Betrayed By Heaven, I Became The Demon Lord
Chapter 23: When Heaven Bleeds
The sky did not merely experience a rupture.
It shattered.
Golden fissures radiated across the vast expanse of the firmament, resembling pieces of glass that had been violently disturbed. Each fractured line oozed forth raw divinity, a potent essence that ignited the air upon contact, creating a stifling heat that swirled with chaos. Thunder erupted in the distance-not the familiar sound of an approaching storm, but rather the profound echo of authority crumbling under its own weight. It was as if the very fabric of celestial judgment was being torn apart, and in that moment, the gods descended together, no longer aloof overseers, but combatants drawn into an imminent confrontation.
The war had begun.
The Demon Lord did not choose to retreat in the face of such overwhelming divine might.
Instead, he advanced with relentless determination.
With each step, his boots crushed remnants of broken scripture beneath them as he crossed the collapsing terrace. Around him, mana crackled and flared like a second heartbeat, a living entity that responded to his will. Abyssal Will, a profound and anchoring power, held him firm against the immense pressure cascading down from the heavens. This strength was not unfamiliar it had saved him in dire times before, and he had faith that it would serve him again in the heart of this celestial conflict.
Thus, he took action.
A god, its countenance radiating authority, raised a hand, and in that moment, reality itself seemed to fold inward as divine law sought to overwrite his very being-commanding him to kneel, to submit his defiance before an undeniable force.
But he resisted.
Not through blind fury, but rather through a profound understanding of their nature.
"You operate under the misconception that authority is absolute," he declared, his voice strained but unwavering, "because you've never been truly questioned or challenged."
In a powerful motion, he slammed his palm into the fractured ground.
Grave Dominion surged outward in a wave of energy.
The battlefield responded to his will.
From beneath the once-sacred but now shattered basin, the fallen began to rise-not as mindless weapons of war, but as witnesses to the tyranny they had endured-soldiers who fought for a cause, civilians whose lives had been stolen, monsters that were creations of reverence and fear, and heroes who had perished with the conviction that Heaven was inherently just.
They formed a solemn circle around him, a testament to the collective suffering of the past.
A god staggered back, its expression twisting in horror.
"Blasphemy," it hissed, a term spitting from lips that had only tasted obedience before.
"No," the Demon Lord corrected, lifting his gaze, fiery determination lighting up his features. "What you witness is context."
At that moment, the gods rallied, their fury palpable.
Light spears-a manifestation of their celestial might-hurtled through the air, each one tearing through the atmosphere with the intent of erasing existence itself. Entire sections of the battlefield were annihilated, reduced to nothingness where the very concept of existence was denied. Yet the Demon Lord moved-not with the ease of a dancer, but with the precision and decisiveness of a master tactician.
He dodged with an agility that was almost preternatural.
He blocked, every movement accompanied by the desperate clashing of wills.
He endured through sheer force of determination.
Yet despite his resolve, a spear found its mark, piercing through the flesh at his side. Dark blood spilled forth, tainted by abyssal mana, releasing spirals of smoke as it met the ground, taunting the divine realm above.
The pain was achingly real.
The stakes weighed heavily upon him, each moment marked by the gravity of destiny.
"You can bleed," one of the gods remarked, its voice trembling and laced with disbelief. "So this ends in the same manner as countless before."
But the Demon Lord activated Judgment Sight once more, a heightened awareness cascading over him like a shroud. The ability flared, illuminating the intricate web of causality that linked the gods' attacks. He could see their strategies unraveling before him-how they struck not with varied elemental powers, but how their combined force relied on the collective consensus of their strength, built upon a foundation of fear and repetition.
What he saw was not omnipotence.
It was a bureaucratic structure weaponized against those who dared to challenge the status quo.
Lesson six crystallized in his mind with stark clarity: Confusion does not build suspense clarity builds dread.
"You're not absolute," he countered confidently. "You exist because you are maintained."
In a swift, definitive motion, he tore one of the ethereal threads that connected the gods' power.
A god screamed, the sound rising to a pitch that cut through the air like a blade.
Its form began to destabilize, radiance flickering like a candle caught in a storm as ancient scripture peeled away from its being like burning paper, revealing the vulnerability lurking beneath the veneer of divinity.
