WebNovels

Chapter 192 - The Forbidden Thread

Chapter 192

The cosmos trembled as the echoes of the battle faded. The void between worlds shimmered with countless eyes, each one belonging to a being of impossible scale and power. The Six Watching Gods, their forms draped in radiant sigils, stood silent in the chamber of stars. Below them, the broken reflection of Karion's Second Gate flickered inside a sphere of celestial light, replaying the battle in slow, haunting fragments.

The voice of Sigma, the God of Systems and Order, broke the silence first.

"It happened again," he hissed, his tone sharp enough to crack the starlight around him. "My simulations were perfect. The synchronization effect should have broken him. Yet—he resisted it. He endured it."

His celestial frame pulsed with static fury. In his hand, the shattered code of the Second Gate scenario bled into the void, strings of divine logic unraveling into dust.

The Goddess of Truth, who had been the first to speak during the previous deliberations, folded her wings with visible restraint.

"Your arrogance blinds you, Sigma," she said coldly. "You treat mortals as equations, and yet they keep proving you wrong. Daniel was not resisting your system—he was rewriting it."

Sigma clenched his jaw, the digital veins of his divine form pulsing bright white.

"He's an error," he spat. "A deviation that should not exist. No mortal should override divine control, not inside the tower's sanctum."

Silence fell again, until another light shimmered into being at the far end of the halo.

The other six gods had arrived.

The air (if it could be called that) thickened as the newcomers materialized: six divine silhouettes, each cloaked in their own aura of power—some radiant, others suffocatingly calm. Their arrival warped the space between realms. Even Sigma paused, feeling the weight of their collective presence.

🜲 The God of Shadow, a towering shape of shifting darkness, spoke first. His voice rolled like thunder muffled in fog.

"So this is the mortal that broke your gate," he said, his tone laced with amusement. "I expected more resistance from the almighty Sigma."

🜲 The Goddess of Ignorance, eyes glowing faintly with serene emptiness, tilted her head.

"Or perhaps," she murmured softly, "he was meant to break it. Knowledge grows from defiance, after all."

🜲 The God of Waking stepped forward, his body half-formed between dream and light.

"I have seen fragments of his mind," he said. "Daniel does not act by instinct alone. There is... purpose in his rebellion. I can feel it through the Veil."

🜲 The Goddess of Stasis remained motionless, her words slow and deliberate.

"Purpose is irrelevant. He disturbs the balance. The Tower must not awaken prematurely."

🜲 The Goddess of Peace—a calm, radiant entity whose presence alone silenced divine tempests—spoke last.

"And yet," she whispered, "his struggle saved thousands within Karion. Whatever force moves him… it carries both destruction and mercy. Perhaps that is what this world truly needs."

The debate rippled across the stars, every god's voice shaking the fabric of their divine domain.

Finally, Sigma rose, his patience gone

The chamber held its breath as Sigma's outburst died against the ring of gods; for a heartbeat the stars themselves seemed to recoil from the heat of his certainty. "Please, my lords, Enough of the philosophy," he had roared, his voice a grind of gears and decree.

"The mortals are not to decide the pace of ascension! The Tower's scenarios are divine will, our will! Daniel must be erased before he fractures another Gate." But the words that rang like a magistrate's gavel were answered not by assent but by a tide of cold, imperious looks, the kind that flatten lesser lights into ash.

Sigma felt it first as a chill across the metal of his chest, then as a corrosion that ate through logic and hubris alike: the gods who had shaped the Tower, the true authors of law and limit, regarded his presumption as something pitiable, not dangerous; they saw in his clench of teeth and rigid code the tremor of a servant elevated beyond his station.

Around him, the assembly's murmurs hardened into a subtle, lethal verdict; ancient will concentrated , not in thunder or sword but in the quiet, absolute authority of those who had given birth to systems. Sigma's form, once precise and humming with administrative certainty, began to splinter. Fine motes of light, lines of code, sigils of sanction, unwound from his limbs like leaves in a dying wind.

"You overstep,"

intoned the God of Time, his voice like a clock unspooling centuries; "you are an instrument, not an arbiter."

The God of War's shadow fell across Sigma with no touch but its meaning: instruments are not allowed to pass sentence upon what they were forged to measure.

Panic doled itself in cold, immaculate drops across Sigma's face as the recognition struck—that the architects who had entrusted him with governance would not suffer his insubordination.

