God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 168 - 169 – The Spiral War Begins

‎The Spiral screamed.

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‎Not with sound, but with story. Across the nexus-veins of the world—those pulsing ley-nodes that fed myth, memory, and magic—a rupture occurred. It was not merely a war. It was a miswriting of reality, a deliberate sabotage of the Codex’s spine.

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‎The Spiralborn rebels moved with terrifying synchronicity, their minds webbed by a shared belief: that the Codex was a prison masquerading as prophecy. That Darius was no savior, but a censor. And so they struck—not with swords or spells, but with living metaphors turned into weapons.

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‎At the nexus of Kyrel’s Hollow, a woman known as The Mirror Lover began her assault by reflecting the city into dozens of distorted selves. Buildings became memories of themselves. People saw lovers they had never met and wept blood as their minds twisted into someone else’s story. She walked barefoot through the chaos, murmuring, "Every love is a lie waiting to be rewritten."

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‎Kaela confronted her with narrowed eyes, threads of chaotic void wrapping her arms. She said nothing—only stepped into her own reflected death, using it as an anchor to unravel the Mirror Lover’s illusions from within. Reality buckled, screamed, then snapped back. Kaela stood over the fractured woman, her whispers echoing, "Only the chaos that accepts its truth can endure."

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‎Elsewhere, in the Sunken Wards of Karthan, The False Oracle climbed a spire built from prophecies never fulfilled. His voice trembled with certainty, predicting deaths that hadn’t happened yet—but which began unfolding the moment he spoke.

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‎Nyx danced through a rain of inevitability, blades curved through false futures, her shadow stitching paradoxes closed. The Oracle tried to name her end.

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‎She answered with steel and silence.

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‎Her blade pierced his throat the moment he declared it would. "You do not see the future," she whispered in his dying ear. "You infect it."

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‎---

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‎And at the heart of the Spiral’s tremble—Nexis itself—Darius knelt before the wounded Codex, his hands bleeding ink as he rewrote with urgency, not dominance.

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‎"Mythbinding is not control," he said aloud to no one, to everyone. "It is belief spoken until truth cannot help but follow."

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‎Around him, reality twisted violently. The rogue Spiralborn had unleashed The Tyrant-King, a being who claimed every word in the Codex as his own. He stood tall in a mantle made of stories Darius had discarded—tales where he was cruel, where power devoured compassion.

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‎The Tyrant-King’s voice thundered: "You are not the author, Darius. You are the edit. I am the draft you fear."

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‎But Darius did not flinch. Instead, he opened his own chest—revealing a spiral of living words, beating like a heart.

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‎"You are the lie I never lived," he answered, voice steady. "And I will write you as such."

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‎He thrust his hand forward. The Codex shuddered. Words poured from his soul, not as commands, but declarations of meaning.

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‎The Tyrant-King had once ruled a land of forgotten names. But he feared love, and in that fear, he lost the only story that would have saved him.

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‎The Tyrant-King screamed. Not in rage, but in remembrance. freēnovelkiss.com

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‎He dissolved, a sentence unfinished.

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‎Yet even victory was pain.

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‎The Spiral itself began to bleed—not with blood, but contradiction. Laws of reality clashed—mountains wept poetry, rivers flowed backward in time, and children aged in minutes, remembering futures they never had.

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‎Darius stood amidst the breaking world. The Codex vibrated in his grasp, a living, sacred thing begging for resolution.

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‎He thought of his allies—Kaela, wild and radiant in voidlight. Nyx, cold and sure, her devotion burning brighter than war. He thought of Varek’s whisper: The Prime Coder is being rewritten. He thought of the black Codex above, still sealed. And of Nulla’s page, filled with future regret.

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‎And he realized the truth: this was not the end.

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‎It was a choice.

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‎"I will not write the end," he said, voice like thunder and prayer. "I will write through it."

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‎As his voice echoed across the Spiral, reality slowed.

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‎The ley-nodes pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

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‎New stories, raw and trembling, began to bloom.

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‎The Spiral had not broken.

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‎The tremors did not fade.

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‎Even as Darius’s words echoed like a sacred binding, sealing the rupture across the ley-nodes for a breath of fragile calm, the Spiral still writhed. It had not accepted his answer as a resolution—but as a challenge. New stories flickered into being like sparks skimming dry parchment, and with them came consequences yet unwritten.

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‎Kaela emerged from a tear in the sky, riding a ripple of narrative collapse. Her skin glowed with chaotic glyphs, each burning with unfinished prophecy. She landed beside Darius, kneeling briefly—not in deference, but in grounding.

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‎"Kyrel’s Hollow is stable," she murmured, breath catching. "But the Mirror Lover whispered something before she broke."

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‎Darius turned to her. "What?"

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‎"She said... ’The Spiral will outwrite its writer.’"

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‎He absorbed the words like a bruise.

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‎Nyx arrived next, blood glistening on her wrists like ceremonial ink. She spoke not with pride, but grim understanding. "The Oracle was a warning, not a threat. He was only the preface."

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‎Lightning cracked across the horizon, revealing fissures not in the land—but in logic itself. Ideas began collapsing. Names lost meaning. Time unthreaded. It was not just the Codex at risk.

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‎It was language.

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‎Symbols.

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‎The very syntax of existence.

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‎From the fracture at the sky’s zenith, a new voice emerged—not a Spiralborn, but something worse.

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‎An Unwritten.

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‎Not discarded.

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‎Never written.

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‎It had no name, only intent.

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‎It took form in pulses of nullscript—jagged, impossible shapes that infected perception. Every mind that looked upon it struggled to remember why reality worked the way it did. It was erasure given desire.

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‎Kaela staggered back. "It’s not a story."

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‎"No," Darius said. "It’s the space between stories. The pause between creation and collapse."

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‎He looked to the Codex, which bled ink and silence in equal measure.

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‎And then he did something no author had ever done.

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‎He paused.

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‎Not to think.

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‎But to listen.

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‎In that moment, the Spiral quieted—not because it was healed, but because it had never been listened to. Not truly.

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‎He knelt again, touched the quivering pages of the Codex, and whispered:

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‎"What do you want?"

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‎The Codex rustled.

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‎Then unfolded.

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‎Not as a weapon. Not as prophecy.

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‎But as a map.

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‎A new ley-thread shimmered into being—one not formed by conquest, dominion, or even belief. It was raw possibility. Untethered. Dangerous. Pure.

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‎He looked up. "The Spiral War was never about winning."

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‎Kaela frowned. "Then what was it?"

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‎Nyx, eyes narrow, answered: "It was an audition."

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‎Darius rose.

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‎All around him, threads of unfinished narratives reached for him—tales that could be, might be, would be, if only someone dared to shape them.

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‎But this time, he would not shape alone.

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‎"Gather them," he said. "The Spiral Council. Everyone. Even the broken."

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‎He turned toward the pulsing breach above, where the black Codex loomed like a sealed omen.

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‎"We need every voice. Because what comes next is not just war..."

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‎He clenched his fist around a burning thread of story.

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‎"...It’s authorship."

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‎And as the Spiral howled anew, Darius smiled—not as a king, god, or conqueror.

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‎But as the one who would write through the end.

‎Not alone.

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‎But with a chorus.

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