CHAPTER 380: CHAPTER 369: A VISION

Hell had always favored the strong.

Not the noble, not the wise — only the strong.

Its laws were older than the stars, older than sin itself.

Down here, strength was truth. Strength was faith. Strength was everything.

It did not matter what blood flowed through your veins.

Human, demi-god, fallen, demon — even genesis-born beings, those carved from the primordial fires themselves — all stood under the same rule.

Hell bowed to no crown, only to violence.

That was its democracy. Its equality.

A kingdom where mercy was myth and only the powerful could call themselves alive.

And in that cauldron of centuries-long war — between the titans who once held the sky, the beast-folk who ran on instinct, the fallen who had lost heaven’s song, the devils and demons who had torn eternity apart — one name sat atop the hierarchy of madness.

ASMODEUS.

Old beyond counting.

One of Hell’s original kings — a being whose reign stretched back to the birth of chaos itself, his rule parallel to that of the three Demon Empresses. He had survived when even their empires crumbled to ash.

He was the furnace of sin, the architect of Hell’s Law, the proof that cunning could mimic godhood.

Yet even with all that age — all that supposed wisdom — he had learned nothing of humility.

And now, he found himself face-to-face with the one anomaly that Hell itself could not comprehend.

Atlas.

The air around them cracked as Asmodeus advanced, smoldering with fury.

Aurora had seen his smile before — cruel, confident, eternal. But not this time.

This time, there was confusion behind it. Something new.

A glimmer of uncertainty.

Because before Asmodeus could speak another word, the air bent — and the sound came first.

A thunderclap.

A sonic boom that carved a tunnel through the storm clouds.

The shockwave hit like a god’s breath, rattling the bones of devils, titans, and fallen alike.

Then Atlas appeared.

A streak of light and wrath, descending faster than the eye could track — until his fist met Asmodeus’s cheek with the force of continents colliding.

The impact rippled through the realm. The sound shattered mountains. The gates of the Fourth Layer split like glass.

Asmodeus was launched through the air like a burning star, crashing into the obsidian gates with an explosion that swallowed the horizon.

Ash rained like snow.

The world went silent for a single, trembling heartbeat.

Asmodeus stood.

Blood trickled from his mouth — black, thick, glistening with divine residue.

He spat out a tooth, its roots glowing faintly crimson. The metallic taste clung to his tongue.

He touched his jaw. It was broken. Broken.

He laughed — not from humor, but disbelief.

"Hahahaha....what the actual fuck..He wasn’t this strong before..."

His voice cracked with something dangerously close to awe. He could still remember the last time they had clashed — when Atlas had been barely a nuisance, even when possessed by the so-called "Guide’s spark."

But this... this was different.

The air around Atlas shimmered like frost meeting fire. His aura didn’t flare — it devoured.

A silence hung around him, the kind that came before extinction.

And then Asmodeus noticed it — the grotesque twist in Atlas’s right arm.

The bone was split clean through, ripping through flesh and sinew like an ivory blade. Blood steamed down his wrist, each drop freezing before it hit the scorched earth.

He had broken his own arm in that strike.

Asmodeus frowned. LUNATIC.

Even in Hell, pain was sacred — proof of survival. But this? This was madness. Self-destruction incarnate.

What kind of man traded bone for impact?

Aurora rushed forward, wings of fractured light flaring wide.

"Atlas! What the fuck are you doing?"

Her voice cracked between rage and fear. She extended a hand, light gathering at her fingertips — but it fizzled against invisible resistance.

The Law of Asmodeus still bound the ground beneath them.

Her healing spells slid off reality like oil over glass.

She clenched her teeth. "Damn it!"

Atlas didn’t look at her. His gaze was locked entirely on Asmodeus, expression unreadable.

"I’ll end it," he said, voice hoarse, quiet. "End it fast."

"Your arm—"

"Doesn’t matter." He flexed his fingers — or tried to. The sound of bone grinding echoed. "I had a vision, Aurora, A clear Vision.....i shouldn’t have started this, but I started this...so... I’ll finish it. Then... I’m going home...back to Lara, back to Eli, back to Claire..."

Aurora froze at those words. Home.

That word sounded almost alien down here. He said it like it was a promise to someone waiting in another universe.

"Hahahahaha... HAHAHAHA"

Asmodeus’s laughter cut through the air.

A laugh that carried centuries of arrogance.

"Look at you," he sneered, "pretending to be a savior when you’re nothing more than a fool wearing borrowed strength."

But the laughter wavered.

Deep inside, his foresight — the flicker of future sight granted by his pact with the Abyss — began to tremble. He could see fragments, flashes of something that terrified him: his own hand reaching upward, the sky burning white, the word freeze echoing like judgment.

He shook it off, grinding his teeth until blood filled his mouth.

"Fine," he said, his voice rising. "Let’s stop fighting like gods."

He raised his fist, fingers curling like claws.

"Let’s fight like Peasantry mortals.Hand to fucking hand."

