CHAPTER 366: CHAPTER 355: MIRROR WORLD

The chamber of war burned with shadow and gold.

In the center of the hall stood Atlas—the Prophet, the Guide, the one whom both angels and demons now followed. His eyes were half-shadowed by the crimson firelight, his expression unreadable.

Around him, the divided host of Hell had gathered.

To his right stood Aurora, her white hair veiled in smoke, her new made armor reflecting the dim glow of the sigils. To his left, the fallen archangels: Uriel, Gabriel, Sariel, and Raphael—their wings darkened, their celestial radiance muted but not extinguished. Behind them, a wall of lesser Fallens, faces marked by scars and flame.

And beyond, the demons—the Lords of the Lower Hordes, their forms vast and terrible. The demon kings the mighty Red Lion, Galiath, his mane a river of embers; The Elder, whose flesh was smooth and whose eyes were galaxies of sun; and the legions who knelt at their backs, claws scraping against obsidian, wings twitching with hunger.

The air trembled under the weight of power and distrust.

Aurora’s voice was the first to cut the silence.

"Asmodeus waits...," she said. Her tone was quiet, but every syllable struck like a blade. "He showed me what is to come."

The host stirred. Even the braziers hissed louder, their flames leaning toward her words as if drawn by gravity.

Atlas did not move. "Speak."

Aurora met his gaze. For a heartbeat, she hesitated—not from fear, but from memory. The vision Asmodeus had forced upon her still burned behind her eyelids: a sky of broken halos, Atlas’s body pierced by chains of light, the heavens laughing as Hell collapsed beneath his feet.

Her breath trembled, but her voice did not.

"He said you would fall," she whispered. "Undone by one who stands beside you."

The room went still.

A soundless pulse rippled through the chamber—the kind of silence that follows prophecy, heavier than thunder.

Uriel’s hand went to his sword. "Blasphemy," he hissed. "Asmodeus lies as he breathes."

"He lies," Aurora said, "but not without truth hidden in it."

Galiath stepped forward, his claws dragging sparks along the floor. "Then who, slayer, is this serpent beside our Guide? Name her, if you dare."

Aurora’s gaze flicked to the memory. The daughter of Dagon waited there—half-hidden, half-dream, her eyes a pale violet flame.

The Daughter of the Abyss, the heir of the demon king Dagon’s throne. She watched them all without fear.

"She," Aurora said softly, "was at Asmodeus’s side when I saw it. The child of Dagon."

A murmur swept through the hall like a wind through ashes.

Uriel’s wings flared, feathers scraping stone. "Then the path is clear. We strike the serpent before it coils."

But Atlas raised his hand. "No."

His word carried through the chamber like an unseen command. Even the demons froze.

"No," he repeated. His gaze was calm, but his voice held the tone of storms restrained. "We will not become executioners of prophecy. That is the way of gods, not of us."

"But, my lord," Uriel began, "if Asmodeus speaks truth—"

"Then truth will reveal itself," Atlas interrupted. "Not by slaughter, but by endurance."

Aurora’s heart beat faster. She knew that tone—the voice of a man defying fate itself. And she feared it, because fate had a way of punishing defiance.

The council began.

They gathered around the central brazier—a vast pit of molten glass that reflected their faces like ghosts trapped beneath the surface. The air was thick with the scent of burning incense and scorched iron.

Galiath spoke first, his voice a growl that rattled the chains along the walls. "You say Asmodeus moves. Then let us move faster. The Red Hordes of the Sixth are ready. My armies crave blood. Give the command, and we will tear his citadel apart."

The Elder rumbled low. "And burn half of the Third Layer with it? Foolish cub. Asmodeus is not some mortal wretch you can claw at. He ruled before your fires were lit."

"He bleeds like any of us," Galiath snarled.

"And yet," the Elder said, "he still lives."

The two demons stared at one another, power building like pressure before an eruption.

Atlas’s hand closed around the pommel of his sword, and the temperature dropped by degrees. The molten pit flickered blue, the heat swallowed by the cold radiance that emanated from him.

"We will not wage war in ignorance," he said. "Asmodeus is not merely a foe—he is a symbol. To destroy him, we must understand what he is, what he really is."