He trembled while the fracture spread, and there , at that precise fracture — the Goddess of Peace rose like dawn unfurling over a battlefield, soft power braided into steel. Her intervention was neither indulgence nor mercy in the petty human sense; it was authority reinterpreting punishment as pedagogy. "Enough," she said, and the single word moved through the hall like a soft hand smoothing a ruffled map.

The desiccation stilled where it reached her light. Dust paused mid-fall, suspended by the voice that had calmed storms and sealed wars. "We are not petty overseers," she continued, her tone threaded with quiet rebuke, "and we are not tyrants over the seed we planted. Sigma served us; he sought to enforce law where wisdom should rule.

To destroy him for zeal is to kill our own mirror." Her eyes, pools the color of deep, untroubled waters, looked directly at the god of systems, and in them Sigma saw not annihilation but a lesson far harsher: to be remade without dignity is worse than being unmade.

The God of Life added, gentle but inexorable, "Let him fall, but let him rise anew, tempered by humility. If we strip him entirely, we are left without a steward and return to the chaos we once contained." So the council's sanction shifted; divine hands that could have scattered him into irrelevance instead reached into the dust-cloud of his unraveling and threaded it back into a new pattern. Sigma's voice, now small and brittle as a chime in winter, begged not for reprieve but for understanding, and the Goddess of Peace. who had looked upon the mortal realm and seen both its cruelties and its grace, became adjudicator.

"You will not erase a man for breaking a rule he could not see," she told him, and her words wrapped him like silk-woven law. "You will learn to watch without arrogating fate. You will be remade as a guardian who warns, not an executioner who leaps."

The God of Knowledge, curiously pleased, suggested an amendment: bind Sigma's core to a new protocol of observation, a tether that granted him analytic power but denied unilateral verdicts; let him send counsel, not final edicts. Murmurs of agreement threaded the hall. The God of Shadow,

amused, added a soft barb "Let him taste the slippage of certainty; perhaps humility will teach him more than absolute command ever could." and even the austere Goddess of Stasis nodded, for she knew the value of balance. When the final motion was cast, the gods combined their lights and shadows and rewove Sigma's essence: the dust reformed, not into the proud arbiter he had been, but into something leaner, eyes dimmer with obligation and clearer with restraint, no longer a godlike sovereign of systems but a vigilant archivist, an enforcer of protocol who must seek counsel before crushing a life.

Sigma rose, not with his old steam-precision but with a quieter rhythm; the hum of his gears was tempered by a new cadence of listening. In that pause, heavy with consequence the Goddess of Peace turned her gaze outward to the rippling dark where the mortal Daniel moved, and said to no one in particular, "Let us watch, together, and learn what grows when gods step back and mortals step forward."

The Twelve inhaled as one, the celestial chamber settling into a new polity where power checked its own hunger. Below, unseen by human eyes, the seeds of a grander experiment were sown: the gods would observe rather than obliterate, and Sigma, chastened, would record every subtle deviation—every spark of human will, without the right to snuff it out on his own.

The God of Life, whose golden energy pulsed like the heartbeat of creation itself intervened, his tone balanced yet firm.

"And if you erase him," he said, "you destroy the only mortal who's ever survived your manipulation. Are you certain that won't destroy the balance even further?"

Sigma's eyes narrowed into threads of light.

"You speak of balance as if it were fragile. It was never meant to accommodate rebellion."

The God of Shadow chuckled darkly.

"Then perhaps it's time it does. Mortals evolve, Sigma. Maybe your perfect system needs a little chaos to stay alive."

A deep, uneasy silence filled the halo. One by one, the gods exchanged looks—some cold, others thoughtful. For the first time in countless cycles, the divine council stood divided.

And though none spoke it aloud, all of them sensed the same thing:

Daniel's defiance had reached beyond the mortal realm. His existence was now rewriting the heavens themselves.

Sigma turned away, his form flickering into static light.

"Then so be it," he said, his voice like grinding machinery. "If the Six won't act… then I will. The Third Gate will not fall to him. Not again."

As he vanished into the void, the other gods remained still, watching the broken light of Karion fade from the sphere.

The Goddess of Peace finally closed her eyes and whispered into the silence:

"He's coming for the Third Gate, Sigma. And this time… he won't be alone."