Atlas didn’t answer. He looked down at his arm — the bone jutting like a spear from his wrist. His breathing was ragged, shallow, each inhale a struggle against agony.

Then, without a sound, he grabbed the shattered bone with his other hand and shoved it back into place.

A wet, cracking noise filled the battlefield.

Aurora screamed. Raphael turned away, grimacing. Even Asmodeus flinched.

But Atlas’s expression didn’t change. His skin paled as the blood drained from his face. He muttered under his breath — the System’s voice flickered faintly in his vision:

[High Healing skill used.]

[Failed.]

[Medium Healing used.]

[Failed.]

[Lite Healing used.]

[...30% success.]

A faint blue glow stitched the flesh together, weakly, imperfectly. The arm hung limp, but connected — just enough to move.

He flexed the fingers once. They barely obeyed. He clenched them into fists anyway.

And then, in a whisper that rippled through the world’s veins, he spoke:

"{Freeze.}"

His law sealed his own nerves. He stopped feeling the pain. The arm became numb, dead weight bound to his will. He couldn’t even release his fingers now. His body was breaking, but his intent — his resolve — was absolute.

He lifted his gaze.

Their eyes met.

Asmodeus smiled again, the confidence returning. "Then come, mortal."

Atlas cracked his neck once.

And moved.

Their fists met in the center of the plain.

The world exploded.

A single collision — and the Third Layer shook to its foundation.

The force sent ripples through the molten seas, breaking them into waves that touched the Fifth Layer low and the Second above. The sky fractured. Mountains cracked like eggshells.

Aurora and Raphael were thrown miles away, wings snapping from the sheer wind pressure.

The sound was not thunder. It was CREATION SCREAMING.

The energy reached beyond Hell — echoing through the mortal realm, through limbo, through heaven itself.

And far above, in the golden halls of Olympus, Zeus turned his head.

"...Oh, finally....some fucking action"

---

Down below, the fight continued — not as war, but as rhythm.

Each strike a drumbeat, each impact a hymn.

Atlas’s fists were meteors, heavy with divine fury.

Asmodeus countered with shadows that coiled into armor, his body absorbing impact after impact. The two blurred into motion, their silhouettes vanishing amid arcs of fire and frost.

Every punch tore space apart. Every breath birthed new stars of heat.

Hell watched.

Demons fell silent. The titans knelt. Even the winds hesitated.

For the first time in eons, Hell remembered what awe felt like.

Asmodeus struck low, his fist sinking into Atlas’s ribs — the sound of bones splintering.

Atlas staggered, exhaled sharply, then slammed his forehead into the demon’s jaw. Blood burst from both.

The two grinned through broken teeth. Monsters, both.

"Why fight for them?" Asmodeus spat, ducking under a swing. "For the fallen? For those hypocrites above? You’re no god, Atlas. You’re just a man playing a role you don’t understand."

Atlas’s breath came out ragged. "Maybe. But at least I’m real."

He drove his knee into Asmodeus’s chest, following with a frozen punch that cracked the demon’s ribs. Frost bloomed across Asmodeus’s torso, hissing against his fire.

"Real doesn’t win wars," Asmodeus growled, shattering the ice with a burst of infernal heat. "I DO, i always Do.."

"Ha. Then you’ve already lost," Atlas whispered.

There was something terrible in his calmness.

Something beyond rage — beyond vengeance.

He had learned long ago that emotion was fuel, but purpose was destiny.

He wasn’t fighting to kill Asmodeus. He was fighting to end him — to erase his doctrine, his illusion of control over Hell’s hierarchy.

In Atlas’s heart, a memory stirred.

No, not a memory, but a vision.

A vision where....

He was happy, with his three wives and many children.

He was truly happy.

Asmodeus lunged forward, claws extended. "You’re not divine, you’re disease!"

Atlas caught his arm mid-swing, twisting it until the bone snapped.

Asmodeus roared — but before he could react, Atlas’s other fist connected with his throat, crushing the sound before it escaped. The impact sent shockwaves upward, cracking the firmament.

For a moment, Asmodeus saw himself reflected in Atlas’s eyes — and what he saw wasn’t hate. It was something worse. Pity.

It broke something in him.

The ground erupted beneath their feet. Lava burst skyward, coating the battlefield in molten rain. The heat warped light itself, and yet neither flinched.

They were past pain now — past mortality, past sense.

They were concepts clashing.

Faith versus truth. Illusion versus resolve.

Aurora watched from afar, her chest heaving, her hands trembling.

She wanted to interfere — to heal, to shield, to scream — but she knew she couldn’t. The Laws themselves forbade it.

She whispered, "Don’t die, Atlas..."

Her voice vanished in the wind.

Beside her, Raphael knelt, his four wings folding around him like cloaks. "If he wins," he said softly, "if the prophet wins...the balance will surely break...."

Aurora looked at him. "And if he loses?"

Raphael’s gaze never left the battle. "Then....all hope is lost, us Fallens will forever be called fallens."