CHAPTER 391: CHAPTER 390: FOURTH LAYER.

The trial was done. The air itself knew it—still, exhausted, almost trembling with relief. The vast expanse of the fourth layer quieted like a beast finally tamed. Atlas stood amidst the fractured remnants of the illusion, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, he felt... light.

Not the light of victory, not the radiance of power—but a quiet, human kind of lightness. A burden unfastened from the ribs. The invisible chains that had been strangling him since the first moment he fell into this hell loosened, and the world seemed almost bearable again.

He looked around. The others had gathered—Aurora, Lara, Eli, Claire, Michael, Raphael, Merlin. Each of them bore the same exhausted awe upon their faces, their expressions caught between pride and confusion. Even the demons in the distance, the formless entities that had once whispered judgment, had retreated into silence.

Lara, the first to step closer, said nothing. She simply watched him. Atlas’s mana was still faintly glowing across his skin, threads of light dancing like dying embers. But it wasn’t wild now. It was gentle, like the tide after a storm.

He met her gaze. There was something unspoken between them—an acknowledgment of the pain she had seen inside him during the trial.

She had seen the world that was his memory, his old home—the small room with flickering lights, the empty dinners, the sound of muffled arguments through paper-thin walls. She had seen him grow up there, an isolated boy pretending to be strong, pretending he didn’t hear the silence where love should have been.

That world still lingered in the corners of this one, faint as afterimages behind his eyes.

Even Eli, who had seen gods die beside Atlas, could not quite speak. Claire’s lips parted once, then closed. They had seen things no mortal or immortal should have seen—the inside of Atlas’s soul laid bare like an autopsy.

They had questions. Endless questions.

But no one dared to ask.

Not yet.

Atlas looked at them all—his companions, his unlikely family. He could see the worry in their faces, the weight of what they had witnessed. He raised a hand, steady, the faintest smile curling at his lips. "You will have your answers," he said softly. "All of them. When the time is right."

Even his voice sounded different now. There was no trembling, no fury. Just calm. A strange, sacred calm.

It was then that Lilith’s voice rippled through the void—soft, melodic, and laced with something dangerous. Like a harp strung with blades.

"It is not finished."

The ground beneath them quivered. The silence broke. Shadows stirred at the horizon, and a wind that smelled faintly of roses and blood swept through the ruins.

Atlas turned toward the source.

Lilith’s form coalesced in the air, a mirage of beauty and malice intertwined. Her eyes glowed crimson-gold, the color of both life and destruction. "You have passed the trial," she said, her voice echoing like a thousand whispers folded into one. "And for that, you have earned what you came for."

In her hand materialized a crown—not of gold, but of pale fire. Each flicker of its light sang, not with sound, but with memory.

"The key. The crown. The right to ascend," Lilith continued. "Everything you desired, everything you bled for, lies before you."

The others stiffened. The world around them began to shift, dissolving into drifting motes of light. What remained was a wooden door—small, unremarkable, out of place amidst the ruins of gods. Its surface was scarred, the wood faded with age.

On it hung a simple, hand-carved sign:

WELCOME.

For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

The words felt heavier than stone.

Atlas stepped forward, his boots echoing softly on the ground that no longer existed. The door looked so absurdly fragile, so human. It was smaller than any of them expected—the kind of door that might have belonged to a cottage, or an ordinary mortal house.

He reached out, fingertips hovering just above the surface, when Lilith’s laughter drifted again, low and knowing.

"You are not yet ready to enter," she said. "The fourth layer is not like the others. It devours time. It bends souls. Here, gods lose their names, and kings become whispers."

Atlas paused. "Then why summon me?"

"Because you are Genesis," she said. "Like me."

The word struck him like a chord. Genesis. The first of the first. A name that belonged not to mortals or gods, but to those who were there before beginnings had meaning.

"Be ready, Atlas," Lilith said, her form flickering, the edges of her being disintegrating like ashes in wind. "For what awaits within that door is not a trial of strength, but of self. Even gods dread what lies there...

Many have entered m many have failed.... Asmodeus failed, many demon kings failed...demi gods failed...some pass through the fourth layer and survive, and claim godhood or something even higher...."

She turned her gaze to his companions. "And your partners..." Her lips curled in a faint smirk. "They may not survive it."

The air thickened. Every word she spoke weighed like a curse.

"Are they willing to go inside, Atlas?" she asked, voice now cutting. "Or will they become your burden? Will you sacrifice them when the world demands its price?"

The question pierced through the group like a blade. Lara’s fists clenched. Eli’s wings flared in protest. Claire took a step forward, fury trembling in her breath.

"How dare you—"

But Lilith’s eyes silenced her. "You are weak," she said simply. "Beautifully, tragically weak."

