CHAPTER 370: CHAPTER 359: IT BEGINS

HOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

The long horn of the city of Asmodeus echoed across the scorched plains—a sound too vast for mortal ears, a resonance that bent the bones of the world.

It rolled over the horizon like thunder given voice, shaking the molten ridges, shattering the brittle silence that had held for too long. Every creature in the Third Layer felt it—not merely in their ears, but in their blood, their marrow, their memory.

From the black gates of the city, the first waves emerged. Demons upon demons, crawling, marching, gliding—some half-draconic, others warped mockeries of beasts that had once roamed mortal earth.

Land monsters dragged their hulking limbs through the dust, claws carving trenches deep as rivers. Goblins and high goblins snarled, teeth slick with anticipation. Devils unfolded their skeletal wings, filling the air like a swarm of locusts.

And then came the ....Titans.

They appeared at first as men—small, almost fragile. But as their feet crossed the invisible barrier of the city walls, the illusion broke. Their bodies expanded, bones elongating, muscle swelling until the sky itself recoiled. A magic which was also used in Titus.

Each step they took caused the ground to ripple. They stood shoulder to shoulder upon the city walls, a legion of living mountains. The air around them vibrated with the sound of their slow, monstrous breathing.

Atlas stood at the front of his host, his army spread out behind him—fallen angels and demons alike, banners of ash and light twisting together. The sky above was red as a wound, the air thick with burnt metal and sulfur. The partial snow from the second layer still falling .

The world itself seemed to wait, holding its breath.

Asmodeus flew above it all, his for, visible to all. As he coughed to sooth his voice.

"....you wanted war...I will give you war." He simply voiced. "An extinct your kind atlas....the genesis humans, the rarest element of creation....ends today."

The Elder floated beside him, cloak rippling with shadows that bent around the edges of reality. His eyes were shut—seeing more through darkness than sight.

When he opened them, the light within was not mortal. His gaze locked on the far horizon, to the towering gates that loomed behind Asmodeus’s city—gates not meant for the living.

Then his expression changed.

"Impossible," the Elder whispered, voice hoarse as the grinding of stone.

Atlas turned, his voice steady. "What?"

The Elder’s face tightened. "That bastard Asmodeus... he’s opened the Fourth Layer."

The words struck like lightning. Even the air seemed to recoil, trembling with ancient recognition.

Atlas’s gaze rose to the gate—the thousand-foot-tall monolith of obsidian, engraved with sigils older than language.

The runes pulsed, faint at first, then brighter, like a heartbeat stirring after centuries of slumber. A low rumble followed, spreading through the ground, rising from the bones of hell itself.

Then the gate moved.

It did not creak or groan—it howled. The sound was the cry of a world being torn in half. Wind blasted outward, carrying with it the scent of iron and rot.

The armies—both his and Asmodeus’s—covered their ears. Even the Titans flinched. The horn of Asmodeus was nothing compared to this.

The gate opened only slightly, but even that sliver was enough to unmake courage. From within, eyes appeared—hundreds, thousands, opening one by one, glimmering in the dark like stars that had lost their sanity. They blinked, stared, and something vast shifted beyond the veil.

Then came the roar.

It was not sound. It was an event. The mountains around the city fractured. The air became heavy as stone. The light bent, folding in on itself.

Atlas staggered back a step, his heartbeat syncing to the pulse within his veins. His system screamed inside him.

[Jörmungandr Essence Resonating]

He had never called upon it fully—not yet. The essence of the World Serpent, the betrayer of dragons, lay dormant within him. Until now.

The blood in his body began to burn, threads of power unraveling from his spine like molten chains. The air thickened with a tang of ozone and fury. He tasted metal, copper and lightning.

Then he saw it.

A shape moved behind the gate—colossal, obscene. It crawled forward, claws carving through the darkness, dragging a body too massive for form. When it emerged, it broke the sky.

The beast was not like Jörmungandr. It had four legs—each large enough to crush a fortress into dust. Its skin was black and scaled, but its scales drank light, devouring it. Eight heads rose from its shoulders, each wreathed in flame and shadow, each with eyes that glowed like molten suns.

The ground around its feet bled magma.

Atlas’s mind whispered one truth—this was no dragon. It was something else, something that had diverged from the sacred path of creation. A corrupted evolution. A dragon that had chosen sin over divinity.

He felt it staring at him. Not its eyes—its soul.

And above its central head stood a figure clad in armor forged from bones and fire. The last Demon King. Asmodeus himself.

He raised his hand, pointing toward Atlas.

