CHAPTER 367: CHAPTER 356: MEETING OF THE CENTURY

The horizon bled red.

Snow fell from a sky that was not a sky but a burning ocean turned upside down, folding in upon itself like a wounded beast. Below it stretched the last breath of the Third Layer of Hell—a city so vast it seemed to breathe with the planet’s own molten lungs.

Atlas stood upon a ridge of black stone and looked down upon it. His army—his church of the damned, the faithful of ruin and light—waited behind him in silence.

They were a congregation of contradictions: angels who had shed their halos, demons who had remembered prayer, mortals who had forgotten death. And he, the Guide who united them—neither savior nor destroyer, but something in between.

The wind that blew from the city beyond carried heat and incense. The air shimmered with the cries of the dying and the laughter of the damned.

Yet beneath it all was order—streets that spiraled in geometric perfection, towers that gleamed with alchemical gold, lights that pulsed like the heartbeat of a god.

"This," the Elder said beside him, "is Asmodeus’s kingdom."

Atlas said nothing at first. His eyes drank in the sight. The city was not chaos, as he had imagined it.

It was a labyrinth of divinity inverted—a mirror of Heaven itself, if Heaven had been built by a god who remembered sin.

From this hill, even the air trembled. The towers were impossibly tall, piercing clouds that wept fire. Bridges stretched between them like the veins of some sleeping colossus.

He could see the gate beyond—a thousand feet high, sculpted from living obsidian, veined with molten light. The only passage into the Fourth Layer.

But before the gate stood that city.

A single city—too vast, too perfect, too alive.

Atlas’s jaw tightened. "No demon should hold this much power," he murmured.

The Elder’s laugh was soft and cruel. "Now you see why Asmodeus is feared. Even the gods avert their eyes from this place. He built this not with flame or blood, but will."

Atlas nodded. His voice was low, steady, dangerous. "Then....I must see him."

The Elder turned his great, ageless head, the motion slow as tectonic drift. His eyes were twin suns dimmed by centuries. "See him? You mean to speak with him?"

"I will not march blind into war," Atlas replied. "He rules this layer. He knows its truth. I must understand the shape of what I destroy."

"Understand?" The Elder’s lips cracked into a smile that revealed teeth like shards of night. "You do not understand Asmodeus. You survive him."

"Then let me try."

The Elder studied him for a long time. The air between them quivered; even the wind seemed to hesitate. "You seek the impossible. Asmodeus does not grant audience to challengers. He devours them...all of them.."

"Then I’ll let him try."

Something flickered in the Elder’s eyes—amusement, or pity. "You wish me to arrange this?"

"Yes."

The Elder exhaled, a sound like a collapsing mountain. "You ask for death, Guide. And yet..." His grin widened.

"Perhaps death is what you need."

Atlas met his gaze. "Prepare it."

And the Elder vanished.

Aurora stepped from the shadow of the ridge, her armor faintly aglow with the runes etched into it.

Uriel followed, his blade unsheathed, his wings folded tightly against his back.

"You’re serious," Aurora said. Not a question, but an accusation. "You’re actually going to meet him."

Atlas did not look at her. "Yes."

Uriel’s voice was a low growl. "There is no meeting with Asmodeus. There is only submission or annihilation..why."

Atlas finally turned. His eyes were calm, but his voice carried iron. "If I wanted annihilation, I’d have marched already."

Aurora stepped closer. "You’re playing his game, Atlas. He controls the Third Layer. His city is him. You walk into that, you walk into his soul."

"For god’s sake, Then let me look into it."

Her voice cracked. "Why? Why do you need to? We can fight, we can win—"

"No." His tone cut the air cleanly. "We can survive. But survival is not victory."

For a moment, silence held them. The army below stirred, whispers carried by the heated wind—demons sharpening blades, fallens murmuring prayer.

Aurora’s gaze softened. "You’re afraid," she said quietly.

Atlas’s lips curved—something between a smile and a grimace. "Not just afraid....."

.

.

Time passed like breath in a furnace.

The sky darkened. The city glowed brighter. The ridge trembled with the hum of the armies waiting for command.

Then, suddenly, the air rippled.

The Elder reappeared, cloaked in smoke and age. His eyes burned like distant galaxies. "It is done."

Atlas straightened. "He agreed?"

The Elder’s grin was a wound splitting his face. "He did. But with a condition."

Aurora’s voice was sharp. "What condition?"

"That the meeting occurs not here... but in the Mirror Realm."

The words hung heavy. Even the wind recoiled.

