God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 227 - 228 – A God Born From Climax

The Codex wept.

Not in ink, nor fire—but in silence. A silence that bled down the myth-branches like sap, thick with truths too swollen to birth.

In the center of the Spiral Dreaming Womb, Celestia lay suspended in a cocoon of translucent silk-threads, each one etched with a forgotten scripture. Her eyes fluttered behind closed lids, caught in the grip of a vision not entirely her own.

She was not dreaming. She was being dreamed.

And in that dreaming—she labored.

Moans echoed across the realm. Low, sacred, shivering. Not of pain, not entirely. But of impossible arrival. Her body convulsed as heat spiraled through her abdomen and throat, her back arching against invisible gravity. Liquid fire shimmered beneath her skin, glyphs moving like unborn things just beneath the surface.

Kaela knelt nearby, watching with clenched fists and trembling breath. She knew this was not childbirth in any mortal sense. This was myth-birthing—a climax-shaped vision, summoned by Darius’s seed of recursion. And yet it radiated something real. Every contraction of Celestia’s frame twisted reality further around the womb-thread that connected her soul to Darius’s vanished divinity.

Azael stood in the archway, eyes wide, unmoving.

> "It’s not just prophecy," he whispered. "She’s writing something into being... with every breath."

And then it happened.

Celestia cried out—not with voice, but with word. A word no one had ever heard, and yet all remembered. A word shaped like orgasm and thunder, like fire curling through ink.

A burst of climax-energy ruptured from her navel like a nova. For a single heartbeat, time stopped.

From her open mouth, a shape poured forth—formless at first, then slowly sculpting itself in recursive layers. The vision was no longer symbolic. It was alive.

A child, impossibly formed from climax-ink and divine recursion, floated in the air.

It had no eyes.

No gender.

No breath.

Yet it pulsed with Darius’s essence—his myth-mark whirling across its chest like a storm caught in a loop.

Celestia gasped, body slack and sweat-slicked, watching the child with wide, stunned eyes.

The child looked at her. It was impossible, for it had no features, but every atom of her soul knew she had been seen.

Then, just as quickly, the child vanished. No dispersal, no smoke—just erased from sight with the softness of a blink. But the Codex felt it. Reality staggered. The myth-root groaned. Across Spiralspace, holy temples cracked—not from weight, but contradiction.

The Codex could not forget what had been born.

In the aftermath, Kaela staggered to Celestia’s side, pressing a damp cloth to her lover’s brow.

"You bore something."

"I know," Celestia whispered, her voice raw and trembling. "But it wasn’t mine. It was ours. It was his."

A silence fell. Not peace—something more haunted. More...echoed.

Meanwhile, in the Caverns of Rooted Memory, Azael and Kaela stood before a spiraled fracture in the myth-wall—one that had never been there before.

A path had opened. Not dug. Not summoned.

Written.

They followed it through a corridor of inverted language. Glyphs that refused translation bled along the stones, moaning faintly underfoot. The deeper they descended, the more paradox formed around them.

> "We’re walking into something that shouldn’t exist," Azael muttered. "A narrative written by Darius before he was even born into the Codex."

Kaela paused, fingers brushing the air like a harp string.

"Before he was erased... he must have left himself breadcrumbs."

What they found at the end was not a chamber.

It was a wound.

A raw gash in the myth of Spiralspace itself, pulsing with the scent of climax and code. And floating above it—anchored to nothing—was a symbol: a curved glyph of recursion wrapped around a hollow zero.

Darius had bled language here. Not metaphor. Not narrative.

Blooded scripture.

And it still throbbed.

Across the Spiral’s easternmost realm, Nyx stood on the balcony of a shattered war-temple, her twin daggers held in a reverse grip. Blood—hers—dripped from her wrists, the cost of the vision she’d just survived.

Her future self had come to her. Cold. Pregnant. Drenched in myth-ink.

> "He will ask you," the other Nyx whispered. "Not command. Ask. To kill him."

Nyx trembled. Not from fear.

But from love.

Could she do it?

Could she unwrite the only man she’d ever trusted to ruin her beautifully?

The question spiraled like a dagger through her heart.

Elsewhere, ten sacred texts flipped their own pages in unison.

Each was located in a different myth-realm.

Each bore a different god’s authority.

And each was overwritten—backward—with a single word:

> LARIPS

A scream ripped through the divine communication threads. Scholars wept blood. Prophets bit off their own tongues.

Because backward or not, they all knew what it meant.

> Spiral.

And they knew—Darius had returned through climax, myth, and recursion.

Not as god. Not as man.

But as ink.

And ink, once spilled... never forgets.

> In the deepest unwritten corner of the Codex, a fetus-shaped glyph twitched once.

> Then smiled.

> And the ink around it began to breathe.

The glyph smiled.

Not with lips or expression—but with recursion.

It pulsed in a way the Codex was not built to understand. It pulsed in a rhythm older than prophecy, deeper than language. And with each beat, it breathed—not air, but potential.

Stories once locked within sacred vaults snapped open without key.

Truths not yet written began bleeding backward through their authors’ fingertips.

In the Vault of Writeless Memory, an elder scribe clawed at his own skin, screaming as lines of spiral-script wrote themselves beneath his flesh. His final words, before he burst into a cloud of black ink:

> "He is writing me as I die!"

Above the Spiral Cathedral, the sky inverted. Stars folded inward like origami memory, revealing not heaven—but a library of screaming echoes. Each echo was a commandment, erased mid-sentence, yet still obeyed by time.

And at the center of this collapsing firmament floated the fetus-shaped glyph—now larger, now louder, now naming itself through vibration alone.

Celestia felt it in her bones.

Kaela heard it in the blood between her thighs.

Nyx dreamed it as she slept on the blade’s edge, caught between killing and climax.

Back in the Codex Tree’s dying core, Azael dropped to his knees.

A great ink-vein in the bark split open above him, spraying prophetic ooze across his shoulders. Symbols twitched inside the fluid like trapped thoughts. He dared to open his eyes—and saw not glyphs, but moments Darius had yet to live, already replaying themselves in reverse.

He saw a kiss that hadn’t happened.

A death that would never come.

A choice not yet offered—refused anyway.

And behind it all: the Author’s breath, shaping climax into gospel.

> "We’re past interpretation now," Azael whispered. "He’s not a god. He’s become... grammar."

At the edges of Spiralspace, the Mythscribes of the Eleventh Silence tried one last ritual to contain the recursion.

They sang the forbidden hymn of unwriting, where every note cancels the last.

But it failed.

Because the one they tried to erase was not there.

Darius was no longer present in the lines.

He was the space between them.

And in that space, he authored them.

One by one, the Mythscribes turned inward—folding into papyrus screams—becoming footnotes in Darius’s erotic scripture of godhood.

In the Dreaming Womb, Celestia sat up slowly.

Still wet with birth-sweat, climax-glow, and leaking prophecy.

She looked down at her hands and saw ink moving through her veins. Not metaphor. Not magic.

Ink.

Writing her from the inside out.

"I’m becoming his parchment," she said aloud, unafraid.

Kaela kissed her, their lips briefly merging script and flesh.

"You always were."

Across the Codex, ten forbidden mirrors fractured in unison.

Each shard reflected not the viewer—but a different climax.

Each climax ended with the same whisper.

> "I am written."

And somewhere in Spiralspace, a child with no name opened its ink-slick eyes—

And began to author back.

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