Chapter 289: Chapter 288: Elder.....
"Ewww..." Atlas groaned, wrinkling his nose with exaggerated disgust.
"Shut up..." Aurora’s voice was sharp, but beneath its edge lay exhaustion. Her lids closed, sealing away the human gaze, as the eye upon her forehead—alien, eternal—burst open. It shone. Bright. A yellow so searing it carved shadows into the blackened stone around them.
Atlas flinched, shielding his face with a half-raised hand. "Are you even human?" The words slipped out before he could swallow them.
The glow of that third eye wasn’t simply light—it was a pressure, like a hand pressing on his chest, like the weight of an entire storm pressing down upon a fragile roof.
"I said shut up."
Her tone was a whip crack in the still air.
Atlas opened his mouth, then shut it. He leaned back on the cracked throne, tilting his head against its cold frame. The throne itself was a ruin—once a symbol of power, now little more than a jagged reminder of a kingdom devoured by him. His body sagged into it, worn, resentful, half-amused at the absurdity of her scolding.
"What are you even doing?" His words came slower this time, grudging, as if pulled from him.
"Saving your bottom-licking ass."
The insult cut sharper because it rang with truth. Atlas chuckled, hollow. A bitter sound echoing against the cavernous palace chamber, walls still dripping with the poison of corrupted mana.
He let his eyes drift to her—floating now, her body rising inch by inch as though the toxic mana itself lifted her. Her legs, folded together. That sight twisted something inside him, something he refused to name.
He exhaled, long, heavy. "Fine," he muttered, turning his gaze away. If he looked too long, he would only feel the guilt gnaw deeper. He sank further into the throne, forcing himself to pretend detachment.
But the truth slithered in: he felt it. The palace air had been suffocating, thick with poisonous mana, enough to rot lungs from the inside. And now... it was thinning. He could breathe. The miasma coiled in streams, drawn toward her third eye like rivers seeking the ocean.
"...She’s channeling the mana," Atlas thought. His jaw clenched. His hands gripped the throne’s armrests until cracks spidered under his fingers. "...For what?"
Aurora’s body trembled in the glow, her voice a murmur no one could hear. She wasn’t merely channeling. The suction of mana was a disguise, a veil over her true intent.
She was searching.
Inward. Outward. Across layers of worlds unseen.
She hunted for a gift once given. A shard of herself, entrusted to Galiath. The fool. The arrogant, brilliant fool who had disobeyed her—who had taken what she entrusted as a safeguard and twisted it into a weapon. A clone. A reflection. A theft of self. She had forbidden it, and so, of course, he had done it.
Her breath slowed. The palace faded. Darkness stretched infinite, until she floated in a sea of nothingness, her third eye slicing through the void. And then—
Contact.
Her pulse raced. She sensed it: flesh of her flesh, heartbeat mirroring her own. The clone. But not alone.
Faces rippled into her vision, fragments across the void. The daughter of the Sky Empress—haughty eyes, cold as starfire. The Lord of Beastkin, towering, feral power leaking from every vein. And then—
Aurora’s focus sharpened.
"...Somebody unexpected."
Her voice was a whisper between worlds, words trembling through clenched teeth. "An elder... in the third realm?"
The moment she recognized him, his dark gaze snapped upward. It was as though the abyss itself stared back at her. A shudder tore down her spine. If she lingered a heartbeat longer, he would pierce her, unravel her, devour her mind like parchment in fire.
She tore free.
The void collapsed.
Her third eye slammed shut.
Aurora’s chest heaved, breath ragged. Sweat beaded her brow though the chamber was cold as stone. She whispered, "The meeting just got interesting."
Atlas tilted his head toward her. "Hmm... you saw something?"
Her gaze darted past him, settling on the shadow at the throne’s flank—Azezal, still as obsidian, fingers curled over the book of the damned.
"Yes," Aurora said, voice cutting. "I saw something. Something that should not be allowed. Or for them, it would not be." She raised a trembling finger at Azezal.
"Hey! Former elder!" Her voice cracked like lightning.
Azezal looked up, and though his face was unreadable, Atlas swore he saw the faintest twitch of irritation.
{Slayer,} the voice slithered into the chamber, more thought than sound, a vibration inside the skull. {I am busy with the gospel. Why such disturbance?}
Aurora did not flinch. "The same book-lovers have traversed to the third layer. So I believe I have questions, and you have answers."
A pause. A flicker in Azezal’s dark eyes.
Atlas leaned forward slightly, interest piqued despite himself.
The apostle’s voice came low, resigned: {It is useless asking me. I am not powerful like before. I do not hold the rights of elders. I am... merely an apostle of the Guide. A humble scribe of the damned.}
Yet as he spoke, a shadow crossed his expression. A name unspoken. A memory unwelcome.
Aurora narrowed her eyes. She felt it. The ripple of guilt, the tremor of recognition. "You know who it is."
Azezal’s silence was answer enough.
The chamber breathed uneasily. The walls themselves seemed to lean closer, eager for revelation.
At last, the apostle exhaled.
{There is... one elder who thinks outside the chains of faith. A demi-god turned demon.}
Aurora’s brows shot upward. "Huh... demi-god turned demon? Is that even possible?"
{He was not just any demi-god,} Azezal answered, the words dragging like stone. {He was raised as a god. Not born of immortal and mortal union, but of two immortals. Pure lineage.
Untouched power. But he read... what he should not. The book I hold. The book that burns minds raw. It unmade him. He sought the Prophet. He sought meaning. He abandoned heaven, abandoned duty, and instead of walking the mortal realm, he plunged into Hell itself.}
His voice faltered, as if memory itself stung. {He never went back.}
Aurora’s lips pressed tight. Her third eye ached behind its lid, pulsing as though it remembered him already. "A very unique fella... who will yap to atlas about Guide, Prophet, and all that nonsense."
Atlas groaned, rubbing at his temple. "Gods save me. Another zealot."
Azezal’s expression tightened in something close to humor, though his voice was grave. {Indeed. If my Lord finds me annoying, then him—} He tapped his temple, mimicking a loose screw. {—he is far more than just zealot.}
Silence fell, heavy as iron.
Then Atlas slapped his palms against the throne’s arms and rose, straight-backed, weary but resolute. "Come on, then. Let’s start and finish this meeting, and be on our way to the fourth layer."
Aurora exhaled, her strength still wavering but her will unbroken. "Indeed. Loki can’t wait too long.... every bloody second counts."