CHAPTER 344: CHAPTER 343: BACK TO HELL

Hell

The crimson plains of the Ninth Rift stretched endless under a torn black sky. The air was thick with brimstone and war cries. Rivers of molten iron carved through mountains of obsidian, carrying the scent of scorched bone and blood. The Citadel of Ash stood like a broken crown amid that infernal expanse — its towers half-collapsed, its gates torn open by centuries of siege.

And within its shadow, the Fallen had returned to war.

Uriel stood atop a ridge of blackened stone, her four wings spread wide, their once-white feathers now tipped in flame. Her sword — Seraph’s End — gleamed red, dripping with the ichor of a hundred slain demons. Around her, the Fallen Choir roared and sang, their voices a chorus that shook the plain.

They had waited centuries for this — for fire to mean something again.

"Push them back!" Uriel’s voice rang, both command and hymn. "In the name of the Almighty — and in the name of the Prophet!"

The name rolled like thunder through the horde.

Atlas.

That single word carried with it the tremor of something divine. Once it had been whispered in rebellion — now it was shouted as prayer.

Before her stretched an army of demons — not the petty fiends of lesser realms, but the host of Galiath’s brood. The remnants of the former Demon King, risen again from the far rift, seeking to reclaim the territories that had once been his. Hulking brutes of horn and flame, their bodies twisted with old runes, their leader a three-headed monstrosity that carried a fortress-sized mace.

The ground quaked with their advance.

But the Fallen met them like storm and fire.

Uriel descended upon the first rank, wings snapping open like thunderclaps, her blade cutting through rows of beasts with blinding grace.

Around her, other Fallen followed — Samael, with his chains of judgment; Lysara, whose spear burned like the heart of suns; and Astaroth, whose laughter echoed like prophecy.

Each movement was devotion. Each kill, a psalm.

For the first time in ages, the name of the Almighty was shouted not in despair, but in power.

"In His name!" they cried, blades striking, wings flaring.

And beneath those shouts, another name grew louder — the mortal who had risen into myth.

The Prophet of the Heavens.

The Demon King reborn.

Atlas.

Uriel struck down the last of a demon vanguard, her blade glowing white-hot, molten veins spilling from her wrist as the weapon pulsed with fury. She paused, breathing heavy, watching the chaos unfold below.

Even after centuries, the battlefield sang the same tune — blood, betrayal, and something holy in between.

And yet... this war was different.

For the first time since the Fall, Heaven trembled in answer.

Uriel felt it in her bones before she saw it — a vibration, faint but vast, echoing down through the planes. The same tremor she’d felt before, when Heaven had split. The same pulse that had whispered He lives.

Her feathers flared. The storm above began to shift, winds coiling inward.

"Hold!" she shouted. "Something comes!"

All around her, the Fallen paused mid-slaughter. The horde of demons stilled as well, as though sensing the same tremor.

The sky itself — that thick, eternal shroud of black clouds — began to ripple.

And then, without warning, it split open.

Twenty-six stars tore through the firmament.

Each burned white and gold, trailing rivers of molten light as they fell. The air screamed with the sound — metal grinding against creation itself, the birth of meteors from a god’s breath.

The first star struck the heart of the demon army. The shockwave turned mountains to dust, vaporized rivers of lava, and sent waves of force cascading across the entire Rift.

The second struck moments later — and then the third — until the plains of Hell glowed with lines of divine fire.

Demons were incinerated by the tens of thousands, their screams snuffed out in the brilliance of it.

And through the smoke and ruin, Uriel watched, eyes wide, heart trembling with both awe and recognition.

The stars were not stars.

They were wings.

As the light faded, the smoke parted — and from the ruin rose figures of impossible presence.

The first was Atlas. Cloaked in fire and shadow, the Key still burning faintly upon his chest. His eyes were bright gold now, not divine, but something older — mortal will wrapped in celestial fury. The air around him shimmered with broken law, the lingering echo of the power he had refused to surrender.

Beside him stood two towers of grace and wrath — Gabriel and Raphael, their wings torn but radiant, their armor cracked but unyielding.

And behind them, twenty-three more shapes took form — the freed generals of Heaven, each haloed in flame, each bearing the remnants of their lost divinity.

Uriel fell to one knee, and so did the rest of the Fallen.

Even the winds seemed to bow.

"My Prophet..." she breathed. "You’ve returned."

Atlas looked across the field, at the burning horizon of Hell, at the sea of kneeling soldiers and the black smoke curling from the corpses of Galiath’s brood. His face was expressionless, but his eyes burned with something fierce and resolute.

"Rise," he said simply. His voice carried like a decree of creation itself.

Uriel lifted her gaze, tears streaking ash down her face. "Hell is yours again, my King."

Raphael stepped forward, his lightning-scarred spear still smoking. "Not yet," he said quietly. "The wars of Heaven will spill here soon. This victory is breath — not peace."

Gabriel nodded, surveying the ruins. "But it is a beginning. And beginnings... are everything."

The remaining Fallen gathered around them, their wings forming a vast circle of light amid the darkness. For a moment, Hell itself seemed to still — the roar of flame dimming, the rivers calming, as though the realm waited for what would be said next.

Atlas closed his eyes.

He could feel it — the pull of both realms inside him. The heat of Hell’s loyalty, the lingering hum of Heaven’s wound. The Key pulsed faintly, as though aware of its role in what had just occurred.

He spoke, voice calm but resonant:

"This land remembers blood and rule alike. Once, it bowed to Galiath. Once, it broke beneath the feet of gods. Now, it remembers me."

The ground answered, trembling beneath them. Across the plains, the rivers of molten fire shifted — flowing toward the Citadel, carving sigils into the stone.

Uriel bowed lower, her wings trembling. "We are yours, Atlas. All of us. Fallen and damned alike. You carry both Heaven’s fire and Hell’s crown. You are the bridge between worlds."

For a long moment, Atlas said nothing. He looked up at the split sky, where the stars still bled gold, where the echo of his descent still burned.

The Guide’s voice stirred faintly at the edges of his mind. Not commanding this time — observing.

{{{{{{ You could rule it all, you know. Hell. Heaven. All that breathes between. }}}}}}

Atlas ignored it.

He turned instead to Gabriel and Raphael, to the Fallen who knelt around them, to the countless others watching from the smoldering ridges. "This is not conquest," he said. "This is survival. We rebuild here — and when the time comes, we rise again. Not as angels. Not as demons. But as those who remember."

His words rolled across the plain like the low growl of thunder.

And in the hearts of every Fallen, every soldier, every being that knelt in that moment, something ancient stirred — faith, fierce and renewed.

The faith not in gods.

Not in Heaven.

But in one of their own.

Uriel rose, her wings burning brighter than before. "Then Hell shall remember the Prophet who freed it."

The others echoed her cry, a roar that shook the planes.

"ALL HAIL THE PROPHET OF FIRE!"

Above them, the rift in the sky began to close, the last trails of gold fading into the black. The war was not over — not even close. But Hell had found its king, and the heavens had found their enemy.

Atlas turned away from the dying light, his eyes hardening with purpose.

"Prepare the armies," he said. "

The third layer of all of hell will whisper our name, my name..."