Betrayed By Heaven, I Became The Demon Lord
Chapter 22: The Weight Of Heaven's Hand
The crimson horizon had not faded into oblivion.
In fact, it seemed to loom closer than ever before-pressing against the firmament like a wound that obstinately refused to heal, a stark reminder of the chaos that had birthed it.
The Demon Lord stood at the very edge of a vast obsidian terrace, his boots firmly planted against the stone, which still radiated warmth from the divine fire that had scorched the earth. Below him lay the shattered expanse of Veyrath, an unforgiving landscape marked by the jagged remains of broken spires piercing the sky, scorched plains that bore the scars of relentless conflict, and once-mighty rivers that now flowed not with life-giving water but with pale, ethereal light-the haunting residue left behind by Heaven's ill-fated judgment.
The wind carried the sound of voices, not mere whispers fluttering like leaves in the breeze, but powerful commands resonating through the air, laden with authority.
His right hand clenched into a fist, and the power of Grave Dominion surged in response, as if confirming its undying loyalty. Beneath the debris of destruction, the dead stirred-not rising to attack, not fulfilling his every whim-but simply listening, heeding the call of the living. This ability was not foreign to him he had wielded it before, just as he continued to do now. He knew that power forsaken would rot away, while power that acknowledged its master would remember to obey.
Then, above him, the sky itself fractured.
A vertical seam of radiant gold tore through the clouds like an unwelcome intrusion, and from within this celestial rift descended twelve figures, each seated upon rings of shimmering light adorned with ancient scripture etched into their surfaces. They were not priests or mere intermediaries of divine will these were the gods themselves, having cast aside their usual reticence to confront him directly.
In that moment, the world reacted instinctively, an entity unto itself. Stone shattered and split beneath the weight of their presence, mana recoiled as if struck, and the air grew thick and oppressive-heavy with the authority that demanded submission, with no pretense of invitation.
"Well then," the Demon Lord spoke with a calmness that belied the tension in the air, taking a bold step forward instead of retreating, "it seems you've finally decided to cease your reliance on others to convey your messages."
One of the gods, tall and faceless, its voice a harmonic tapestry as if composed by countless beings speaking in tandem, replied without hesitation.
"You were never meant to stand here."
The Demon Lord offered a faint, ironic smile that barely touched the corners of his lips.
"You've said that before," he retorted. "Right before you bestowed upon me the title of Hero."
As if on cue, the ground trembled, encased in the weight of resurrected memories-not vague impressions or half-remembered dreams, but sharp and acute recollections that surged forward with unyielding clarity.
He could vividly recall the moment Heaven found him, the day he was lifted from the mud of his existence and thrust into a grand purpose.
Heaven had not saved him. No, it had selected him, grooming him for a mantle he had never asked for.
They inundated him with visions a world engulfed in flames, innocent lives crying out in desperation, a Demon Lord depicted as the very center of all affliction and despair. They revered his unyielding resolve. They nurtured his burgeoning sense of responsibility. They rewarded his compliance with power and offered approval in the silence that followed his obedience.
They never commanded him outright.
That was the essence of their manipulation.
"You told me," he declared, his voice echoing across the desolate basin as if it were a trumpet announcing a foreboding decree, "that every choice was mine. That I fought because it was my will. That I sacrificed myself because it was the righteous path to walk."
One of the gods inclined its head, a gesture that seemed almost approving in nature.
"And indeed, you did," it affirmed, leaving no room for doubt.
The Demon Lord let out a harsh, jagged laugh that echoed across the shattered landscape-a sound laced with bitterness and the sting of betrayal.
"You framed the world's narrative such that only one choice remained," he articulated, his finger pointing downward, away from the firmament and toward the broken earth, "You destroyed entire villages and laid the blame at the feet of demons. You engineered wars and strife so that I would have something to 'heroically' stop, all the while allowing me just enough victories to keep the fires of my purpose burning brightly."
His left eye ignited with a fiery glow.
Judgment Sight activated-not for show, but out of necessity. The ability unfurled before him, tracing the intricate threads of causality that wove through the fabric of history itself, exposing the divine interference he had failed to see for so long. He had harnessed this sight before, yet its effectiveness felt renewed, its pulse alive and vibrant.
Now, it illuminated everything with stark clarity.
The gods were not merely observing him they were reacting to the revelations he had come to recognize as truth.
"You're afraid," he murmured softly, each word a dagger aimed at the heart of their divine certainty.
