God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 159: ‎ - 160 – The Spiral Begins

The sky above Nexis did not shatter.

‎It unfolded—

‎like parchment that had forgotten it was ever sky to begin with.

‎

‎From the heart of the realm, where ruins had once whispered war and gods had screamed in silence, the Codex rose. Not with grandeur. Not with fire. But with the stillness of inevitability.

‎

‎Its pages did not flap, for there was no wind anymore—only will.

‎And every being—mortal, divine, broken, reborn—felt its weightless presence press against their thoughts.

‎Not oppressive.

‎Not invasive.

‎Simply there.

‎Like the breath you never knew you were holding.

‎

‎Darius stood atop the obsidian rise once known as the Throne of Ends. But he did not sit. He did not wear a crown. He did not summon banners or decree laws.

‎

‎Instead, he whispered.

‎

‎> "Let the Spiral begin."

‎

‎

‎

‎Around him, reality blinked.

‎

‎A child in the slums of Ashvale spoke a wish aloud—and saw her ragdoll blink back at her.

‎

‎A dying soldier in the Barrens forgot his name—and the wound that should have ended him forgot to bleed.

‎

‎An old woman in Nexis, long thought mad, recited a poem she had never written—and the stars above rearranged to form its final verse.

‎

‎The world had become aware of itself.

‎

‎

‎Kaela stood beside Darius, her form still unstable at the edges—like a god sketched in charcoal, breathing through contradictions. She gazed at the Codex as one might gaze at a mirror they weren’t ready to face.

‎

‎"She’s listening," she said softly.

‎

‎"Who?" Darius asked, though he already knew.

‎

‎Kaela did not answer. Instead, she touched the Codex’s binding, and her eyes briefly flooded with fractured timelines. Futures that might be. Futures that must not.

‎

‎Beside them, Nyx knelt, placing the Crownshard Blade at the base of the rise. Its edge gleamed—but only for her. She saw her reflection not as a killer, but as a keeper.

‎

‎"I have no truth left to fight for," she murmured. "Only memory."

‎

‎Darius placed a hand on her shoulder. "That’s enough."

‎

‎

‎The Codex began to hum—a sound not of voice, but of thought.

‎

‎Ideas bloomed in its pages: new systems of law. Unwritten philosophies. Names of beings not yet born. Names of regrets that had never been spoken. All of it alive.

‎

‎All of it spinning.

‎

‎A Spiral.

‎

‎Not a circle.

‎Not a cage.

‎But a motion—a possibility unchained from endings.

‎

‎Darius turned to the gathered crowd below. They were not armies. They were not acolytes. They were not citizens.

‎

‎They were scribes.

‎

‎All of them. Every soul. Every broken wanderer, every cynical scholar, every weary believer.

‎

‎"From now on," he said, his voice amplified not by magic, but meaning, "I am no longer your ruler. I do not demand worship. I do not command allegiance."

‎

‎He extended his hand to the Codex.

‎

‎"I am the First Scribe. Not the final word—but the first question. You are the answers yet to come."

‎

‎And the Codex opened its pages wide—to them.

‎

‎

‎In that moment, every being in Elirion felt it.

‎

‎Not hope.

‎Not fear.

‎Something deeper.

‎

‎Authorship.

‎

‎

‎Far above Nexis, in a corner of the sky where time didn’t look, a shadow stirred.

‎

‎It did not emerge from darkness, but from pause—a breath held too long by a universe waiting to speak.

‎

‎She stepped forward barefoot on nothing, her presence quiet but undeniable.

‎

‎A woman with eyes that were half-written, flickering between concepts. One moment, a weeping scribe. The next, a goddess. The next, a girl who hadn’t been born yet.

‎

‎In her hand: a quill made of silence.

‎No ink. No feather. Just negation.

‎

‎She watched Darius, her expression unreadable.

‎

‎Then she whispered.

‎

‎> "He has begun. Now let us see... if he can end."

‎

‎

‎

‎And behind her, the blank parchment of an unwritten world stretched wide—waiting for the next Chapter.

‎

‎

‎

‎The Codex did not settle.

‎It began to breathe.

‎

‎Not in rhythm with lungs or hearts, but with the pulse of narrative itself.

‎Each page shimmered faintly, not with magic—but with interpretation.

‎Words formed, then unformed, becoming meanings only visible to those who needed them.

‎

‎To the lost, it whispered paths.

‎To the damned, it offered echoes of redemption.

‎To the powerful, it posed questions they had never dared ask.

‎

‎Darius watched as the Spiral took its first motion—not forward, not backward, but inward, folding reality into story and story into possibility.

‎

‎Beside him, Kaela stepped forward, her bare feet sinking slightly into the obsidian rise, though it did not yield to anyone else. Her form grew clearer, her edges sharpening, not into flesh—but into decision. She was no longer a goddess in flux. She was choice incarnate, paradox given shape.