The accusation hung like thunder in the void.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Lara stepped forward. Her voice did not shake. "Maybe I am weak," she said. "Maybe we all are. But that’s what makes us human. That’s what makes us fight." She looked at Atlas, eyes steady, unwavering. "As long as he’s beside me, I’ll stand up again and again. I’ll fight until the end. And if I must die, I’ll die for him."

Silence.

The kind that makes the air hum.

Even Lilith faltered, for the briefest second. Her smirk softened—not out of pity, but respect. "Very well," she murmured.

The door creaked. Slowly, it opened on its own. A pale golden light seeped from within, casting their faces in an otherworldly glow. It smelled faintly of rain after drought.

Atlas turned to his companions—Michael, stoic and radiant; Raphael, his usual sharpness tempered by awe; Merlin, stroking his beard with quiet understanding; Aurora, her eyes reflecting both fear and faith; and the three who had seen the worst of him—Lara, Eli, and Claire.

He saw in them reflections of every war, every victory, every fracture that had led him here.

He nodded once. No speeches. No grand gestures. Just a look.

They understood.

Together, they walked toward the door.

As they did, Atlas felt something shift deep within him—a pull, faint but immense, like the tide dragging him toward the horizon of some unseen ocean. The air grew heavier with every step, the hum of power thickening around them.

"Once you cross," Lilith’s voice echoed faintly, "there is no return. Not the way you were."

Atlas paused, hand resting on the edge of the door.

He whispered—not to Lilith, not to anyone, but to himself—

"Then we go forward. As we always have."

The light flared. The world vanished.

When Atlas opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the sound.

It wasn’t silence anymore. It was a song.

Faint, like a lullaby carried by wind through distant valleys. It came from everywhere and nowhere, weaving through the air like golden dust. The world before him shimmered in half-light—a vast expanse of marble and mist, suspended in the void.

He stepped forward. The ground rippled beneath his feet as though the world itself were alive.

The fourth layer.

It was beautiful. And terrible.

Every breath felt weighted with time. The air smelled of rain and old memory. The sky had no color—only shifting shades of dawn and dusk. In the distance, colossal silhouettes moved: remnants of beings who had come here seeking godhood, and failed.

Michael muttered, "This is... impossible."

Raphael’s eyes were sharp. "This realm shouldn’t exist like this."

Merlin only smiled faintly. "It’s not supposed to. That’s why it does."

Atlas said nothing. His gaze lingered on the horizon where faint shapes—cities, temples, and chains of mountains—floated like mirages. Every structure pulsed faintly, as if it were breathing.

He could feel the weight of countless epochs here. The remains of gods who had once reached for eternity and been devoured by it.

A whisper brushed his mind.

.. You came seeking to save another. But this place saves no one.

He ignored it. He’d faced worse voices in his own head.

But deep inside, a fragment of fear stirred. What if Lilith was right? What if Lara, Eli, Claire... all of them would become sacrifices, whether he wished it or not?

He looked at them again. Lara smiled faintly, sensing his doubt. "You’re thinking too much again," she said softly.

He almost smiled back. "Old habits."

"You’re allowed to have some," she teased, brushing his shoulder as she passed.

He let the moment linger. A fragile warmth amidst an infinite cold.

As they advanced through the shimmering landscape, time itself seemed to blur. Hours passed like seconds. Seconds stretched into eternities. At one point, Atlas swore he saw his old home in the distance—a flicker of the mortal world, the old streetlights, the cracked pavement, the faint smell of the earth after rain.

He blinked, and it was gone.

Maybe that was the fourth layer’s true danger—it reflected not just power, but memory. It tested not strength, but meaning.

And Atlas had meaning enough to break worlds.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. "Lilith was right about one thing," he said quietly. "This place isn’t about conquering. It’s about becoming..,."

The others looked at him, uncertain.

"Becoming what?" Eli asked.

Atlas opened his eyes. The light within them was different now—ancient, endless, alive. "Something more...like a threshold we can cross."

They walked on, the light deepening around them, their footsteps echoing like drums of fate. The wooden door had closed behind them, silent and final. Ahead lay the heart of the fourth layer—where gods were made or unmade, where destinies were reforged in fire and silence.

Atlas felt the hum of power beneath his skin again, old and familiar. But this time, he didn’t resist it.

For the first time in all his lives, he wasn’t running from what he was.

He was walking toward it.

At the edge of eternity, the song grew louder—rising, spiraling, until it filled everything. The world shivered, and the mist parted.

A throne stood there. Empty. Waiting.

The crown in Lilith’s hand was gone now—but its light pulsed faintly from Atlas’s chest.

Lara looked at him. "What now?"

Atlas looked up, toward the throne that seemed to pierce the sky itself. "Now," he said softly, "we will find the so called elders..the makers of my religion."