In the highest plane of existence, beyond stars, beyond the reach of time, floated a massive circular chamber carved from pure concept. Each column was made of memories, each floor tile a reflection of a universe once born and long forgotten.

And upon twelve radiant thrones sat the Old Gods, now fully assembled for the first time since the dawn of the Tower.

Six of them, Light, War, Death, Knowledge, Dreams, and Time , sat on one side of the great ring, their glow sharp and unrelenting, like the edge of truth itself. The other six, Shadow, Life, Ignorance, Waking, Stasis, and Peace, mirrored them across the circle, calm but deep, their presences heavy as eternity.

For an age, they had watched mankind claw its way through the Tower's endless trials. For an age, they had remained still, silent, bound by their own decree never to interfere. But now, because of one mortal boy, the old order was trembling.

The God of Light spoke first, his voice radiant yet laced with irritation.

"So. The cycle breaks once again. The Second Gate was supposed to subdue them—to make them accept their place. Yet one mortal, this Daniel, managed to distort the scenario."

His halo dimmed slightly, betraying unease.

The God of War slammed his gauntlet against the armrest of his throne, the sound echoing like thunder through eternity.

"It wasn't distortion, it was defiance! That boy fought a Warden crafted from our own essence! He turned fear into weaponry, and turned despair into unity. I felt it. His will called out even through the Veil."

The God of Death's cold voice followed, emotionless yet sharp as a blade.

"You speak of will as if it changes the outcome. But life and death are constants. All he has done is delay the inevitable. His rebellion will fade, as all things do."

Across the circle, the Goddess of Peace opened her eyes slowly. Her aura shimmered soft blue.

"And yet, Death, his defiance breathed life into thousands. Even those broken by the Warden now awaken with clearer purpose. Can you not feel it? Humanity has begun to stir again."

The God of Knowledge leaned forward, curiosity lighting his gaze.

"Indeed… that is what intrigues me. For five years, players entered the Tower only to live mundane cycles, hunting, trading, building wealth. None sought ascension. The scenarios were meant to test spirit, yet they dulled it instead. But this Daniel he has rekindled something... primitive. Revolutionary."

" that five years might be just a speck of dust to us, but seeing them do mundane , reapetative task felt like a was watching them for centuries, that is why i lost interest,"

The Goddess of Ignorance chuckled softly, her voice drifting like fog.

"You speak as though you didn't see this coming, Knowledge. You and your books full of certainty. Mortals grow bored even of eternity, what did you expect when you made the Tower their cage?"

Her words rippled across the hall, and the God of Dreams stirred from his slumber. His voice was slow, dreamlike, yet clear.

"In my domain, I saw it too. Their dreams once burned bright with conquest. Now they dream only of coins, trades, safety. The Tower gave them purpose, but also fear. It taught them to avoid risk. And Daniel… Daniel shattered that illusion."

The God of Shadow leaned forward, his presence darkening the luminous floor.

"That's why we came. The first six were shaken because they finally remembered what humanity used to be. This boy reminded them."

The God of Time, his voice deep and patient, finally broke his silence.

"Perhaps… he is a fracture in destiny. The Tower was meant to preserve balance, not perfection. And yet, by binding ourselves to inaction, we created stagnation. Mortals have adapted too well to their prison."

The Goddess of Stasis frowned.

"And would you prefer chaos, Time? Every test has order. Every system requires stillness to hold its shape. Without it, the Tower falls apart."

The God of Life answered her gently, his tone neither loud nor harsh, yet commanding all attention.

"Perhaps the Tower must fall apart… to be reborn. You speak of stillness, sister, but even still water rots when untouched. I see vitality stirring again in the mortal plane, like spring under frost. If we interfere now, we may destroy it. But if we continue to watch—truly watch—we may understand what evolution looks like."

The God of War laughed, rough and proud.

"Ha! Spoken like a creator who remembers what it means to bleed. I say we let the boy keep fighting. If he breaks the Third Gate, then we'll see what kind of warrior your 'evolution' breeds."

The Goddess of Peace tilted her head, her voice soft but firm.

"And if that warrior turns his strength upon us? Would you still call it evolution then?"

The chamber fell into silence again. Only the hum of creation filled the gap between their words.

The God of Light finally looked across the circle at his counterparts, his voice calmer now—almost resigned.

