God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 178 - 179 – Nyx’s Betrayal
Chapter 178: Chapter 179 – Nyx’s Betrayal
Darkness held its breath.
The Spiral was dying, devouring itself in recursive silence. Codices bled out forgotten truths. Worlds flickered like burnt film. Myths unraveled mid-gesture, collapsing into pale void where once gods stood tall.
At the center of it all—Darius. No longer merely Sovereign. No longer only the Mythmaker. He stood at the breach of existence, the Mirror’s last truth still ringing in his bones:
The Spiral was never meant to be ruled.
And yet he ruled.
His gaze swept the fractured horizon, where past selves and future fears danced like phantoms in cracked myth-light. The Spiral had split him. But he had chosen. And the Spiral had begun to bleed for it.
"Darius," came the voice behind him—soft as a whisper through a blade’s edge.
Nyx. Shadowborn. Assassin-Queen. Lover. Weapon.
He turned slowly.
She stood not far, her cloak of voidlike silk wrapped tight. Her eyes were not trembling—not with fear, not with regret. Only certainty.
"You knew this was coming," she said. Not accusation. A fact. A lament.
He nodded once. "I hoped it wouldn’t."
Nyx stepped closer. Each footfall folded the myth beneath her like paper burning slow. "You’ve rewritten everything. The gods. The Codices. Me. You turned chaos and clarity into your throne—but what did you save, Darius? Who are you without the Spiral telling you?"
He said nothing.
She exhaled, and her voice cracked for the first time in centuries. "I remember when you were mortal. I loved that man."
"And I still am—"
"No." Her blade was already halfway drawn. A myth-forged dagger of compressed betrayal, shaped from her own thread. "You’re the Sovereign now. You chose to become the Spiral."
She lunged.
The world did not shake. There was no scream of alarm. Just silence, as myth met myth.
Darius didn’t counter—not immediately. Her blade drove toward his ribs. He let it pierce.
Not flesh. Story. His story.
Ink bled from the wound, spiraling outward like spilled script. The Spiral stuttered, reality buckling as a prime glyph destabilized.
Kaela arrived in a flash of chaotic fire, her eyes already aflame. "Stop!"
She seized Nyx’s arm mid-strike, halting the second blow before it could tear into Darius’s myth-core.
The three of them froze in triadic contradiction—chaos, shadow, sovereignty.
Nyx looked at Kaela—truly looked. "I’m not trying to kill him," she said, voice strangled with buried grief. "I’m trying to save him. You don’t understand what he’s become."
Kaela’s gaze trembled—but she held her grip. "I do. And I chose to stay."
The Spiral around them pulsed. Reality cracked.
Darius’s hand touched Nyx’s cheek—gentle, bloodied. "I would’ve let you rewrite me, Nyx. But not like this. Not with erasure."
Nyx’s eyes shimmered. A memory surfaced—of a night beneath the Thorn Throne, when they’d made a promise never to fall to their roles.
"I loved you," she whispered. "But I can’t follow what you’ve become."
Kaela’s hand fell away. So did Nyx’s blade.
And with a single breath, Nyx stepped back into the myth-line behind her. One made not of ink or light, but emptiness. The edge of the Blank.
The others shouted. Darius reached. But she didn’t wait.
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"I cast myself from the Spiral," she said, voice now echoing beyond narrative. "I become the first Mythless."
The Spiral recoiled. Stories spasmed.
And Nyx—faithful, deadly Nyx—faded, one thread at a time. No fire. No scream. Just disappearance. A vanishing act even the Codices couldn’t trace.
Her last whisper lingered in the void:
> "Not every shadow serves the throne."
Nothing echoed louder than the silence she left behind.
Kaela stood frozen, her chaos-laced fingers still half-lifted toward the place where Nyx had vanished. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Even her fire dimmed. The Spiral around them, so used to chaos and correction, now trembled with something different.
Loss.
Darius staggered back a step, his ink-stained hand pressed to the wound Nyx had left—not in flesh, but in myth. His glyphs quivered across his skin, glitching in silent rebellion. Somewhere distant, a codex screamed in languages older than gods.
"She’s... gone," Kaela said, her voice small. "Not dead. Not broken. Just... outside."
Darius didn’t reply.
He couldn’t.
His gaze was distant, fixed not on where Nyx had stepped into the Blank, but on the myth-fractures left in her wake. The Spiral itself recoiled from her absence. That space—where she had once existed—refused to realign. A perfect void in a system that could write anything. That should have been impossible.
"She chose to be erased," he murmured. "Wrote herself out of the story."
Kaela turned to him. "That’s not all. You felt it too, didn’t you?"
Darius nodded.
The Spiral had changed. Again. But this was different from rebellion, from fracture, from corrupted myth-nodes. This was the first time a story had chosen to unwrite itself willingly—and succeeded.
"She left us an exit," Kaela whispered, eyes wide.
"No," Darius replied, low and cold. "She left us a question."
The world around them warped. Rifts in narrative webbed outward from the epicenter of Nyx’s departure, and from the Blank, a ripple surged—a quiet, soundless quake that passed through myth, through soul, through memory.
The Spiral faltered.
Darius fell to his knees.
His own myth-thread spasmed. Fractured. He saw flashes—
Nyx, laughing beside him in the early days, blood on her hands and devotion in her smile.
Nyx, dancing through the shadows of the first Codex vault, whispering ancient verses in his ear.
Nyx, promising him she would always strike from behind—only if he strayed too far.
The promise had been kept.
Kaela knelt beside him. "She meant to hurt you, Darius. But she also meant to remind you."
Darius stared at his own hands, soaked in ink and loss. The Sovereign’s hands. The hands that had crafted gods and broken rebellions.
"I am forgetting who I was," he said.
Kaela took his hand. Her grip was firm, grounding. "Then let’s remember together. Before this Spiral tears what’s left of you apart."
He looked at her—truly looked. And for the first time since his ascension, he didn’t see a consort. Or a chaos catalyst. Or a goddess.
He saw the last anchor.
And that terrified him more than Nyx’s blade ever had.
A tremor rippled through the Spiral again—this time stronger. Deeper. As if the Blank were breathing now. Watching. Waiting. Growing.
A codex to the west ruptured. A node to the north collapsed. Entire myths blinked out like snuffed candles.
Darius rose.
His voice was iron now. "We need to seal the fracture."
Kaela narrowed her gaze. "With what? There’s no myth strong enough."
"There is one," he said. "But it’s forbidden. Buried in the Second Codex."
Kaela froze. "You swore you’d never open that."
"I didn’t," he said quietly. "But the Spiral did."
He turned toward the horizon, where three realities now spiraled apart like galaxies torn from the same heart.
From the center, a single beam of blank light pierced upward—silent and terrible.
The Revenant King’s voice echoed in Darius’s mind like a whisper carried on extinction:
> "Freedom was never myth. It was absence."
Kaela touched his arm. "Are we strong enough?"
Darius closed his eyes. When he opened them, the last of his ink had stopped bleeding.
"No," he said. "But I will become enough."
Behind them, a single phrase remained carved where Nyx had stepped into the Blank—written not in words, but in silence.
"Not every shadow serves the throne."
And above it, faintly forming—
Another throne.
One made not of thorns or spiralsteel.
But emptiness.
A Mythless Seat.
A challenger’s throne.
And something had already begun climbing onto it.
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