Uriel’s blade lifted. "Blasphemy."

Aurora’s armor flickered with light. "Absolutely not. That’s his dominion. In that realm, Asmodeus is a god. You’d be walking into his dream."

The Elder tilted his head. "And yet he asks it kindly."

Atlas raised a hand. "Accepted."

Aurora turned on him, fury breaking through composure. "You can’t—"

"I can."

Her voice trembled. "You won’t come back."

Atlas met her eyes. "I Will....."

The Elder’s laughter was deep and endless. "Bravery or madness—both taste the same."

The air shattered.

A sound like glass breaking across eternity echoed through the ridge. Before them appeared a mirror—not of silver or glass, but of liquid shadow, framed by threads of gold.

Its surface pulsed like a living heart.

Within it, reflections flickered—cities, faces, wars. And deep inside, a shape moved: vast, serpentine, and watching.

The Mirror Realm had opened.

Atlas stepped forward.

Behind him, voices rose—Aurora shouting, Uriel swearing oaths, Raphael calling his name—but they became wind.

The moment stretched like eternity held its breath.

He looked once at his army—his faith, his burden—and once at the endless city below. Then he looked into the mirror.

The reflection stared back, not of him, but what he could become.

He exhaled once, slow, deliberate. The scent of iron and ash filled his lungs.

Then he stepped through.

The world inverted, but not with life... but with hollowness

It was like being swallowed by an empty thought.

The mirror closed behind him, sealing the sound of war. For a moment, there was only silence—a vast, heavy silence filled with the hum of creation.

Then light bloomed.

He stood in the same city—but not the same. This was its reflection, polished to unbearable perfection.

He was at the same spot where he had left, but there was no one, not his army, not aurora, only him. He gazed at the city, city of Asmodeus as he ripped his way there with sonic speed.

The towers were smooth and flawless, the streets paved with mirrorstone that reflected the sky beneath his feet.

And above him hung not stars, but eyes—thousands of them, watching, blinking in rhythm with his heartbeat.

The Mirror Realm.

Each breath echoed like a drumbeat in a cathedral. Each step rippled across the surface of the world.

"Asmodeus," Atlas whispered.

The name itself stirred the air.

The city responded. Shadows deepened. The reflections on every surface began to move—whispers of figures, fragments of memory.

He saw himself at the gates of Heaven. He saw the first demon he had killed. He saw Aurora’s face, her eyes full of faith she pretended not to have.

Every reflection was a confession.

Then the ground opened, and the throne emerged.

It rose from the mirrored streets like an idea given form—fluid, infinite, crowned with flame that burned without heat. Upon it sat Asmodeus.

His form was both man and abyss. Skin like starlit obsidian, eyes like galaxies folding in on themselves. Horns of light arched behind his head like broken halos.

"Oh ..Guide," Asmodeus said. His voice was soft, yet it pressed against the bones of the world. "You have come."

Atlas bowed his head, not in reverence but acknowledgment. "I have ... questions."

"Everyone does."

"Answers, then."

"Ah." The demon king smiled, a crescent of ruin. "Those are rarer."

The silence that followed was not absence but presence—the kind that devours thought.

Asmodeus gestured, and a table of light appeared between them. Two cups materialized, filled with something that shimmered between blood and starlight.

"Sit, oh Guide. Drink. Even the condemned must quench thirst."

Atlas sat. The cup was warm in his hand, as though alive.

"You built this," he said, glancing around. "A reflection of Hell itself."

"I built the truth," Asmodeus said. "Hell is the lie. This—this is what lies beneath it."

Atlas studied him. Really studied him, he was no demon king, like he ever met, the Guide within him had said, if he didn’t exist. the Guide would take Asmodeus as his vessel.

Now seeing him in person, he thought why didn’t the Guide Choose Asmodeus from the first place.

"You’ve become something else." Atlas confessed.

The demon king’s smile deepened. "I’ve become myself. You, of all beings, should understand. As genesis human yourself, evolving all the way to your roots.."

The words sank like hooks.

Atlas looked into the drink but did not sip. "You know why I’m here."

"To kill me. To ascend to the Fourth."

"...To understand."

Asmodeus leaned forward, and the room darkened. "Understanding is a more dangerous weapon than any blade...."

"I don’t seek your throne."

"Everyone seeks the throne, Atlas... Some with hunger, some with.... guilt. Tell me, which are you?"

The question lingered like poison.

Atlas felt the weight of centuries in his chest.

"I will tell you the truth....all I seek is .... The Key..."