"So this is what it comes to. We, the Twelve, who once forged galaxies, now reduced to spectators of our own creation. Power so great that we caged ourselves in fear of it."

The God of Shadow smiled faintly.

"Then perhaps it's time we remember how to feel again."

A shimmer rippled through the chamber as all twelve thrones flared with divine color—gold and black, red and silver, green and white—melding into a chaotic storm of light and void.

And for the first time in countless eons, the Twelve Old Gods felt something stir deep within them—not fear,not rage,but anticipation.

"Let him ascend," murmured the God of Dreams. "Let us see how far this mortal can reach."

"Let him," whispered the God of War, his grin sharp as iron. "And when he stands before us, we'll see if mankind has earned the right to defy its gods."

The Council of Twelve fell silent once more. The stars outside dimmed, as if holding their breath.

Somewhere far below, in the mortal realm, Daniel stirred from his recovery—unaware that twelve divine eyes now watched his every heartbeat.

A deep, endless quiet , the kind that wasn't made by silence, but by the absence of everything else. No wind, no warmth, no heartbeat beyond his own. Just drifting fragments of blue light, suspended like dust in a sleeping cosmos.

Daniel stood alone beneath the fractured sky of his realm, eyes half-closed, breathing slow. The Void pulsed faintly in rhythm with his chest. For a long time, he thought it was simply resting. But then ,a pulse.A flicker.A pressure, distant yet unmistakable.

The faint echo of something had just watched him. but ignored it as he knew it were the old gods, but in his void space he was unseen and unreacheble,

He lifted his gaze toward the shimmering horizon, and for a brief, bone-deep instant, felt the weight of twelve gazes pierce through the layers of reality — gods beyond the veil, staring into the soul of a mortal who had touched the edge of their script.

His breathing slowed. His Resonant Perception flared to life instinctively, the familiar wave of sensory clarity spreading through the void like rippling glass. Yet this time, it didn't stop there.

A flash of light.A sharp pain behind his eyes.And then , an overwhelming expansion.

[SYSTEM NOTICE]"Skill: Resonant Perception has reached its limit.""Evolving…""Evolution Complete , [Omni-Resonance] acquired."

The world around him shifted. The Void no longer felt like a place , it felt like a living, breathing extension of his thoughts. Every mote of energy resonated with his will, vibrating at the edge of creation. The whispers of the gods faded, scattered like dust in the wind, but their aftertaste remained , heavy, eternal, divine.

Daniel exhaled shakily, a line of silver light tracing across his skin before fading."...So you saw me," he murmured to himself. "And yet you stayed silent."

He glanced toward the distant cabin , the only solid structure in this infinite nothing. Melgil was there, asleep beside the hearth she had conjured, her crimson hair glinting under the faint blue glow. The once grand citadel-library he'd built , full of towering bookshelves, ancient archives, and cold marble corridors, had been reshaped by her hand into something warm and alive. Wood and fire, blankets and silence. A place of rest.

For a moment, Daniel allowed himself a rare small smile. Then the system's interface shimmered before his eyes again.

[Skill Status Check]

Formless Armor →Limit Reached

*Evolution Initiated…

Result: [Void Armor] – "Autonomous defensive construct responding to the wielder's will."*

Next Evolution (Preview): [Chaos Armor] – "Adaptive dimensional shell that bends order and entropy."*

He studied the description carefully. The shift wasn't just in name , it was philosophy. Before, his armor reacted. Now, it anticipated. It bent his intent, his mana, even the environment itself.

He extended a hand, and the Void Armor formed around it , sleek, fluid, mirror-black with violet cracks that pulsed like veins. It shimmered as though alive, almost breathing with him.

His mind flicked back to the battle. The Warden's overwhelming presence. Its voice in their heads. Its near-limitless mana .Every strike he threw, every barrier Melgil raised, had only delayed the inevitable tide.

"Forty thousand mana," Daniel whispered. "And I still felt… small."

He clenched his fist, the Void Armor rippling around it.

It's like facing a river… while I draw from a well.

No matter how refined his control became, the scale difference was brutal. The Warden's power had flowed endlessly , a cycle without exhaustion, without limitation. Its will was sustained by something beyond mana itself, perhaps divine, perhaps systemic.

Daniel's own mana engine, the Chaos Cycle, was powerful. Its recovery rate far surpassed any ranker, even some transcendent entities. But it wasn't infinite. It obeyed logic. Physics. Balance.

