Chapter 27
"Ripples Across Realms"
Hell stirred.
In the lowest pits where rivers of fire gnawed endlessly at the damned, a tremor rolled through the infernal expanse. Demons raised their heads from blood-soaked arenas and chains, their instincts bristling at the sudden disturbance. It wasn't sound. It wasn't light. It was older, deeper—a ripple that vibrated through the marrow of existence.
On a jagged cliff overlooking a sea of molten stone, a horned general froze mid-step. His crimson eyes widened. "Impossible… That presence…"
Elsewhere, in a hall carved from black bone, noble demons broke from their councils as the chandeliers of burning souls flickered violently. One of them, a high-born with obsidian wings, clutched his chest and hissed through his fangs: "The Ouroboros stirs."
Even the Primordials, buried in their sealed crypts and ancient cages, twitched. Whispers of awakening spread like wildfire, tongues clicking, claws scratching across prison walls. For the first time in centuries, Hell shivered in awe.
But they could not find him.
Every demon cast out their senses, tracing the disturbance, trying to mark its source. The abyss writhed with hungry intent. Yet no matter how far their shadows reached, they struck nothing but fog and silence. The presence had flared, undeniable, then retreated like a serpent slipping into tall grass.
"He is hidden," Voldrack whispered to himself in his chamber, far from where Maverick had left him. His old bones trembled with awe. "Even Hell cannot cage the child of fate…"
Heaven was no calmer.
The Celestial Spire, that great tower piercing the firmament, blazed suddenly with radiant alarms. Angels stirred from their meditations, their eyes blazing like suns as they clutched at their weapons. Choirs faltered mid-hymn, their voices breaking as a wave of unease spread through their ranks.
In the Hall of Judgment, a seraph bent over the crystal pool that reflected all things upon Earth. The water rippled violently, light scattering, images warping. His six wings unfolded in agitation.
"The Seal has shifted," he murmured. "The fate-thread of a lost child moves again."
Behind him, another angel stepped forward, her silver armor glinting. "Is it a resurgence of the Fallen?"
"No," the seraph replied, narrowing his eyes. "This is not one of ours. This is… something else. A presence forgotten yet familiar. It carries the echo of divinity, but…" His voice grew sharp, troubled. "It is corrupt. Tainted."
Trumpets rang out across the heavens, not in triumph but in warning. The ripple could be felt by every rank—from the lowest cherub to the highest Thrones. Even the ancient Archangels, who slumbered within pillars of light, stirred faintly as though some long-awaited adversary had entered the game once more.
And yet… they could not locate him.
The ripple gave no coordinates, no clear anchor in the mortal realm. It was as if someone had thrown a stone into the ocean but erased the stone before the splash. The waters moved, but the cause was nowhere to be seen.
"Concealment this complete…" the seraph muttered. "It should be impossible."
The armored angel's hand tightened on her sword. "Then perhaps it is not concealment. Perhaps fate itself refuses to reveal him."
Between Hell and Heaven, the mortal world shivered unnoticed.
Clouds stretched unnaturally over the city where Sung Ho had just drowned. Dogs barked at nothing. Infants cried through the night. Old men woke from dreams of serpents eating their own tails. Farmers claimed the wind whispered their names.
Invisible to all but the sharpest senses, faint lines of silver light twisted through the air—threads of fate rearranging themselves.
In Hell, Voldrack and Zaratul stood side by side upon a basalt balcony, watching the sky pulse faintly with ash-colored lightning.
Zaratul's lips curled into a cruel smile. "They felt it. Both of them. Heaven, Hell—they know Ouroboros has returned."
"They cannot find him," Voldrack said, though his voice carried unease. "For now. But their eyes are vast. Their patience greater still. Eventually, one of them will trace the ripples back to Earth."
Zaratul laughed, sharp and mocking. "And what then? By the time they see clearly, he will not be Maverick the boy. He will not even be the Ouroboros they fear. He will be something more. Something that breaks their games apart."
Voldrack's gaze lingered on the horizon. "You gamble much on him. Too much, perhaps. Remember—Hell devours its own prodigies as quickly as Heaven does."
Zaratul's grin widened. "Then let them choke."
In Heaven, the seraph raised his head from the troubled waters.
"Dispatch watchers to Earth," he commanded. "Discreet. Do not provoke. The source is unsteady still—perhaps even unaware of itself. But should this serpent grow, it may coil around the roots of fate itself."
The angel at his side bowed, wings shimmering. "And if it has already grown too strong?"
"Then," the seraph said grimly, "we will cut it from the loom. No matter the cost."
Far below, on Earth, a boy's drowned body rolled along the riverbed, unseen, his lifeless eyes staring upward through the murky current.
And in a classroom the next day, "Xin Min" sat quietly at his desk, eyes downcast, as though he were just another delinquent pretending to listen. No one noticed the faint smile tugging at his lips, nor the invisible threads spiraling from him into the air.
The world was already beginning to bend