Chapter 334: Chapter 333: I am the WAY.
The chamber did not sleep.
Stone walls sweated with the damp of Hell, torches burned low in iron sconces, and yet Atlas lay awake beneath their guttering light, his body heavy with exhaustion, his mind unyielding.
He had fought battles greater than this, gods and demi-gods whose blows could split mountains, and yet the silence now pressed on him more crushingly than any war-hammer.
In his hand, the Key.
He had tried to set it aside — on the table, on the stone at his bedside, even tucked away beneath folded cloth. But always, in the depths of night, his fingers reached for it again. As though his blood remembered what his will tried to forget.
The Key pulsed faintly. Not with heat, not with light — but with a weight. It was heavier in his palm than gold should be, heavier than iron. He turned it slowly, letting the dying torchlight strike its blackened teeth. The patterns shifted, subtly, maddeningly. Look too long, and they rearranged into something new. A script not meant for mortal eyes.
Then came the whisper.
At first he thought it wind in the cracks of the stone. A hollow note. But it lingered, curling in his ear. A sound like chains dragged across glass. Like voices broken by distance.
"... release ..."
The hairs along his arms prickled. He shut his fist around the Key, so tight the sharp ridges cut into his skin. Blood welled, warm, slick. He hissed between his teeth.
But the blood did not fall. The Key drank it.
For an instant, the chamber darkened. The torchflame bent inward, drawn like breath. And Atlas felt — not pain, but pressure, as though the walls themselves had leaned closer.
The whisper came again. Clearer this time, threaded with anguish:
"... release ... us ..."
Atlas’s heart hammered. He pulled his hand away, shoving the Key beneath the cloak at his side, breath ragged. His mind reeled back to Loki’s words in the dream — the hurried warning, the fire in his eyes, the message carved into fear itself: The heavens move to claim Hell. And in their plan, Atlas, you are the fulcrum.
The thought rotted in him. He had once fought to be free of gods and their schemes. Now, in spite of every oath, every defiance, every scar, he was again the center of their game.
Atlas spat onto the stone. The sound was small, hollow. It did not silence the whisper in his skull.
---
Dawn came — though in Hell, dawn was only the dimming of crimson sky-fire.
The door burst wide with a rush of air, feathers brushing stone. Uriel stood framed in the arch, her wings trembling faintly with urgency.
"Prophet," she said, bowing low, "they gather. The Fallen, the leaders. They await you."
Atlas frowned, dragging the cloak tighter over his frame. He had not asked for gathering. He had not summoned council. And yet he saw in her face the zeal of inevitability.
"You should not burst into chambers unbidden," he muttered.
Uriel bent lower, her forehead nearly grazing the floor. "Forgive me. But it is time. They demand to see you — to hear the Voice."
The Voice. That cursed word.
Atlas wanted to tell her no. To remind her he was no prophet, no vessel, no god’s tongue. But the taste of last night’s whisper lingered on his lips. He thought of how quickly faith could curdle to doubt, and doubt to rebellion.
He sighed. "Very well."
Uriel lifted her gaze, and the fervor there burned like fever.
The hall they brought him to was vast and ruined. Once it had been a sanctum — marble pillars still jutted, broken, from the ash-strewn floor, and carvings of seraphim lay shattered beneath claw marks. Now it was hollowed into a meeting ground.
Dozens of Fallen gathered. Some bore wings tattered and burned, others hunched with scars, their once-radiant forms gnawed by centuries of exile. Their eyes turned to Atlas as one, gleaming with expectation.
The sound that met him was low, resonant. They were chanting. His words.
The scripture of Acclaim.
They etched it into stone, sang it beneath breath, whispered it as if afraid silence itself might steal it away. The sight hit him like a fist — his lies given bone and blood, rising beyond his control.
Uriel led him to the dais. She bowed low. "Behold — the Prophet. Our Prophet..."
A murmur swept the chamber. Some knelt, some bowed their heads. But not all.
From the far side, a voice cut sharp: "Words are wind. Any man may preach.... Show us a sign."
The speaker stepped forward. A Fallen angel, tall, his wings torn ragged, scars like firebrands across his face. His gaze burned with bitter suspicion.
"You claim the Voice," the fallen growled. "Then speak it. Speak as the Almighty once spoke through His chosen. Or admit you are false."
The chamber rippled with unease. Murmurs, whispers, the shifting of wings.
Uriel’s eyes widened. "He is the Prophet!" she cried. "Do you not feel it? His presence alone is proof!"
But the crowd leaned forward, hungry. They wanted miracle. They wanted sign.
Atlas felt cornered. His throat dry. He had fought gods. Killed monsters. But this — this theater of faith — it threatened to unmake him. Even as those doubtful words echoed. The noise of his notification paced down.
Slowly, his hand drifted beneath his cloak. His fingers closed around the Key.
It pulsed. Not against his palm, but into him. The whispers surged, chains dragging through marrow.
"... speak ..."
Atlas’s lips parted. Words rose, unbidden, in a voice he scarcely recognized:
"You are not abandoned."
The sound rolled like thunder over water, layered, deeper than his own. The torches flared. Shadows twisted. Every Fallen shivered as though the marrow of their bones had heard.
"You are mine," the voice said. "And through me, you will rise."
Silence. Then a trembling wave of motion — wings spread, knees bent, heads bowed. A tide of worship.
Uriel wept openly, her face pressed to stone. The doubting angel stumbled back, eyes wide, his challenge strangled in his throat.
Atlas’s chest heaved. He did not know if it had been his voice alone, or something else speaking through him. But the effect was undeniable. They believed.
And belief, once birthed, could not be slain.
After, the chamber emptied. The chants still echoed in the stones. Uriel remained, her face alight with ecstasy.
"You have fulfilled the sign," she whispered. "The Prophet who does not beg, who does not plead, but commands. The one we prayed for, though we cursed the heavens. The hammer, not the shepherd."
Her wings spread in trembling devotion. "I will follow you to death. To beyond death."
Atlas could not answer. He felt hollow, carved out. He had meant to play prophet only as mask, only long enough to anchor himself in this realm. Yet here it was — the mask become flesh, the lie turned truth.
He returned to his chamber alone.
The Key still bled faintly in his palm. Its grooves glowed, faint red, like scars that would never heal.
He stared at it, breath slow, heavy.
"...i will show them the way, but not the way of their God." he whispered. "But Mine. Then, they will believe me, and my words."
The Key pulsed. Once. Like a heartbeat.
Atlas closed his eyes, flushing his mana into the key.
[Key to heaven recognized]
[Would you like to enter HEAVEN?]
[Yes or No]
"....yes."