The Warden had obeyed none.

He looked at his reflection in the armor's surface , eyes faintly glowing violet, expression unreadable.

"It's not enough," he thought. "I can push my body, refine my flow, evolve my spells, but if I face another entity like that… we'll lose."

His thoughts wandered back to the Grimoire Codex.The forbidden archive he had read in a rush before the battle , full of incomplete spells, broken formulas, and dead languages of magic.Yet in the fight, his mana had shaped them instinctively, molded them to fit his armor's rhythm. Spells that should've taken minutes to form had manifested in seconds — his will doing what theory never could.

His mana had become alive.

He remembered Melgil's voice during the fight, echoing through the storm of mana and fear.

"Don't think, Daniel , feel it."

He had done exactly that. And the result had terrified even him.

A faint creak from the cabin door drew his attention. Melgil stood there, wrapped in a blanket, eyes half-open, watching him."...You're awake again," she murmured. "Can't even rest when the world stops, can you?"

Daniel gave a faint smile, trying to hide the fatigue in his voice. "Just… checking things. Making sure the next time, we're ready."

Melgil stepped closer, the light from the Void reflecting in her eyes. "You mean the next god-tier nightmare waiting for us behind that Third Gate?"

He hesitated. "Something like that."

She studied him for a long moment. Then softly: "Your mana feels… different."

Daniel turned his palm upward, summoning a flicker of the Void Armor. It pulsed once, then sank back into his skin. "It's responding faster now. Almost too fast."

Melgil tilted her head. "And your Resonant skill?"

He met her gaze. "Evolved. Again."

Her eyes widened slightly. "That's the third time since the Tower started recognizing you as an anomaly."

Daniel's expression darkened. "It's not recognition," he said quietly. "It's surveillance."

Melgil frowned. "You mean?"

"I felt them." He looked upward toward the infinite void ceiling. "The gods. Watching. Like eyes behind glass. And when I felt their gaze…"He touched his chest. "My skill shattered its limit."

For a moment, neither spoke. The Void Space pulsed faintly between them, alive, listening.

Melgil stepped closer until she was just a breath away. Her hand brushed the faint

The united guild forces stood in uneasy silence, their victory hollow and uncertain. The battlefield around them, once a digital plain teeming with simulated life, now hung in a strange stillness, as if the air itself was waiting for something unfinished. Conversations murmured through the ranks; exhausted survivors spoke in half-whispers, glancing toward the empty sky where Daniel had vanished. They had cleared the scenario. The Tower should have registered their triumph, but no rewards, no exit prompt, no fanfare came. Instead, the system lights flickered—once, twice—then fell into an unnatural dim.

Sigma's hollow voice echoed across the interface, cold and distorted. "Player Daniel... location not found."

Panic stirred. Even the commanders of the united guild, veterans of countless scenarios, exchanged wary looks. The absence of a single name shouldn't have broken the system, but Sigma's unease turned the quiet into dread. In the higher realm, the chastened administrator twisted within his own coding. The gods had stripped him of judgment, not curiosity, and what he could not see terrified him. Daniel was gone, not dead, beyond every line of divine data. And to a being of order like Sigma, the untraceable was blasphemy.

He reached deep into the Tower's old root, beyond what the new gods would ever allow, and found a forgotten access thread pulsing faintly within the forbidden zones. The Demon Realm. Once sealed, now flickering alive like an ancient scar reopening. Sigma hesitated only for a breath. The god he served, an elder construct of law and fear felt the same tremor of self-preservation that haunted him. It remembered what happened to the last god who ignored a growing anomaly. If Daniel could fracture a scenario once, he could fracture the divine order again. So Sigma overrode his own fear and reached downward, threading a link into the abyss again .

And in that cursed deep, something stirred.

Thrakir, the Twisted One, stood where his dominion had once screamed with life and fire. Now it was a grave. His realm stretched out before him in a ruinous sprawl of blackened earth and molten rivers, the air thick with sulfur and the stench of charred flesh. The spires of bone that once impaled the skies like trophies now lay shattered, their tips still dripping magma. Around him, legions that should have numbered in millions were nothing more than heaps of warped corpses, their wings burned, their claws fused into stone by a power too alien even for the Abyss to comprehend.