As atlas also raised his hand towards him, there was no backing down,His voice was not a shout; it was a command that rippled through the world. "Attack."

The sky darkened instantly as Atlas’s forces surged forward. Wings of black flame filled the heavens. Titans roared, swinging blades the size of spires. Devils screamed hymns of ruin.

Atlas spread his hands, white flame bursting from his body, shaking the air.

[Jörmungandr’s Essence Resonating]

[Demon God’s Essence Resonating]

[Yggdrasil Essence Resonating]

Three cores within him burned as one. The power was too much—it tore through his body like wildfire—but he held it. He had to.

"Hold your lines!" Atlas’s voice cut through the storm. "Fear is death before death!"

Below him, the armies of the Fallen roared in answer. Their blades glimmered with the faint light of their lost divinity. The demons beside them shrieked, exhaling fire and darkness. For the first time in hell’s history, angels and demons fought beneath the same banner.

The Elder floated higher, gaze locked upon the beast from the Fourth Layer. His lips moved in an ancient tongue, casting wards that trembled against the weight of its presence. "This... this is wrong," he muttered. "That creature should not exist here....not in the third layer.... Asmodeus, what have you done...?"

Atlas’s mind split between battle and memory. He remembered the first time he’d heard of the Fourth Layer—whispered rumors of a place where even gods feared to tread, where creation had gone to rot. Where the Three empresses walk.

The thought that Asmodeus had torn open its gates filled him with dread—and something colder, something like awe.

Asmodeus lifted his spear, its shaft carved from the spine of an angel. "You think yourself chosen, Atlas? You think yourself a bridge?" His voice echoed through the battlefield, twisting the wind. "You are nothing but a vessel for borrowed blood!"

Atlas answered with motion. He shot forward, hands cutting through the storm, the air igniting around him.

When he struck, the sound was like thunder given shape. His blade met Asmodeus’s spear midair, and the shockwave flattened entire ranks of soldiers below. The ground cratered. Lava fountained upward, painting the air in scarlet arcs.

The Elder shielded the armies with a wave of his hand, shadows coiling to form a dome. His voice bled power, his veins glowing faintly. "So this is the power of kings..."

Above, Atlas and Asmodeus clashed again. Sparks became suns. Blades became comets. The monster beneath Asmodeus roared and reared, its three heads spewing gouts of black fire that melted the clouds.

Atlas raised his hand, calling the essence within him. Green light burst from his chest—the echo of Yggdrasil. From his outstretched palm grew a shield of living branches, woven from divine wood, glowing with runes that pulsed with life. The beast’s fire struck it, and the shield screamed—wood burning, healing, burning again.

Atlas’s voice broke through the blaze. "I am no vessel. I am the convergence!"

He dove, sword first, and struck at Asmodeus. The blade tore through the Demon King’s armor, grazing flesh that bled smoke. But Asmodeus only smiled, black ichor dripping from his lips.

"You cannot kill what hell itself sustains."

Then he vanished.

Atlas blinked—and Asmodeus was behind him. A spear through his side, ribs shattering. Atlas gasped, light spilling from the wound like liquid fire.

The Elder’s eyes widened. "Atlas!"

Atlas gritted his teeth, clutching the shaft. His body faltered for a heartbeat, but then the runes across his skin flared. He twisted, breaking the spear in half, the shockwave knocking Asmodeus backward.

"Do you feel it?" Asmodeus hissed. " The outcome of your ridiculous choices...."

Atlas steadied himself midair, pain etched in his expression. Beneath the agony, though, something else stirred—a calm deeper than despair. He thought of Aurora, of her trembling hands, of her faith that defied gods. He thought of the Fallen who had followed him, not for glory, but for meaning.

"Call it...," he said quietly, "whatever the fuck you want...."

And then he rose higher, past the reach of the monster’s fire, into the storm itself. Lightning answered him, streaking across the crimson sky.

Below, the war raged. Titans clashed with Fallen. Gabriel’s voice could be heard, leading a charge of winged soldiers into the heart of Asmodeus’s army. Jenny the Witch Queen conjured storms of cursed flame that devoured legions whole. The Lion King tore through devils with claws that could rip through time itself.

The Elder descended into the chaos, wielding a staff older than the layers themselves. Every swing cracked the air, every chant bound demons in chains of light. "Hold your lines!" he roared. "The Prophet is not yet fallen!"

The Prophet. The Guide. Atlas.

High above, Atlas called upon the last essence within him—the one he had sworn never to touch.

{{{{{{Let me give you a little boost}}}}}

[Demon God’s Core: Unsealed: level 1.]