{{{{{{He has become corruption itself. He who once sought the throne of Heaven now sits beneath the skin of Hell.}}}}} The Guide inside him whispered.

When the council dissolved into argument—fallen voices against demonic roars—Aurora stepped closer to him.

"You believe the prophecy, don’t you?" she asked quietly.

Atlas turned toward her. His expression did not change, but his silence spoke enough.

She exhaled slowly. "Then why not name it aloud?"

"Because belief gives shape to destiny to fate," he said. "And I have met fate aurora, i smell her, her influence..."

His words chilled her. Not because of what he said—but because she could hear in them the calm of a man already resigned to die....or was there something else.

The debate raged through the night.

Uriel argued for immediate assault, Gabriel for infiltration, Galiath for annihilation. The demons of the lower hosts whispered prayers in forgotten tongues, and the Fallens debated scripture long since erased from Heaven’s memory.

They drew maps in ash and blood, marking the citadels of the Third Layer—each one a bastion of Asmodeus’s dominion, fortified by centuries of sin.

Aurora watched the chaos unfold, her thoughts drifting to Asmodeus himself—the demon who had once courted godhood. She remembered his eyes in the vision: not of madness, but of clarity. A creature who had seen the end of all things and smiled.

He had whispered to her in that vision: "He will fall, not by blade..."

That was the part she hadn’t spoken aloud.

She looked at Atlas then—his calm amidst the storm, his hand resting on the Book of Acclaim, the ancient tome that bound angelic law and demonic pact into one.

The book shimmered faintly with runes that seemed alive, breathing in rhythm with his pulse. From her point of view, the only thing that can kill him was the empressess or the very gods. As death, the dreaming, even fate could not touch him.

As dawn—or what passed for dawn in Hell—crept across the red horizon, the council fell silent at last.

Atlas rose.

"Enough," he said. "Words will not sharpen our blades."

He placed a hand upon the Book of Acclaim. The sigils flared white, and the hall trembled as though the realm itself recognized its bearer.

"Our path is set. Tomorrow, we march for the gates of the fourth Layer. To face Asmodeus in his throne of flame."

A murmur of assent followed—uneasy, divided, but unified by necessity. The Fallens bowed their heads; the demons roared. The air pulsed with resolve and fear entwined.

Aurora met Uriel’s eyes across the brazier. The archangel’s face was unreadable, but in his stance she saw doubt—the same kind that haunted her own heart.

As the council dispersed, Atlas remained still. Aurora stayed beside him.

He looked at her, the faintest trace of exhaustion behind his composure. "You’ve seen him," he said softly. "Tell me—what was in his eyes?"

Aurora hesitated. "Pity," she said finally. "And certainty."

Atlas nodded once. "Then he has already chosen his end."

That night, the fortress was restless.

The skies above Hell churned with red lightning, the layers of the realm twisting upon themselves like serpents. The scent of sulfur and rain mixed with ash. Aurora stood upon the balcony overlooking the armies gathering below—demons sharpening their blades, Fallens whispering prayers to forgotten gods.

A drafted ghost appeared beside Aurora.

"You think he can win," she said, her voice almost curious.

Aurora glanced at her. "Atlas does not fight to win."

"Then to what end?"

"To finish what he started," Aurora said. "To balance the scale. To balance HIS scale."

The Daughter smiled faintly, a cruel, almost human expression. "Balance is a lie. There is only ascent or ruin. Our Guide is choosing Ruin."

"You speak as your father did...."

"Perhaps. And yet he fell." She tilted her head. "Do you think our Guide will fare better?"

Aurora did not answer. Instead, she asked, "Why are you here, I thought you would stick within your mirror realm, a realm which your oh so father crafted...?"

The girl’s smile faded. "Cause.... I’m no weapons..."

"I have to go now, Asmodeus seeks me again..."

"Wait...in the vision, you...you "

"Aurora....you already know, I have waiting for the Guide. My father didn’t believe, but I did. And now he is here, I could never..."

Auroroa stayed silent, as she vanished within the mirror realm. A realm , made by dagon and Asmodeus. A realm, which was exact replica of hell. But no living allowed except the permission of it’s makers. One being her and another being Asmodeus himself.

"Asmodeus.... what are you actually planning?"