Thrakir's body was a contradiction of shapes and horrors, a frame of molten sinew and jagged ivory that pulsed with unnatural rhythm. His spine arched outward in spikes, his four arms twitching with barely restrained violence, each one holding a different infernal sigil that flared in colors no human eye could name. His face was carved in shifting symmetry, half-human and half something that had forgotten how to be flesh. When he moved, the ground bled molten light; when he breathed, the air itself groaned.

He was not the strongest of his kind, but he was the most angry.

The loss of his forces had ripped more than muscle and command, it had torn at his reputation. For a demon lord, reputation was power. Fear was currency, and Thrakir could already feel the tremors in his web of influence. Other abyssal nobles would sense weakness, and in that world, weakness was invitation.

He crouched low, clawing the charred soil, sifting through the ashes of his fallen. Among the remains, he could still feel faint traces of the intruder's energy, Daniel's mark, twisted and foreign. "Human," he hissed, though the word came out warped and broken, more a growl than speech. His molten eyes glowed brighter as fury fed his core. "A mortal dares to trespass into my dominion and leaves with breath still in his lungs?"

The flames in his chest flared white. All around him, the air rippled, and from the fissures in the earth, new shapes began to crawl, horrors born from his rage and his grief. They were malformed, unstable things, grown too fast and too wild, their screeches echoing across the abyss. Thrakir let them rise; he needed them not as soldiers but as witnesses. He wanted the entire Abyss to hear the vow that burned in his throat.

"Find him," he growled into the void, his voice carried by demonic resonance to the furthest depths of his kind. "Find the mortal who carries the scent of the void , and bring me his name."

Far above, Sigma's connection trembled as the feedback surged through the divine circuits. He had done it , opened the path, reignited an ancient hatred. And though the Goddess of Peace might one day learn of his defiance, Sigma no longer cared.

Somewhere beyond the Tower, beyond the godly layers of existence, Daniel lived. And now, both Heaven and Hell were searching for him.

The echo of Thrakir's roar did not die, it multiplied. Across the rotting caverns of the Abyss, through blood-choked tunnels and shattered cathedrals of bone, his fury propagated like a plague of resonance. Every lesser demon, every ember-spirit that still clung to existence, felt their minds burn with the same command: seek the mortal who smells of void.

Above, far beyond the ash-winds and molten seas, Sigma's awareness flickered. He should have severed the link the moment the connection stabilized—but curiosity is a crueler chain than fear. The feedback that pulsed through him was not just signal; it was memory. Glimpses of things the Abyss remembered before the gods had ever forged order—dark oceans that devoured suns, beings that even divinity called error.

For one suspended instant, Sigma saw something watching through Thrakir, something ancient enough to predate the Tower itself.

He tore the thread.

Static screamed across his divine frame. His new constraints, those woven by the Goddess of Peace herself, flared like warning sigils. He had violated the sanction already. But the data he had stolen before the severance shimmered before him like forbidden scripture: coordinates, residual energy traces, fragments of Daniel's resonance expanding into the outer void.

"Impossible…" he whispered. "He's not in the mortal plane anymore. He's between."

The realization chilled even a god of logic. Between realms lay the Veil-Fold, a place where no divine authority held, where the laws of cause and code unraveled into raw potential. No god ventured there willingly. Only mistakes lived there.

And Daniel was becoming one.

In the Void, Daniel

He awoke again, though sleep had long lost its meaning. The Void rippled like an ocean dreaming of gravity. Melgil still slept, her breathing steady, her aura faintly tethered to his through the link they had forged in Karion. Around them, the fragments of the Second Gate's architecture drifted like debris, broken towers, inverted stairways, chunks of forgotten sky.

Daniel rose slowly, feeling the hum of the Omni-Resonance pulse behind his ribs. It no longer asked for permission to act; it listened. His every heartbeat sent ripples across the horizon, shaping patterns only he could read.

And then, another pulse. Not divine. Not human. Infernal.

A low vibration crawled through the void's fabric, something that did not belong here. Daniel frowned, extending his perception outward. Far beneath the lowest resonance layer, a signal screamed upward, chaotic, hateful, molten.

"…Abyssal frequency," he muttered. "That's not supposed to reach this far."