The sky darkened, shadows pooling where light once reigned.
One god, larger than the others, descended lower, its shimmering form radiating an ominous aura.
"You were meant to fall," it stated with an unsettling calm. "When your usefulness reached its conclusion, your fate was to die as a martyr-a name sung by the bards in tales of valor and sacrifice. Instead, you defied Heaven's final command."
"And therein lies the pivotal flaw of your grand design," the Demon Lord responded, his tone steady, a dark smile creeping across his lips.
Memory crystallized into a razor-edged blade, sharper than any forged by earthly means.
He recalled the final battle-an anticlimactic moment when Heaven abruptly retracted its blessings in the midst of their clash. The sudden, crushing weight of abandonment had felt like the world crumbling beneath him. The betrayal was no longer a mere speculation it was a stark reality thrust into his awareness, undeniable and stark.
They had definitely not miscalculated.
Their decision had been deliberate, irrevocable they had cast him aside, deemed him unworthy of their divine favor.
"You took my power back," he declared, his voice unwavering and steady, echoing through the chaos around him. "Not because of any failure on my part-no, it was precisely because I completed the task I set out to do."
In response, the gods raised their hands high, their gestures commanding and full of authority, a clear signal of their intent. The brilliance of the light surrounding them surged in intensity, almost blinding, casting long shadows and illuminating the canvas of conflict that hung heavily in the air.
In that charged moment, conflict materialized, crystallizing into an undeniable reality.
The Demon Lord, regal and imposing, spread his arms wide open, embracing the chaos and drawing on the raw, unyielding energy that coursed through the very fabric of existence.
Mana surged around him like a tide, enveloping him in a palpable aura of power. He summoned his strongest abilities Grave Dominion, Judgment Sight, and Abyssal Will. They did not act as replacements for one another rather, they layered together in a harmonious symphony of strength, each amplifying the other. It was as if the essence of the dead themselves stirred to attention, heeding his call. Reality warped and twisted in response to his command, and his unshakeable will anchored the field, holding it together against the encroaching chaos.
"If I fall here today," he proclaimed, resolute and unwavering, a fierce glint of defiance in his eyes, "your lie will continue to exist unchallenged."
At that moment, lightning erupted from the heavens, its brilliant wrath converging upon him.
Unflinching, he stepped into the heart of that blinding storm, embracing the blast and its destructive force as if it were a long-lost companion. The impact shattered the ornate terrace beneath him, sending stone fragments flying outward in a dazzling display of violence. The basin at the center of the chaos buckled and collapsed inward, an echo of ancient turmoil and long-fought battles.
Yet, through it all, he stood his ground, enduring the onslaught. He felt the heat of burns scorching his flesh and the warmth of blood seeping from his wounds, yet he remained steadfast, defiantly upright.
"You still fail to comprehend the gravity of the situation," a god hissed, infused with impatience and disdain. "Without the overarching presence of Heaven, this world will crumble into dust and chaos."
The Demon Lord cast his gaze downward, observing the desperate mortals who were fleeing the edge of the now-collapsing basin. They were fragile and helpless, radiating fear as they scrambled for safety.
"And yet," he replied, his tone laced with a sense of purpose, "this world continues to turn, undeterred by the celestial chains you strive to impose."
With a resolute gesture, he lifted his hand high, invoking a power that transcended mere resurrection. The dead did not rise to bring chaos and destruction instead, they arose with an intention to shield, to protect.
From the earth, walls of bone emerged, forming brilliant barriers of memory and resolve, standing firmly in defense of those who chose to stand against tyranny. This was an act born not of blind servitude but of conscious choice.
The gods hesitated, a rare flicker of uncertainty slicing through their divine confidence. This reaction was unexpected, even to them.
"What do you want?" One of the gods demanded, their tone a mixture of curiosity and wariness.
Without a moment's pause, the Demon Lord responded, his voice ringing with clarity and conviction. "A world," he articulated, "that no longer bends the knee to the tyranny of Heaven out of sheer fear."
As his words hung heavily in the charged air, silence enveloped the battlefield, thick and profound.
Then came the ultimate truth, the essence of his rebellion crystallized. "If a god demands absolute obedience without offering any explanation or rationale," he articulated, his gaze piercing and fiery, "then Heaven itself has become the enemy."
In that decisive moment, the sky split open, and the storm of war surged forth in earnest.
The war, that tumultuous clash of ideals and beings, had truly begun.
To be continued...