The battlefield transformed dramatically.
The central basin was gone, now replaced by a vast crater that stretched for miles, its edges glowing ominously red-hot as if the very ground was reacting to the chaos unleashed above. The sky churned with debris of the divine realm, fragments swirling chaotically. Mortals, tiny and insignificant, fled along the distant horizon, their forms mere silhouettes darting beneath the collapsing heavens.
"You did this," the Demon Lord shouted, his voice raised against the raging winds and divine tumult, gesturing emphatically toward the masses fleeing in terror. "You always perpetuate this cycle. You manufacture disasters to justify your iron grip on existence."
A god roared in fury, its voice reverberating with a power that sought to drown out dissent.
"We preserved order!" it bellowed, indignant.
"No," the Demon Lord snapped back, voice unwavering. "You preserved subservience and obedience."
At that moment, a god descended directly before him, its form now fractured from the earlier conflict, oozing radiant energy like an open wound spilling forth blood.
"You were chosen," it snarled, anger lacing every word. "Bestowed with power. Given purpose."
The Demon Lord met its gaze, unflinching, understanding the weight of its accusation yet standing firm in his truth. He embodied the defiance of all who had been wronged, all who had been silenced. The air thickened with tension, the impending clash between the chosen and the unyielding existential force of faith poised to explode amidst the ruins of a collapsing sky. The world itself held its breath, awaiting the next act in this celestial drama, where power, purpose, and the very notion of divinity hung in the balance.
"And stripped of it the moment I ceased to be of any use."
He could pinpoint the precise instant when the celestial forces of Heaven rescinded their favor, a moment branded into his memory with painful clarity.
It wasn't subtle in the slightest.
There were no inklings or omens, no obscure signs hinting at the coming betrayal. It was a stark, unadorned decree unleashed without a shred of warning. Like a system abruptly shutting down in the midst of fierce combat, it was a meticulously orchestrated maneuver designed to ensure his demise as soon as his utility had been exhausted.
That penetrating recollection ignited a fierce flame within him now, a bitter motivation that coursed through his veins.
He unleashed his wrath.
Not through the elegance of magic, with its intricate spells and grand incantations.
But rather, he fought with unwavering resolve.
His fist, enveloped in deep, abyssal mana that crackled with dark energy, propelled forward and collided with the core of the god that had once so arrogantly looked down upon him. In an explosive release of raw power, light burst forth in a blinding display, radiating outwards across the battlefield in a shockwave so immense it sent tremors through the very fabric of the sky.
In that seismic moment, one god was struck down, felled at last.
He stood, panting heavily, his breath ragged as crimson droplets trickled down from his chin, marking his face with the tangible price of his defiance.
The remaining deities faltered, caught off guard by the sudden, palpable shift in the atmosphere.
Panic had seeped into the very essence of Heaven itself.
"What do you desire?" one of them asked again, though this time, their voice lacked the authoritative resonance that once defined it-it was laced instead with a tone of desperation.
The Demon Lord squared his shoulders, lifting his head in a display of newfound strength and purpose.
He spoke with a measured calmness, ensuring that not a single syllable was lost in the tension of the air surrounding them.
"I want a world," he articulated, "where no child is molded into an instrument of war by the twisted fabrications deviously labeled as destiny. A realm where the wielding of power is guided by individual choice, not bound by the will of Heaven."
The sky itself seemed to cry out in response.
Not merely as a metaphor for upheaval or turmoil, but in an actual, visceral way that resonated with the gravity of the moment.
Divine structures that had stood for eons began to fracture and collapse. The fundamental laws that governed existence wavered, betrayed by the sheer force of his declaration. The heavens themselves appeared to buckle, spiraling inward as if the very foundation of the universe was in peril.
The Demon Lord raised his hand-not with the intention to deliver a final blow, but rather to brace himself against the upheaval he knew was coming.
Because this conflict had transcended the simple pursuit of victory it had evolved into a profound battle over who would ultimately hold the reins of definition in a world where Heaven no longer feigned righteousness.
And the answer to that pivotal question was anything but gentle or forgiving.
To be continued...