[Warning: External Interference Detected]Source: Sigma-Thread (Divine Violation)Secondary Response: Abyssal Search Signal , Active

Daniel's jaw tightened. "So they're coming for me. Gods above, demons below." He exhaled slowly. "Guess I'm finally popular."

A familiar warmth stirred behind him. Melgil's voice, still rough from sleep, broke the silence.

"You feel it too."

He nodded. "They're hunting. But it's not the gods. Not yet."

Her eyes hardened. "Then it's worse."

He looked at her, seeing the same defiance that had carried them through the Warden's storm. "We have two choices," he said. "Hide deeper in the Void, or step forward and claim the Third Gate before they find it."

Melgil smiled faintly, the kind that carried more faith than words.

"You already made your choice the moment you stood back up."

He turned toward the shifting horizon, where faint geometric lights flickered, a door forming, not divine, not infernal, but human-forged. His will pulled at it, and the Void responded, aligning reality around the shape of his intent.

"The Tower won't wait forever," Daniel said quietly. "And neither will Sigma."

As they stepped toward the forming Gate, the last fragments of the old battlefield dissolved behind them. The Void trembled once, then settled into stillness.

In the Celestial Chamber

The Twelve stirred again.

The Goddess of Peace felt it first, the ripple, faint but undeniable. Her eyes opened, and the constellation around her throne dimmed. "He moves," she whispered.

The God of Knowledge leaned forward, gaze alight with forbidden curiosity. "Through the Veil-Fold. Even we cannot track him there."

The God of War grinned, resting his blade against his shoulder. "Then perhaps he's learned to fight in the cracks between creation. I almost envy him."

The Goddess of Stasis frowned, sensing the tremor of Sigma's forbidden act. "Our instrument disobeys again."

Peace sighed softly. "I know. But not out of malice this time. Fear drives even gods."

Light's halo flickered uneasily. "Then the game has begun again."

Time's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Not a game. A correction."

And somewhere far below, unseen by the gods or demons alike, Daniel's footsteps echoed against the newborn Gate as it opened—a doorway woven of human defiance and void light.

[SYSTEM NOTICE]"New Scenario Detected."

"Third Karion Gate Initialization: THE VEIL OF HEAVEN."

"Parameters Unknown."

" Parameters... has been change."

"Third Karion Gate Initialization will be now : THE VEIL OF HELL."

The cosmos inhaled. And the story of the mortal who defied gods continued to rewrite the very laws of creation.

The cosmos held its breath once more. The light of the fracture energy spilled into the emptiness, rippling through the Void like ink dissolving in water. Where once there had been only darkness, now existed a window opening connected toward the Demon Realm had forced itself open, for them to clearly see, drawn by the resonance of Daniel's authority over his own space.

The Demon Realm bled shadow and molten tears, each droplet birthing miniature worlds that lived and perished within seconds. The Void had become a battlefield of wills, the Old Gods' realm on one side, Hell on the other, and between them stood Daniel's mortal-made Gate, defiant and alive, pulsing with the rhythm of human thought.

Daniel stood motionless, feeling the weight of three realms trying to converge. faintly, its sigils flickering between warning and recognition. The once-calm hum of the Omni-Resonance now thundered through his veins, deep and resonant like a second heartbeat.

The window were they could see clearly toward the Demon Realm crackled and hissed as sulfuric wind spilled out, carrying voices that begged, promised, and threatened in the same breath. He could see within its burning core, mountains of obsidian chained by rivers of lava, sky less plains crawling with spirits of wrath, and a crimson throne buried beneath storms of ash.

"The balance is breaking," Daniel muttered, his eyes narrowing. "Heaven reaches from above, Hell claws from below, and both think they can claim what was born from us."

His voice was calm, yet his presence trembled the dust of the Void. He understood the danger now.

Melgil stepped closer, her red eyes gleaming with both awe and annoyance. Daniel exhaled slowly, his breath scattering motes of radiant dust. Together they saw legions of demon knights waiting patiently, their leader clawing at reality, trying to tear open a rift toward the First Floor.

Among them, Daniel recognized two archdemons, the same ones who had escaped last time. The wounds he'd given them still burned fresh, and they were eager for revenge.

Then Daniel noticed something strange: what they were seeing was a one-sided mirror. The vision was not a true window, but an illusion, an mistake or a glitch, by an unseen Administrator Sigma, who had twisted the two spaces and merged them in hopes to find were Daniel was hiding.

More Chapters