CHAPTER 363: CHAPTER 352: UTTER CHAOS

The silence after the storm was almost unbearable.

The Third Layer, once roaring with the cries of gods and the screams of the dying, now hung still — heavy as a held breath.

Atlas stood at its heart.

His body floating close, their edges still glowing faintly from the divine fire that had scorched them. Beneath his feet, the ground was glassed — smooth and black, reflections of lightning still trapped within. The air smelled of burnt stone and broken promises.

He did not move. He did not need to. The silence itself bowed before him.

He knew what was coming.

Chaos.

Not the chaos of demons shrieking or fallens bleeding — but the deeper, older chaos, the kind that bent creation itself. The kind that began not with armies, but with a single choice.

His choice.

He could trace every fracture, every calamity, back to himself.

The invasion of Heaven — that brief moment when he stood against the Gate of Radiance and tore open the light. Him.

The rise of the Fallen — once exiled shadows now soaring again through the realms. Him.

The death of the demon kings, their thrones empty and smoldering, their pacts undone. Him.

The deal beneath the world-tree, where he had spoken with Odin and bartered his mortal soul for forbidden sight. Him.

The attention of every god in the upper realms, drawn to the anomaly that should not exist — a mortal who ascended beyond the script of fate.

Him. Always him.

Atlas drew a breath, tasting iron and ash.

There was no pride in that knowing. No guilt either. Only a cold, quiet clarity — the kind one found in the eye of a storm, where destruction had already chosen its direction.

He didn’t want

this power.

He never asked to become a name the gods whispered like a curse. But once the blade was drawn, could it be sheathed?

He looked at his hands — calloused, marked with light and shadow both. How many had died for those hands to hold meaning?

A faint sound stirred him.

A breath — soft, weary.

Aurora.

She lay in his arms, her armor cracked, her silver hair matted with celestial soot. The edges of her gown trembled as though remembering flight. Yet her eyes, when they met his, still glimmered with that unkillable spark.

"Atlas," she murmured, lips curving into a weary smile. "Tell me... how much chaos do you think will follow us after this?"

Her tone was light — almost playful — but the question carried weight. It wasn’t just curiosity. It was recognition. They both knew what had been set in motion.

Atlas looked down at her. The storm reflected in his eyes, a thousand worlds trembling in that single glance.

"All of it," he said simply. "The heavens, the hells — everything between. All of it will burn."

He brushed his thumb gently across her cheek, smearing away a line of blood. "But that doesn’t matter. We don’t stop. Not until Loki is healed."

"Even if it means—"

"—that Heaven falls?" Atlas interrupted, his voice quiet, unflinching. "Let it. That Hell crumbles? Let it. Gods and demons die every age. But us?"

He leaned closer. "We endure."

Aurora held his gaze. For a heartbeat, something soft and human flickered behind her steel.

"Then that’s enough," she whispered.

He nodded. The moment lingered — the faint scent of ozone still clinging to her, the taste of blood and light on the wind. For all their divinity, they looked impossibly fragile in that silence. Two broken figures holding each other at the edge of creation’s wound.

Until The System, was with him, he would dictate fate, not the other way around. The presence that had been bound to him since his awakening. It whispered sometimes, between heartbeats. A voice without language, always waiting, always watching.

Aurora’s fingers tightened around his sleeve. "Atlas," she said softly.

"When are you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

She arched an eyebrow — even broken, she had that same unyielding poise. "About whatever’s inside you. The thing that grants you power beyond gods. The one you hide even from your allies."

Atlas didn’t answer.

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. "You forget, I’ve seen Asmodeus’s vision. I saw the runes flicker beneath your skin when you fought. I’ve known since Babylon."

He sighed. A low, weary sound that belonged more to an old god than a man.

"So you knew all along," he said.

"I suspected," Aurora said. "But I needed to hear you say it."

There was no accusation in her tone. Only quiet curiosity — and maybe something else beneath it. Fear, perhaps. Not of him, but of what ’he was becoming.’

Atlas chuckled — low and genuine. "Fine," he said. "You win. Tonight. When the sky settles. We’ll drink. I’ll tell you everything."

Aurora tilted her head, smiling faintly. "A toast between monsters?"

"A toast between survivors," Atlas replied.

She laughed softly — a sound rare and almost tender. "Survivors," she echoed.

And for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, Atlas smiled too.

.

.

.

Far below the ruin of the Third Layer, deep in the molten heart of Hell’s Fourth layer, the Council of Elders gathered in storm.

The air there was thick with sulfur and prophecy.

Black pillars rose like petrified serpents, each carved with the names of fallen kings.

Around them, thirteen thrones circled the central flame — thirteen, though only twelve were ever filled. The thirteenth waited, always empty, for the one who would never return.

Chaos ruled the chamber.

"Zeus broke the pact!" one demon thundered, his horns splitting the light. "The Sky-King intervened directly! Do you fools realize what this means?"

"The equilibrium—" another began, but his voice was drowned out by a chorus of fury.

"War!" roared one.

"Blasphemy!" shouted another.

"The end of the Covenant!" hissed a third.

Half the Elders turned their wrath toward the same name — Atlas.

"The Prophet is no savior," spat the Elder of Chains. "He is the root of this corruption! He brought divine wrath upon us!"

Yet others rose in his defense, voices echoing like storm-tide.

"He is the harbinger!" cried the Elder of Bone. "The one spoken of in the Veiled Prophecies. The Balance Breaker! You would damn the very key to our salvation?"

Their words clashed like swords. Fire leapt from tongue to tongue, fury to fury.

At last, the ground itself trembled — and all fell silent.

A new figure entered. Slow, deliberate, leaning upon a staff carved from the heart of creation itself.

The High Elder.

None spoke his name. None dared. He was ancient beyond measure — a being who had seen the First War and lived through the birth of Hell itself. His eyes were hollow stars, his skin marked by the sigils of forgotten gods.

When he spoke, even the flames bent to listen.

"Enough," he said.

The single word struck like a bell through the marrow of every being in the room.

"Your bickering is meaningless. None of it matters now."

He stepped into the circle of fire. The shadows recoiled from him, revealing a face carved by eternity’s weight.

"The balance is already broken," he continued. "The Sky-King has breached the Contract. The laws that bound realms have been undone."

Whispers rippled through the chamber.

"What will happen?" a voice asked.

The High Elder’s expression did not change. "The Three will awaken."

A chill passed through even the flame.

"The Empresses?" one elder whispered, trembling.

"Yes."

The High Elder raised his staff, its tip glowing with molten runes. "For the first time since the birth of sin, the Three Demon Empresses will reunite.

Creation will shudder when their eyes meet. Whether they choose to rebuild, to protect, or to destroy — none can say."

He turned his gaze upon them, eyes burning like eclipses.

"So still your tongues," he said softly. "Pray, if you remember how. Because when the Empresses rise, the world will not be decided by gods or demons... but by women who have outlived both."