Chapter 307: Chapter 306: twist it not.
"...it is not theirs..... It is yours."
The priest’s voice cut through the gloom. Clear, steady, neither soft nor thunderous, but with a weight that made every syllable fall like a stone into water.
"You are a prophet, Atlas. Our savior."
Atlas let out a slow exhale through gritted teeth. "I’ve heard worse lies down here."
But the priest did not flinch. He raised his hands—not in blessing, not in theatrics, but as though to hold the truth steady between them.
"If I had not spoken those words," the priest continued, "you would be dead already. The Seraphim would have judged you unworthy not though faith but in rsge.
Yet I spoke, and the spiral of eyes bore witness, and it deemed the words true."
The memory returned, unbidden. The towering Seraphim, its single great eye wreathed in rings upon rings, each etched with unblinking eyes of its own.
The gaze had swallowed the chamber, swallowed Atlas himself. No mortal mind should have borne it. Yet somehow, he had survived. And when the priest declared him prophet, the Seraphim had not denied it.
A prophet. Him.
Atlas forced a dry laugh. "So the holy beast nods once, and you chain me to destiny? Is that all it takes? One priest’s tongue and one monster’s stare?"
The crowd beyond the bars had murmured heresy, anger, disbelief when the priest had spoken. Even now, their whispers echoed faint, like insects scratching at the walls. Yet the Seraphim had silenced them all. Its judgment had been final.
Atlas sighed and shook his head. "I am no prophet of your fallen angel. I am no prophet at all. Tell me instead, priest... why are angels roaming Hell at all? I’ve seen them before, in passing—more like shadows in a game than truths in a world. But never thought to ask their story."
The priest’s lips pressed into silence. His eyes closed. Long moments stretched. Atlas almost thought the man would ignore him altogether. But at last, the priest’s voice returned, lower, touched with the sorrow of centuries.
"All the angels," he said, "all of them... were cast into Hell. Cast down by our God."
Atlas frowned. The words carried weight, but also absurdity. "All of them? For what crime?"
The priest spread his hands slowly, palms upward, as though yielding. "We no longer remember. Thousands of years have passed. The memory of our sin has faded like smoke. But the punishment remains."
Atlas barked a bitter laugh, though chains clanged with the effort. "So even angels don’t know why they’re damned. That’s rich. Your God is crueler than I thought."
The priest’s gaze sharpened, but he did not rebuke. Instead, he whispered, as if confessing to the stones:
"Perhaps it was not cruelty, but weakness. For there are other gods, Atlas. Numerous. Entire pantheons. They live now in the Silver City, side by side with the One Above All. Perhaps He saw us as weakness in their eyes. Perhaps He chose survival over loyalty."
The words stirred images—pantheons of shimmering deities feasting in halls of silver and gold, while the winged host, once glorious, tumbled screaming into the abyss.
Atlas swallowed, throat dry. He almost pitied them. Almost.
"So you tried to fight them," Atlas said quietly.
"Yes," the priest admitted. His voice trembled slightly, not with fear, but with memory. "We rose against them. We sought to reclaim Heaven, to prove ourselves still worthy. To remind Him we were His chosen. But the pantheon of gods struck us down. Their numbers were vast, their powers greater. We were broken, Atlas. Broken utterly."
Atlas tilted his head. "And then you fled here."
The priest nodded. "Hell offered refuge, even to the fallen. It does not discriminate. It only corrupts."
A pause, heavy, pulsing. Then:
"But even in ruin, hope remained. The Archangel Metatron... he heard the whisper of God Himself. He declared that one day, a prophet would arise. A prophet who would guide us home. Who would lead us back into the Silver City, to stand once more at His side."
The priest’s eyes burned as they fixed on Atlas. "That prophet is you."
Atlas closed his eyes, sighing so deeply it scraped his bones. "I don’t have time for your prophecies. I don’t have time for retribution or revenge. I am not here to heal your wounds or carry your hopes. Let me go. I am not your enemy."
The priest’s voice did not waver. "That may have been true. Before. But after you defeated Orcus and took his mantle, you are one of them now. One of the Demon Kings."
Atlas froze. His mind reeled back through memory—Orcus, the stench of blood, the clash of steel, the moment mantle fused with flesh. The moment his whole being attached with Titus itself.
"The Demon Kings," the priest pressed, "are bound to one purpose. To cleanse Hell itself. To scour its corruption. Only then, perhaps, will God welcome us again. Perhaps our exile was not punishment, but a mission. Like the prophets before. A mission to purify."
Atlas tilted back his head and laughed—long, hard, bitter. "Cleanse Hell? Do you even know what Hell is?"
The priest blinked, taken aback.
Atlas leaned forward, chains groaning. "Hell is not just a dominion. It’s not just fire and chains and your little corner of despair. It is a nexus. A singularity. A root that spreads into every mortal realm. All roads lead here, priest. Mortal souls from countless worlds. Heaven may have many realms, but Hell? Hell is one. One destination. One. endless. hunger."
His eyes glinted. "Cleanse it? That is a never-ending war. A task designed to break you forever."
The priest staggered slightly, as though Atlas’s words struck deeper than any blade.
Atlas let his smile twist cruel. "Your God will never bless you again. Never. He damned you once, and that is enough. You think He will open His arms when you’ve done His dirty work? No. He has forgotten you. That’s the truth."
Silence fell heavy as stone. Atlas expected anger, denial, the wild-eyed rage of zealots. He braced for it. But when the priest lifted his head again, his eyes were wide with something else entirely.
Awe.
"You... you speak secrets only few among us know," the priest whispered. "Secrets kept by the highest of our fallen. Yet you, chained and broken, speak them as if breathing air. This... this is the proof. The proof that you have the sight of the GOD himself, You are the prophet."
Atlas’s smile faltered, irritation flooding him. "No. You’re twisting this."
But the priest bowed his head low, trembling now with fervor. "Atlas, Apostle of the God Above, the mantle is yours. The Seraphim saw truth in you, and now my heart does as well. You are the one who will lead us back."
Atlas tugged at his chains, rattling them like thunder. "Damn it all... I don’t want your prophecy!"
Yet the words echoed back from the stone, hollow, mocking.
And deep inside, Atlas felt the old, familiar truth claw at him: every time he sought to dig a pit for others, he fell into it himself. Everytime.