Chapter 336: Chapter 335: God’s Power.
The god’s words rolled over him, not loud, but impossible to ignore. Like thunder rumbling across mountains, vibrating stone and marrow alike.
"You are... not from around here."
Atlas forced himself to breathe. The air scorched his lungs, tasting of copper and smoke. He lifted his chin, meeting those storm-lit eyes with deliberate steadiness.
"Sharp," Atlas said, his tone level, even faintly sardonic. "Was it the cloak? Or the fact that I don’t glow like a sun about to rupture?"
He did not laugh. He did not blink.
Instead, he tilted his head. Lightning rippled across his arms, racing down veins, pooling in his clenched fists until each knuckle glowed molten. The air buzzed and split, and for a terrible moment, Atlas thought the god would strike without further word.
Then:
"Name." A single command, heavy enough to crush an army.
Atlas weighed his options in a flicker of thought. Truth? Death. Lies? Likely worse. Silence? Unforgivable. He chose the fourth path: ambiguity.
"Some call me a prophet." The words slid out calm, almost dismissive. "Others call me Mad...the Mad Prince..."
The god’s gaze sharpened. "And what should I call you?"
Atlas felt the edge of the Key pressing against his ribs beneath the cloak. A reminder: he was not supposed to be here. Every breath was already theft. Every heartbeat was borrowed time.
He shrugged, slow, deliberate. "Call me lost. That would not be far from the truth."
The god studied him for a moment longer. His golden eyes flickered like stormclouds tearing open to reveal a sky of fire. Then he stepped closer—too close. Atlas smelled his skin burning, like incense mixed with raw ozone.
"You lie," the god said simply. No anger. No accusation. Just fact, as immutable as gravity.
Atlas’s mouth dried. Then this is it.
The god raised a hand. Lightning bled from his palm, forming into a spear of raw light, edges jagged like shattered glass. The pressure of it cracked the stone floor beneath their feet.
"Creatures that trespass upon Heaven do not live.... should not live.."
Atlas felt his heart slam once, a hammer strike in his chest. Instinct screamed at him to run. But there was nowhere to run. Flight was sealed here. No wings. No escape.
So he grinned. Because if death was to come, he would not meet it crawling.
"Then try."
The god moved first.
Lightning erupted, faster than sight. The spear became a torrent, a storm compressed into a single thrust aimed straight through Atlas’s skull.
Atlas dropped low, cloak snapping. The spear cracked the column behind him, shattering it into incandescent dust. Stone screamed as it split.
The god was already gone. A flicker. A flash. Atlas twisted left—too slow—lightning kissed his shoulder, searing flesh, numbing his arm to the bone. He bit down a snarl, rolled, slammed his back to another column.
The palace shook.
Golden arcs tore across the floor, searing patterns into the marble. Each spark hissed like acid rain.
Atlas forced his breath steady, ignoring the pain, ignoring the raw burn crawling up his arm. He had faced gods before. He had killed. He remembered the taste of their blood, the weight of their fall.
This one was faster. Stronger. Maybe unstoppable. But all storms had an eye, and all gods bled.
The god reappeared in a flare of gold, spear already reformed. "You will die quickly," he promised.
Atlas smiled, bloody and sharp. "You talk too much."
The god lunged again.
This time Atlas moved into the strike. His burned arm flared agony, but he used it, twisted beneath the lightning thrust, feeling hair singe as the spear skimmed past.
[World understanding used]
[World slicer learned.]
He slashed.
The blade struck lightning. It screamed as if cutting through metal and storm together. Sparks detonated outward, the shockwave hurling Atlas back into a pillar. The steel quivered in his grip, hot enough to blister his palm.
But he saw it.
The god’s hand—bleeding. Just a line. Just a drop. Gold blood, radiant as molten dawn, trickled down the wrist where Atlas’s blade had kissed.
The god looked at the wound. Then at Atlas.
"You dare."
The voice was quiet now. No thunder. No rage. Quiet, and so much worse for it.
Atlas forced himself upright, blade trembling in his grasp, lungs burning. His body screamed retreat. His mind whispered suicide. But his voice—his voice stayed level.
"I told you," he said. "I’m not from around here."
[Mana depletion reached all time low.]
[⚠️ Warning ⚠️]
[⚠️ Warning ⚠️]
[⚠️ Warning ⚠️]
The god raised both hands. Lightning roared, the chamber filling with daylight too bright to bear. The floor cracked. The walls shuddered. The pyramid of Heaven itself seemed to hum with imminent destruction.
And in that instant—Atlas vanished into shadow.
The Key had burned against his chest. Reflex, instinct, will—whatever it was, it tore him out of place, wrapped him in a veil of impossible darkness. The lightning struck emptiness, detonating a crater where Atlas had stood.
When Atlas reappeared, it was at the edge of the hill outside the palace grounds, lungs searing, every nerve afire. His cloak smoked. His blade dripped with someone else’s blood.
The god’s voice carried after him, echoing like judgment on the wind.
"You cannot hide. Not here. Not anywhere. I will find you... trespasser."
Atlas staggered forward into the mist.
His heart hammered. His hand clenched around the Key so tightly its edges cut his skin.
He had bled a god. But the taste in his mouth was not victory. It was warning.
He tasted it—how he tasted it. The raw, burning flavor of divinity still lingered on his tongue, like lightning trapped in his mouth. It wasn’t just energy; it was essence, the very marrow of creation pressed against his mortal flesh. That was power. The power of something almighty.
No wonder the Fallens had lost. How could they have ever hoped to stand against such a storm? That force was not meant to be defied—it was overwhelming, crushing, infinite. It wasn’t a river one could swim against, it was an ocean that drowned worlds.
His chest seized as he realized he had forgotten to breathe. He staggered, lungs aching, and in that silence his heart hammered like a war drum. The sheer speed of that god—impossible to measure, impossible to grasp.
He had thought he understood velocity, that he could compare it to the thunder of the battlefield or the arc of a falling star. But this? This was beyond.
The god did not merely break the sound barrier—he mocked it, shattered it, devoured it. He was nearing the speed of light itself. A blur, a ghost, a comet tearing through existence.
And then—the key was gone. Dissolved, vanished, like a dream upon waking. Aurora’s voice lingered faintly, a whisper in the marrow of his bones: it was only one time use.
The silence that followed was heavier than chains.
What should he do now?
Ureil, devout and trembling, still believed. The followers knelt in awe, their eyes fixed on him, waiting for a revelation. They thought the prophet would ascend into heaven, that his hands would open the sky and call down miracles. They thought he would shine with the mercy of the divine.
But no—no miracles came. Only the aftertaste of terror. Only the shuddering echo of a god’s unrestrained strength.
He had not brought salvation. He had brought fear.
And in the silence, he felt the harsh, merciless truth seep into him like frost: he was no bridge to heaven. He was only a man, trembling beneath the unbearable weight of his own.... borrowed...power.