbroken:

"Next time... we do not run."