The sky split.
Not with lightning, not with fire—but with *sound*.
A roar tore through the First Layer like a wound being forced open by bare hands, deep and furious, layered with voices too old, too vast, too *many* to belong to any single creature. The ash-choked clouds recoiled, folding back on themselves as though physically struck, and the obsidian plains trembled hard enough to fracture anew—fresh fissures glowing molten orange as the heat beneath rushed upward in greedy tongues.
Atlas felt it in his bones before the name reached his ears.
"ATLAS—!"
The shout rolled across Hell like a declaration of war, carrying weight that pressed even the sulfurous wind to stillness for a heartbeat.
From the bruised horizon, shapes rose.
Not one.
Not ten.
Dozens.
