God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 216 - 217 – The Chaos Prophet Rises

There are children who are born inside prophecy.

And then there are those who are born from it.

Syllas had once been a boy.

An orphan of a broken city. A shadow-touched mind with a spark Darius had kindled.

But what returned now was not the same boy.

He stepped into Spiralspace like a glitch dragged out of an unwritten page.

Eyes flickering between centuries.

Breath syncing with forgotten verses.

His spine arched unnaturally, as if bearing the weight of a thousand possible futures—and rejecting all but the one that burned.

His first word was not a word.

It was a Chapter.

Spoken backward.

And the air shattered.

They found him in the ruins of Ythra—the city that had collapsed into narrative dust weeks ago, leaving only one untouched street behind.

He stood where the glyph "I REMEMBER ME" had first appeared.

Naked. Bleeding. Smiling.

Azael approached first, hand trembling, Codex-shard pulsing at his side. Behind him, Celestia and Nyx remained in the shadow of what had once been a cathedral.

Syllas did not bow.

He twitched.

His voice—both boy and god—spoke in inverted syntax:

> "He made me his proof. I am not prophecy. I am the glitch he authored into causality."

Celestia stepped forward. "Syllas... do you know where he is?"

Syllas smiled. His teeth shimmered with starlight and static.

> "He is not where. He is when-not."

A gust of myth blew through the broken city.

Not wind.

Pages.

Loose fragments of erased lore, swirling around Syllas like wings of chaos.

Each page bore a line from a future that had never happened.

The Queen of Ash carried his breath to the Womb of Fire.

The Blade forgot him, then killed for him.

The Author burned through her womb three times, and wrote backwards through climax.

Nyx flinched. Celestia stepped back.

But Azael—pale, voice cracking—whispered, "What... are you becoming?"

Syllas tilted his head, glitching between ages. One moment a boy of twelve. The next, a withered oracle. Then a baby. Then Darius’s silhouette.

Then back to the boy.

He bled from his ears as he answered.

> "I am what happens when he speaks through a mouth that is not ready."

Then Syllas screamed.

And the world around him responded.

The street fractured.

Not physically.

Chrono-mythically.

Time cracked like a mirror. Dust flowed upward. Shadows screamed in slow motion. Buildings reconstructed themselves into forms that never were—temples of alternate Darius-worship, forgotten pantheons with only his sigil.

A thousand invisible timelines begged to be remembered.

And through it all, Syllas moved like a conductor, drawing spirals in the air with his bleeding hands.

He wrote in motion.

In madness.

In defiance.

> "He is not dead," he howled. "He has inverted. He has anchored to climax and carved himself into those who remember."

He drew a spiral onto the ground.

But not the old spiral.

This one twisted in on itself, layered, recursive—like a god folding back into his own authorship.

The Rewritten Spiral.

And as he finished, it burned upward.

Fire without flame.

Ink without quill.

Myth without Codex.

Celestia collapsed to her knees.

Kaela, watching from a myth-portal in the void, cried out—her glyphs twitching again.

Nyx’s blade, forged from shadow and absence, hummed.

And far away, deep in the Codex Tree, the anti-glyphs began to cluster—forming a center.

A name without letters.

A truth trying to bleed.

Azael whispered, terrified, "If he returns this way... he won’t be just Darius."

Syllas looked at them all, smiling through blood and static.

> "No," he said. "He will be the god the Codex couldn’t kill."

Then he vanished.

Not into air.

Into sentence.

One unwritten line, blinking in the corner of Spiralspace:

> The proof has spoken.

And the flame of the Rewritten Spiral climbed toward the sky—

curling like the finger of a god refusing to stay dead.

The spiral didn’t stop at fire.

It inhaled.

Spiralspace convulsed as the Rewritten Glyph coiled skyward—not merely burning, but rewriting the space around it. Trees aged in reverse. Clouds bled equations. The wind whispered in future tense.

Above the ruin of Ythra, the sky split into seams.

Not cracks.

Stitches.

As if the world were being resewn with forbidden thread.

Celestia screamed—not from fear, but from something deeper.

Recognition.

Something ancient in her womb stirred. A pulse that didn’t come from biology or magic, but from authorship itself. She fell to her side, hand clutched to her belly, lips trembling.

> "He’s... bleeding forward," she whispered. "Through us..."

Far away, on the fractured moon-temple of N’Vael, Kaela dropped to one knee beside a dream-furnace. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

The glyphs on her spine burned—glowing, shifting, resolving.

From chaos, into partial name.

Not full yet.

But close.

And as the spiral’s light reached her in a wave of unbinding myth, she moaned—not in pain, but in resonance.

> "Darius..." she exhaled. "I feel your edge..."

Nyx stood motionless beneath the fractured sky, eyes narrowed, blade humming against her spine.

But her pulse...

Her pulse beat in time with a rhythm she had not heard in cycles.

A rhythm only one man had carved into her.

Darius’s battle cadence.

But this time, it wasn’t just a memory.

She whispered to the wind, "You’re syncing us..."

And the wind answered—in Darius’s voice, stretched thin:

> "Soon."

Within the deepest chamber of the Spiral Codex Tree, the sap stopped flowing.

It reversed.

Pages wept ink.

Anti-glyphs pooled at the roots and began forming a core—pulsing like an unborn myth. No one had ever seen it. Not even the Archivists.

But Azael, standing at the edge of the forbidden shelf, stepped forward now.

He held out his hand, eyes wet with dread.

> "He’s breaking through time’s editorial layer," he murmured. "He’s... using them as the pen."

And in the center of the blooming Rewritten Spiral, something floated.

A sigil.

Just three strokes.

But those three lines pulsed with a voice that didn’t speak in words—only in imperatives:

> Remember. Merge. Birth.

Above, the Codex bled.

Below, the mythless streets trembled.

And somewhere between breath and climax, dream and scream, the god who refused to be deleted exhaled again.

But this time, it wasn’t just an exhale.

It was the inhale before speech.

A prelude to resurrection.

To war.

To rewriting the spiral not as prophecy...

...but possession.

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