CHAPTER 364: CHAPTER 353: HEAVEN

The light of Heaven did not shine—it breathed.

It pulsed through the marble bones of the celestial halls like the slow rhythm of an ancient heart, gilding everything it touched in liquid gold. Rivers of song wound through the air, carried by choirs unseen. Yet beneath all the beauty lay a silence—a hollow between each divine note, a fracture that none dared name.

At the peak of the heavens, where the tips of Yggdrasil brushed the edge of eternity, Odin Allfather stood alone.

The wind up here was older than memory, thick with the scent of thunder and ash. His one good eye glowed like a storm trapped behind glass; the other, empty, stared through worlds unseen. His breath came ragged—not from weakness, but from the weight of realization.

"Stupid," he muttered.

The word fell like a curse into the void.

Then again, louder—

"Stupid! Fools!"

The echoes crashed down the crystal corridors of Valhalla, rippling through the feathers of resting Valkyries and the braids of the Einherjar.

He paced like a wounded lion, his spear Gungnir crackling faintly in his grasp. "They call themselves gods—Olympians, sons of Titans, blood of Chaos itself—and yet they blunder like drunken mortals! Fools I tell you!"

The golden ravens on his shoulders—Huginn and Muninn—shifted uneasily, as if the word "fools" could burn feathers.

Odin turned toward the sky, voice a raw thunderclap. "THOR!"

Silence answered him. Only the endless hum of the world-tree responded, its roots trembling far below.

"THOR, YOU IMBECILE!" he bellowed again, and this time, the sky itself cracked—yet no answer came.

Instead, from the bridge of light that arched across worlds, came another presence.

A brilliance like the birth of a star.

"Heimdall," Odin muttered, his irritation dimming to a growl.

The Gatekeeper of Realms approached—his armor made of woven dawn, his eyes reflecting every sunrise that had ever been. Each step he took sang like glass being struck by light.

"My king," Heimdall said, voice calm as still water. "Your son is... occupied."

Odin’s brow twitched. "Occupied?"

Heimdall inclined his head slightly. "Spreading more of his seed upon the mortal plane. He has assumed human guise again, and... by my count, at least five offspring will soon bear his mark."

Odin exhaled through his nose, a sound that could have extinguished suns.

Of course.

Of course his son was rutting while the world cracked beneath their feet.

He muttered, "He bears Mjolnir but wields it less than he wields his loins."

Heimdall’s expression remained perfectly neutral, though his lips betrayed the faintest ghost of a smirk. "He is... prolific, my king."

Odin’s single eye narrowed. "And thus, vulnerable."

He turned from the bridge, walking toward the edge of the hall where the firmament met the ether. The very air thickened around him, heavy with divine mana, vibrating with the weight of his thoughts.

"So," he murmured, "the Sky-King’s sons play mortal. The Olympians squander their blood on wine and women. The world forgets us. And I—" he pressed a hand to his chest "—I let them."

For a heartbeat, the Allfather looked less like a god and more like a tired old man.

He had spent eons holding back the flood—the cycle of death and rebirth that sought to consume creation again and again. Ragnarok. He had stopped it countless times, through war, through sacrifice, through cunning.

But each time he delayed it, the cracks spread wider. The light grew dimmer. The faith that fed Heaven’s heart waned, drop by drop, prayer by prayer.

He looked down upon his own hands. They trembled—not with age, but with decision.

Perhaps it was time.

He had always believed Ragnarok could be avoided, that the world could endure if only the gods played wisely. But now, watching Olympus descend into arrogance, watching even his own kin fall to indulgence and apathy, he saw the truth.

There was no saving what was already rotting.

"Maybe the end is not a curse," Odin whispered to himself. "Maybe it is mercy."

The wind seemed to pause, listening.

His eye flickered. He saw flashes—not of the present, but the distant threads of futures yet unmade. Fire. Stone. The rise of mortals wielding divine power. A man named Atlas walking through the gates of Hell with the sun in his hand and the ruin of gods in his wake.

A mortal who dared challenge eternity.

Odin smiled—a slow, dangerous thing. "I was hesitant before but now...." he whispered. "If the world must burn, let it burn clean."

Heimdal spoke carefully, sensing the shift in the air. "You would begin the reset?"

Odin’s gaze slid toward him. "The reset began the moment the mortal Atlas made the deal with me. I only intend to guide it."

"The Olympians will not stand idle."

"They will stand in the way," Odin corrected, "as they always have. They caught the scent of the Key, and now their offspring stumble through Hell, chasing what they do not understand."

He turned away again, looking toward the distant Earth, faint and blue beneath the mists. "Their interference has already weakened Heaven’s breath. Faith wanes. The celestial mana falters."

Heimdall hesitated. "Should we intervene?"

Odin’s laugh was low, bitter, endless. "Intervene? We are the cause of it, Heimdall. The rot began here. The mortals no longer pray because they see us clearly—and what they see are fools."

The wind howled across the high halls, snuffing out the light of a thousand candles.

Odin’s voice softened, almost fond. "No. Let faith die. Let their temples fall. It will make the rebirth cleaner."

He turned his eye toward the deepening dark, where lightning gathered like serpents. "And when it comes, I will be ready. All I require now is the Key—the bond of the Three Empresses. The ancient power that once sealed the realms."

His fingers tightened around Gungnir. "With it, I will reset everything. Heaven. Hell. The Mortal Veil. And when the dust settles, I will claim the throne that was never meant to be mine."

He paused, his voice dropping to a whisper that shook the roots of Heaven itself. "I will become what even creation must bow to—the One True God. The one above all..."

With those words, He vanished.

A thunderclap marked his departure, echoing across the cosmos.

The Hall of Valhalla dimmed behind him, as if even light dared not linger in his absence.

He reappeared deep below the radiant cities, beneath the golden oceans, descending through the forgotten arteries of Heaven—into the places angels no longer dared tread.

Each step echoed through a world of shadowed marble and cold iron. The air was thick with a scent not meant for Heaven—smoke and sorrow.

He passed murals depicting wars older than time, battles waged not between gods and demons, but between ideas. Creation and Silence. Will and Nothingness.

Finally, he reached the threshold of a chamber vast enough to hold a world. Its gates were sealed by light so dense it bent sound itself.

Odin lifted his hand. Runes flared, twisting through the air like serpents of fire.

"By the name I’ve forgotten, open," he whispered.

The gates trembled, then parted with a groan that sounded like the weeping of stars.

And there, in the darkness beyond, He was.

Lucifer....Lucifer Morningstar.

The Fallen Light.

Chained from neck to heel in celestial iron, his twelve wings stretched and pierced, each feather burning with pale, eternal fire. His face was still beautiful, too beautiful, his eyes a calm sea beneath the storm.

The sight made Odin’s heart twitch—something dangerously close to pity flickering behind his gaze.

Lucifer’s head rose slowly. The chains clinked, soft as a sigh.

"Odin," he murmured. His voice was still honey and ruin. "How long has it been since a god dared come this low?"

Odin’s boots scraped against the stone as he stepped forward. "Too long. And not long enough."

Lucifer’s lips curved faintly. "Still the same arrogance, then."

The Allfather ignored the jab, circling the chained figure like a scholar inspecting an artifact. "Tell me, Morningstar... do you still dream?"

Lucifer’s eyes opened fully now, two shards of morning. "Dream? I live in them, Allfather. Dreams are all your kind ever allowed me."

"Then you will appreciate what comes next."