Chapter 295: Chapter 294: Simple
The elder smiled, his face hidden in the shadow of the hood, but the sound of it, the subtle shift of his voice, carried a weight like ancient iron bending under strain.
{...you are arrogant huh... a mortal on its path to immortality. A perfect vessel. Tell me, is our prophet, our GUIDE speaking to you?}
His words dropped into the ruined hall like black stones tossed into a well, echoing against the blood-slick marble and the shattered thrones.
Atlas froze, his fist still trembling with the desire to strike. His knuckles itched, humming faintly with the residue of that monstrous resonance—the echo of Jormungander’s blood, the seed of Yggdrasil. Yet his golden eyes narrowed.
".....?"
Inside, his thought tore across the silence like a blade.
’Another motherfucking zealot.’
The word zealot spat itself in his skull with venom. How many times had he heard it?
Priests on the surface, knights who swore by gods yet slaughtered villages, demons who knelt to nothing but still found idols to grovel before. His lip curled.
He lowered his fist slowly, deliberately, as though denying his own craving for violence was itself an insult greater than the blow.
The tension in the air broke like strained glass. The elder had expected defiance, rage, a fight. Instead he was dismissed.
Atlas turned, eyes dimming to bored gold, his voice carrying that hollow, sharp edge:
"Let’s go, Aurora. Let’s find this demon king you talked about..."
He walked past the elder as though stepping past a ghost that had failed to haunt him.
Aurora blinked, her third eye still glowing faintly, the tattoos pulsing with ember light down her ash-darkened skin. For all her new power, her stance was cautious. "...I told you, we nee—"
"We’ll solve it when we get there. Not now." Atlas beloud, not even turning. His words cracked the silence like a whip. "You already know the location, right?"
Aurora hesitated, her throat dry. His arrogance was swelling, yes, but so too was something else—something both terrifying and intoxicating. "Yes... of course."
The ruined hall groaned. Shattered stone scraped under Atlas’s boots as he strode forward, every step defiant against the oppressive air.
From the gates, finally, another figure shuffled in—Azezal. He had been absent, almost cowardly invisible, and now emerged as though nothing had happened.
{...my lord, wait for me...} His goat legs tick-tocked across the marble, hooves clicking sharply like a metronome against the blood and ruin.
His voice wavered with nervous awe as he saw the chaos: the succubus queen Jenny broken, Bane the beast-king moaning under collapsed ribs, Galiath’s puppet corpse leaking yellow brain-sludge.
{Gosss... that went terrific.}
He forced a weak laugh, his tongue darting nervously across cracked lips.
The elder stood unmoved, still cloaked, the shadows of his hood swallowing what might have been his eyes.
He had spoken his line with ritual weight. He had appeared with timing perfect, theatric, prepared.
He was an Elder—his presence anywhere else would command kneeling silence. But here... here, the prophet himself had brushed him aside like an annoying child.
The elder’s silence lingered. Inside him, humiliation burned hotter than any hellfire. He had been ignored at the pinnacle of his entrance.
And then—he saw him. A familiar figure in red.
The elder’s head tilted. The hood shifted.
{...Azezal, is that you?}
The voice was soft, almost nostalgic, though it carried the weight of centuries.
Azezal’s back stiffened. His goat tail froze mid-sway. For a moment, panic flickered across his face, then he smoothed it, tried to look away, as though the stones of the ruined hall were suddenly fascinating.
He clicked his hooves quicker, trying to follow Atlas.
{Wait. Wait. Old friend.}
The elder’s voice grew louder, more insistent.
{It’s been long. How are you? It seems you are alive... alive and well.}
The words rang not just as recognition, but accusation. Memory reawakened, pulling history into the present like chains dragged across stone.
Azezal stopped. His hooves faltered, scraping against the marble. The smell of blood mixed with the acrid stink of his goat musk. He did not turn. His hands flexed.
Inside, his thoughts churned. Not now. Not here. Fuck. Why now, why him of all elders?
Atlas walked on, shoulders squared, but his golden eyes flicked—just slightly—toward Azezal. He caught the tremor. He caught the hesitation.
Aurora noticed too. Her third eye twitched, burning faintly. She saw beyond the moment, glimpses of connection, of shared past.
She felt the weight of it—like a storm cloud forming above what was already chaos.
The elder’s smile deepened within the shadow of the hood.
{So it is you. After all these years. After all the blood. I wondered if you had slipped away, buried yourself. But here you are, standing beside him.}
The words "beside him" were sharp, meant to sting.
Azezal’s lips curled, his voice low, almost swallowed. {...Don’t. Not now....he’s not ready yet...}
But the elder pressed on, relentless, voice rising like a sermon.
{Why not now? The prophet stands here, flesh born of destiny. The GUIDE whispers through him. And you, betrayer, deserter—you slink at his side like a shadow, hoping no one remembers.}
Atlas stopped. His boots scuffed stone. He turned, finally, his face hard, curious, slightly cruel.
"...Betrayer? Deserter?" His voice cut. "What’s this goat been hiding from me?"
Aurora’s third eye widened. The hall seemed to still, even the broken moans of Bane quieted under the weight of those words.
Azezal swallowed. His throat burned. Memories crashed—of firelit halls, of wings torn from backs, of the screams of fallen brothers, of his own cowardice. The elder’s voice was not merely accusation; it was memory given breath.
{Tell him.} The elder’s tone was almost gentle, though it struck like a hammer. {Tell him what was your plan, tell him that you thought you were the way to bring the prophet to hell. Tell him who you sold, what you sold to be reborn from the prophet’s blood.}
Atlas’s golden eyes gleamed. His aura flared faintly, the air thickening.
"...Azezal." His voice was low, rumbling. "What the fuck is he talking about?"
Azezal’s hooves clicked once, twice. Then silence. His chest rose and fell. His tail lashed nervously.
Inside, war raged. If I tell him... he’ll kill me. If I don’t... he’ll find out anyway. Fuck. Fuck.
Aurora’s gaze shifted between them. Her hand clenched her staff, but she did not speak. She wanted to see. To know.
Atlas’s voice rose, sharper, carrying command. "Speak."
The elder said nothing. He only watched, smiling faintly in shadow, his silence the cruelest pressure of all.
The hall seemed to grow colder. The ruined marble groaned. Somewhere above, loose chains clinked faintly in the stale wind.
Azezal finally turned, slowly, painfully, his goat eyes bloodshot, his mouth trembling with a smile that was not a smile.
{My lord...}He whispered. {It is... complicated.}
Atlas’s jaw clenched. His fist curled, glowing faintly with that terrible resonance.
"Make it simple."