Chapter 304: Chapter 303: Fallen they are.
The sky trembled.
Thunder rolled in bruised waves across the heavens, low and guttural, as if the firmament itself had a heartbeat.
Atlas’s boots ground against the black stone as he looked up, his jaw set, his breath heavy with the taste of ozone. Above them, shapes moved—shadows within the ash-clouds, wings unfurling in terrible synchrony.
And then she came.
A figure descended with deliberate grace, breaking through the haze like a blade through cloth.
Her armor gleamed with Heaven’s false fire, ivory plates edged in gold, unmarred by battle.
Four wings stretched wide, each feather burning faintly with white flame, their movement stirring ash into whorls around her.
Her beauty was terrible, carved of cruelty and memory both. Where once flesh had been torn and broken, now it was whole, stronger than before. The scars Atlas remembered were gone, replaced by radiance.
A fallen angel reborn.
Atlas’s eyes narrowed. His chest tightened as recognition pierced him like a spear. She had been the one—on the celler, chained binded, when Aurora’s blood had stained the stones, when pride and arrogance had nearly ended their path before it began.
Now she stood whole again. Worse than whole.
Aurora shifted beside him. Her wings, still bearing the blackened edges of old wounds, rustled in restrained fury. Her gaze locked on the angel, and a silence stretched—tense, brittle, like the pause before lightning strikes.
The elder lingered in the corner of shadow, robes veiling every line of him, unseen but present. His head tilted as if drinking in every word, every breath. The hive of elders hummed faintly in his mind, eager for revelation.
The angel’s voice cut through the silence. Smooth. Feminine. A blade wrapped in silk.
"Two humans and all demons... And the mongrel kings." Her lips curved into a smile that carried no warmth. "How quaint. Mortals and monsters, sitting at the same table. Did Hell grow so desperate?"
Her wings rustled, feathers catching the dim light. Every motion was deliberate, every gesture meant to remind them of what she was—not merely a soldier, but Heaven’s executioner.
Atlas spat into the ash. His words dripped venom.
"I should have crushed your skull when I had the chance."
Her smile widened, cruel, amused.
"And yet, here I stand. Healed. Stronger. Whole. Tell me, Chosen—does it rot you inside to see the one you thought broken return to stand above you?"
Aurora stepped forward before Atlas could answer. Her hand rested lightly on her blade’s hilt. Her voice was low, restrained, but each word carried weight.
"Your kind always loved talking more than killing, what was it called.... preaching genesis..?"
The angel tilted her head, eyes narrowing with something close to delight.
"Brave words, from a simple mortal. ...you lot also preached the same words of worship, but you forgot, you all forgot..his grac?"
Aurora’s jaw tightened, but she did not answer. The silence was enough.
Azazel’s anger cracked the air like fire spreading across dry wood. He leaned lazily on his staff, teeth flashing in a grin too sharp to be human.
"Fucking cunts, still preaching, the one above all....your god is dead, gone, buried!!"
Atlas’s glare snapped to him.
"Shut it, Azazel."
But the angel’s attention shifted, curious. Her voice turned mocking, musical.
"You’ve gathered quite the circus. Demon kings crawling at your heels, mortals dressed as heroes, an elder skulking in shadows. And you—Atlas, black hair, golden eyes. Heaven whispers your name like a curse. Do you know what they say?"
He did not answer. His silence was defiance.
She leaned forward slightly, wings stretching, as if to embrace the sky itself.
"They say you are the wound in creation. That if you live long enough, you will unmake what the gods themselves wrote. That is why we come—not to fight you, but if possible, shake hand in hand, reclaim back out heaven."
Her voice dropped, intimate, as though speaking only to him.
"Urial....I know your future..it’s not bright. ."
Azazel chuckled again, but this time there was steel in it.
"Yes...yes my lord..You’re speaking now my lord. If she breaks, it’s only because she chose it so..."
The angel’s eyes flicked toward him, a smirk playing at her lips.
"Ah. The jester speaks. Tell me, little traitor of Hell, do you kneel to him because you believe... or because you fear?"
Azazel’s grin widened, but his eyes burned with crimson hate.
"I fear, I respect, I prey. Everything I do is for him. Our prophet, our savior.."
One of the demon kings growled low, his massive frame rippling with restrained violence.
"She doesn’t know the ways of the GUIDE. And they never will. Damned they all are, and always will be.."
The fallen angel’s gaze swept over them all, lingering on each face as if weighing souls on a scale. Finally, her eyes returned to Atlas.
"You...a prophet? No wonder an elder lingers here. They believe in you, even as they plot against you. In the end they will turn on you when the hour comes.
Do you not see it? You are surrounded by knives pointing inward."
Atlas’s fist clenched. His pride screamed, his rage burned, but beneath both lay something colder: the memory of Aurora’s warning. Death here was not like death for the demon kings. Not rebirth. Not return. End.
The elder stirred. His voice whispered through the hive alone, not aloud:
She knows too much. She sees too far. This is not a battle of blades, but of threads.
And then, as though obeying some silent command, the elder’s veiled form began to fade.
Robes wisped into smoke, edges unraveling into the shadows. One heartbeat, he stood among them; the next, he was gone. Only the echo of his communion remained, shared across the Fourth Layer.
The storm has begun.
Atlas’s voice rang clear, a growl sharpened into words.
"Enough. Talk all you want, angel, but know this: I don’t care how many wings they sew back onto you. I’ll rip them off again, and this time I’ll make sure you don’t crawl back."
The angel’s smile faltered at last. Her gaze hardened, feathers trembling with restrained fury.
"Then come, Chosen. Show me if your promise is more than noise."
Aurora’s eyes burned as she whispered, just loud enough for Atlas to hear, "Let her taste what you’ve become."
The ground shook as the angel slammed her armored feet into the ash. White fire erupted from her wings, a halo of flame spreading outward.
The sky above tore wider, and more figures descended—her legion, her sisters and brothers in exile, fallen no longer broken but reforged as Heaven’s secret knives. Their voices rose together in a chorus not of song but of judgment.
Aurora drew her blade, its edge gleaming in the firelight.
"Atlas. Together."
Azazel’s grin split wider, his eyes glowing with cruel anticipation.
"Ah, finally."
The demon kings stirred from their crouches, power rippling in the air like storms brewing beneath the skin of the world. Even their grudges bowed to survival in this moment.
The angel spread her four wings to their full span, light searing, a false dawn breaking across the broken land.
"Then let us see whose will carves the future. Heaven’s judgment—"
Her blade snapped free of its scabbard, radiant fire blazing down its length.
"—or Hell’s defiance."