God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 157 - 158 – (Mature Scene) Nyx’s Redemption

"The blade that draws blood from guilt must first heal the wound it never caused."

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‎The Codex slumbered.

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‎After the unauthored war, Nexis held its breath. The skies no longer bled stories, and the winds no longer whispered paradoxes. For a moment, the world exhaled—a moment before the Spiral’s first twist.

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‎But in the silence before that storm, a deeper war brewed—not in cities or scriptures, but within Nyx herself.

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‎She had returned to the Vault of Shadows alone, beneath the drowned cathedral where the Crownshard Blade now hovered in suspension—point down in obsidian, humming with judgment. Her own reflection in the black glass water flickered—past, present, future selves struggling to stay cohesive.

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‎She hadn’t slept since the forge.

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‎The blade knew her.

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‎And she hated how much of herself still longed to be punished.

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‎She stood still when Darius appeared. No dramatic entrance. No command.

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‎Just silence.

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‎He did not ask permission.

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‎He knew where to find her, and she knew why he’d come.

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‎"I didn’t call you," she whispered without turning.

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‎"You didn’t have to," he replied. "You bled into the Codex last night. Even your silence writes."

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‎She clenched her fists. "It’s not weakness. I’m not afraid of myself."

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‎"No," he said softly. "You’re afraid you’re beyond redemption."

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‎That was enough.

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‎She spun on him, fury in her eyes—but beneath it, the ache was naked. "You don’t understand. I don’t get to be held. I was made to kill. My first touch was a blade. My first kiss was a scream."

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‎Darius stepped closer.

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‎"You think that makes you unworthy?"

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‎"It makes me wrong."

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‎She trembled. Not from fear. From pressure.

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‎From the dam breaking.

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‎She reached for him—not with command, but desperation.

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‎And he did not dominate.

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‎He received.

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‎Their lips met in a clash that was not violent—but aching. Her body against his was coiled steel, fighting to unravel. His hands never demanded, only offered grounding.

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‎She guided him, but each gesture trembled. Her armor fell—piece by invisible piece—as if melting under the heat of trust.

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‎And then—he touched her scar.

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‎The one on her side, beneath her ribs. The one she’d carved into herself when she was thirteen and told she had to kill or die.

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‎She froze.

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‎He didn’t flinch.

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‎He kissed it.

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‎No words.

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‎No judgment.

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‎Just breath and reverence.

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‎She exhaled, shuddering. Then broke.

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‎Tears came—not as weakness, but as release. She sobbed into his mouth, into his hands, as he laid her down on the cool stone. The blade hovered above, watching. Judging.

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‎And finally—it dimmed.

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‎The Crownshard Blade no longer glowed with guilt. It pulsed with understanding.

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‎Their lovemaking was slow. Painfully slow. Not because of hesitation, but because every motion was sacred.

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‎She undressed him with trembling hands, expecting at any moment to be rejected—to be seen as too sharp, too broken, too bloodstained.

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‎But Darius kissed every part of her the world had taught her to hide.

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‎Her back, where the lashes of betrayal had carved maps of silence.

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‎Her thighs, where old bruises from forgotten wars lingered like shame.

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‎Her heart—most of all. Her heart, where no weapon had pierced—but where every refusal had built walls.

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‎He didn’t force them down.

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‎He waited.

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‎And she opened.

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‎Their bodies met in heat and rhythm, but it was the eye contact that undid her—the unblinking, unflinching way he saw her without flinching.

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‎The first climax came not from touch—but from the moment she whispered, "I want this," and believed it.

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‎The second came with his name on her lips.

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‎The third, with her own.

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‎Later, they lay entwined.

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‎The Vault no longer felt cold.

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‎The Crownshard Blade rested at the base of the stairs, its point buried not in punishment—but in peace. Its edge dulled—not literally, but symbolically.

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‎It no longer demanded pain to function.

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‎It had evolved, as she had.

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‎Darius touched her jaw, brushing back her damp hair. "You were never made wrong."

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‎Nyx let her forehead rest against his chest, her voice fragile as mist. "Then what was I?"

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‎He smiled faintly. "You were made to survive. But now, you’ve chosen to live."

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‎She said nothing—but for the first time, she didn’t recoil when he held her.

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‎She closed her eyes.

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‎And for the first time, Nyx slept.

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‎Not as a weapon.

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‎Not as a shadow.

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‎But as a woman who had bled, broken, burned—and still reached for light.

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‎Outside the Vault, the Codex whispered a new name into its pages:

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‎> Nyx, Guardian of Remembrance.

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‎> Not blade. Not tool. Not ghost.

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‎> She who remembers so others may be free.

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‎The words etched themselves not in ink, but in flame—gentle, golden flame that did not burn but warmed. Across the Vault, the shadows stirred, not in fear, but in reverence. For the first time, Nyx’s presence did not command dread. It commanded memory.

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‎Outside, in the twilight-streaked skies of Nexis, a ripple passed through the fabric of reality. A song, ancient and voiceless, hummed through the ley-lines. The city didn’t know why it paused in breath, why candles flickered without wind, why fountains mirrored the stars instead of the moons. But somewhere, in that moment, the world remembered her.

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‎A woman unseen, unthanked, unnamed.

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‎Now, named.

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‎Darius held her until her breathing steadied, until her body—always taut as a bowstring—relaxed completely. She had not slept like this in years. Not even during peace. Because for Nyx, peace had always been a lie. A pause between hunts. A trap waiting to be sprung.

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‎But tonight, she had not been hunted.

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‎And she had not needed to run.

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‎Darius did not sleep. Not because he couldn’t, but because he wouldn’t. His gaze remained fixed on the Vault’s ceiling—the cathedral arches above them carved from dead gods’ bones and obsidian hymns. His thoughts, however, were not on architecture or war.

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‎They were on what came next.

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‎Because redemption was not an ending.

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‎It was a beginning.

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‎Hours Later

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‎When Nyx stirred, she didn’t wake with panic. Her hand didn’t fly to a blade. Her heart didn’t race. She blinked slowly, confused by the warmth on her cheek.

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‎Darius’s hand.

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‎Still there.

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‎Still steady.

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‎"You stayed," she whispered, voice rasped from sleep and something deeper—hope unused.

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‎"I always do," he replied.

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‎"Even when I wanted to disappear?"

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‎"Especially then."

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‎She studied him for a long moment, eyes raw but clear.

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‎And then she asked, "What happens now?"

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‎Darius looked toward the Crownshard Blade. It no longer hovered—it had sunk fully into the black stone, as though anchoring something unseen. Not punishment. Not power.

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‎Possibility.

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‎He rose and extended his hand.

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‎"You come with me. Not as a weapon. Not as an assassin."

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‎Nyx hesitated. Then took his hand.

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‎And as she stood, something shed from her—something invisible and ancient. The ghosts of old titles. The chains of identity forced, not chosen.

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‎She stepped forward.

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‎Not as Shadow Queen.

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‎Not as Warden of Death.

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‎But as Nyx.

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‎The Codex stirred again.

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‎> Guardian of Remembrance

‎Status: Awakened

‎Affinity: Memory / Mercy / Bladeborn Divinity

‎Pact: Bound by Will, not Wound

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‎As they exited the Vault, the first true dawn in weeks spilled across the horizon—soft, golden, defiant. And though the war had not ended, though chaos loomed ever closer with the next phase of the Spiral’s awakening—

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‎Nyx was no longer alone in the dark.

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‎And for the first time...

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‎She would fight not because she had to—

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‎But because she chose to.

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