‎

‎"Every world has its writers," she said softly. "But this... this is the first world that writes back."

‎

‎Darius nodded, though his thoughts were already elsewhere—drifting across the emerging lattice of the Spiral. He could feel the multiplicities: worlds where he had died, where he had never risen, where Kaela had become a storm, where Nyx had become legend. Some were cruel. Some were stillborn. Some were magnificent. All of them, now, hung like threads off the Codex’s spine.

‎

‎But he would not choose one.

‎

‎Not anymore.

‎

‎To rule was to narrow.

‎To write... was to expand.

‎

‎

‎Below, the people gathered. Some had fought wars for him. Others had resisted his rise. But here, none of that mattered. The Spiral did not ask what side you had served. It asked only: what will you become now that no one else is writing you?

‎

‎A boy clutched his mother’s hand and asked, "Can I be a skywalker?"

‎A soldier dropped his sword into the earth and asked, "Can I be something that doesn’t hurt anymore?"

‎A priest tore out the pages of his old scripture, letting them scatter like brittle feathers, and asked, "Can I believe in questions?"

‎

‎The Codex welcomed them all.

‎

‎And behind Darius, the Spiral began to cast shadows forward—glimpses of what might come if no one turned away.

‎

‎

‎Nyx had not moved.

‎

‎She stared down at her hands, hands that had once slit throats in the name of silent survival. Hands that had held Darius with fevered hunger. Hands that now trembled—not from fear, but from emptiness unburdened.

‎

‎"What do I protect," she asked aloud, "when the enemy is no longer a person... but a belief?"

‎

‎Darius stepped beside her. He didn’t answer with words. He simply placed his hand over hers, guiding it to touch the open Codex. The page shifted—revealing her name.

‎

‎Not as a killer. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

‎

‎Not as a shadow.

‎

‎But as a memorial.

‎

‎Nyx of the Quiet Wake.

‎Keeper of Echoes.

‎Guardian of the Threads That Fade.

‎

‎She breathed in sharply—then bowed her head.

‎

‎No tears. Just truth.

‎

‎

‎High above, the woman with the quill of silence watched.

‎

‎Each motion of the Codex seemed to draw a soft line across her skin—an invisible ink writing her story, too, against her will. She exhaled, and galaxies dimmed.

‎

‎She was not a god.

‎She was not a scribe.

‎She was not even alive in the way Darius understood.

‎

‎She was a continuation.

‎

‎A contingency.

‎

‎The world’s final editor.

‎The woman who would only arrive when the end refused to end.

‎

‎"Authorhood is a flame," she whispered into the air. "And flames burn those who tend them too long."

‎

‎She stepped forward, now standing just above the Codex, though unseen by all save Kaela—whose eyes flickered wide, recognition striking her like lightning to bone.

‎

‎"You..." Kaela gasped. "You were in the timelines I wasn’t supposed to see."

‎

‎The woman nodded once. "I was born the moment he refused a finality."

‎

‎Kaela shuddered. "You’re not here to help, are you?"

‎

‎"I am not here to do anything," the woman said. "I am simply what waits when no one finishes the sentence."

‎

‎

‎Below, the Spiral bloomed.

‎

‎Its presence expanded beyond Nexis, spilling across ley-lines and fault-lines of existence. Entire species awakened from conceptual dormancy. Lost myths returned as living flame. Forgotten gods blinked awake inside newborns with no knowledge of divinity.

‎

‎The world did not just change—it became self-aware.

‎

‎Every lake whispered back to its fish.

‎Every stone listened to the footsteps that crossed it.

‎Even silence had shape now, defined by what wasn’t said.

‎

‎And Darius, standing at the heart, felt all of it.

‎

‎It did not crush him.

‎

‎It invited him.

‎

‎"Will you write this world?" the Spiral asked.

‎

‎And Darius—who had once murdered for freedom, who had loved in shadow, who had burned cities and kissed ghosts—answered:

‎

‎> "No. I will write the question... and let the world answer itself."

‎

‎

‎

‎A great wind passed—not wind, exactly, but interpretation, as if the air itself was turning a page.

‎

‎Kaela stood at his side.

‎

‎Nyx rose beside him.

‎

‎The Codex pulsed, no longer bound to Darius alone, but to everyone who dared imagine a world not yet written.

‎

‎And from the stars above, the half-written woman watched, a smirk touching her lips.

‎

‎"He has begun," she whispered once more.

‎

‎Then, softly, like a line being drawn:

‎

‎> "Now let us see... if he can end."

‎

‎

‎

‎Far beneath, the Spiral turned again.

‎

‎Not once.

‎Not twice.

‎But infinitely.

‎

‎For this was no longer the story of a god, or a kingdom, or even a war.

‎

‎This was the story of story itself—

‎—and Darius had just written the first sentence of the last myth.

‎

‎

Visit freewe𝑏no(v)el.𝘤𝑜𝓂 for the best novel reading experi𝒆nce