God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 115 - 116 – The Pact of Seven Wounds
Chapter 115: Chapter 116 – The Pact of Seven Wounds
The silence of the Nexus was broken by a palpable crackle, a disturbance deep within the veins of the world, as Darius stood at the center of the great hall, his eyes fixed on the shimmering threads of fate that had begun to weave around him. Celestia, Nyx, Kaela, and Azael’s lingering spirit stood by his side, their presence heavy with the weight of the past.
Darius’s hands trembled slightly as he reached out to grasp the cold, ancient tome in front of him, its cover inscribed with cryptic symbols that pulsed with forbidden energy. This was the Pact of Seven Wounds, a binding ritual that would not only tie the fates of his closest allies to his own but also grant him immeasurable power—at the cost of their past traumas.
"Are you sure?" Celestia’s voice was soft but filled with an unspoken worry, her fingers brushing against Darius’s. Her usual calm was gone, replaced by an apprehension that she had never shown before. "This path... it will change us forever."
Darius did not look away from the tome. He could feel the weight of each word on its pages, the suffering they would endure once they sealed this pact. But he had no choice. The Forsaken Gods were closing in, their power threatening to tear apart the very fabric of their world. To survive, to stand against them, he needed to strengthen the bond between his core circle—his most trusted.
"I know," he replied, voice quiet, yet resolute. "But this is the only way forward. We’re running out of time, and if we don’t act now, everything we’ve fought for will crumble."
Kaela stepped forward, her eyes blazing with the chaotic energy that made her so unpredictable. "We were born to be broken," she said, her voice almost a growl. "Let’s break and rebuild."
Nyx, ever the silent sentinel, nodded, her usually icy demeanor now hardened with the certainty of this decision. She glanced at Darius, her sharp gaze never wavering. "We’ll stand by you, even in the darkest moments."
Azael’s spirit, once a mortal advisor, now a faint echo within the Nexus, drifted forward. His ethereal form shimmered with an ancient energy, the essence of someone who had long ago transcended the limits of death. His voice, though soft, was filled with a strange weight, carrying centuries of knowledge. "This pact... it will not be easy. The wounds we seal into you will stay, lingering with you, feeding both your strength and your torment. Are you truly ready to bear this burden?"
Darius took a deep breath, letting the words settle. He could feel the pulse of their collective power, the potential of their union. This pact would bind them all to him, each wound a sacrifice, but it was the only way to ensure they could stand against the might of the Forsaken Gods.
He looked at each of them, his most trusted allies, the ones who had stood by him through every challenge, every twist of fate. Each one of them had a story, a wound that shaped them, a past that defined them. Now, their destinies would intertwine with his.
"I am ready," he said at last, voice firm with the resolve of a man who had long since embraced his own brokenness. "We do this together."
The air around them thickened, charged with divine energy as the ritual began. Kaela was the first to step forward, her eyes meeting Darius’s with a deep understanding. As she placed her palm on the tome, the symbols flared to life, burning with an intensity that threatened to consume them all.
Kaela’s wound was one of chaos—her very existence, born from a rift between worlds, was a gaping wound in reality itself. She had always been the storm, the wild chaos that shattered everything she touched. Her past was a series of violent breaks, every moment a rebellion against the universe’s order.
Her fingers bled as she pressed them to the tome. A flash of lightning lit the room, and the wound she carried—her fractured existence—was sealed into Darius. In that instant, Darius could feel her chaos merge with his being. It burned through him, rewriting his very soul.
Next was Nyx, her cold, calculating gaze unwavering. Her wound was one of betrayal—her heart once given to a king who had ultimately cast her aside. She had been abandoned, left to drown in darkness, her soul marked by the scars of a love lost to time.
Her touch was gentle, but the darkness that followed was far from it. The air around them froze, and a bitter wind swept through the hall as Nyx’s wound was bound to Darius’s. He felt the icy tendrils of her past slip into his own heart, numbing him, making his every movement feel like it was in slow motion. But it was also power. He could feel the edge of her vengeance coursing through him.
Celestia stepped forward, her eyes filled with sorrow. Her wound was one of abandonment—a god’s fall from grace, cast out for defying the laws of her own kind. She had been alone for centuries, stripped of her divinity, left to wander the void between worlds. Her wound was deep, a gash in her very essence.
As her hand touched the tome, the air was filled with the sound of whispered prayers, the broken hymns of forgotten faith. Celestia’s wound pulsed through Darius, filling him with a sense of loss that he had never known. His heart tightened, and for a moment, he felt as if he was suffocating under the weight of her sorrow. But in the depths of that sorrow, he found strength. He found purpose.
Finally, Azael’s spirit moved forward. His wound was one of sacrifice—he had given everything for the knowledge he now imparted, including his mortal body. His soul had been severed from its earthly vessel, leaving him a lingering echo, a specter of the man he once was.
As Azael’s ethereal form touched the tome, Darius felt a deep, resonant pulse. It was as if the very core of his being trembled, as if Azael’s sacrifice was now part of him. The knowledge, the wisdom, and the burden of Azael’s choices were sealed into Darius’s soul.
The hall fell silent once more, but the air hummed with the power of the pact, each of their wounds now a part of Darius. He could feel them, all of them, a part of him. The pain. The power. The responsibility.
Azael’s voice echoed through the chamber one last time, the spirit’s presence fading. "You are not alone, Darius. But beware... the more you take, the more you risk losing yourself."
Darius closed his eyes, feeling the weight of the pact settle over him. It was a burden, yes. But it was also a weapon. And it would be the key to defeating the Forsaken Gods.
As he stood there, surrounded by his allies, he knew that this was only the beginning. The world would soon tremble at the might of the united, the broken, and the reborn.
Darius stood in the center of the shattered temple, his chest bared, seven wounds freshly torn across his body by the blades of divine origin. They bled not with mortal blood—but with condensed strands of black flame, golden script, and forbidden memory. Each gash pulsed like a broken seal, pouring fragments of origin into the air.
The Forsaken Gods stood around him in silence—bound to the rite, unable to look away.
The Pact had begun.
Azael stepped forward with the Scroll of Thorns, its parchment etched in seven languages older than divine speech. As he unrolled it, tendrils of memory coiled from its surface, seeking the wounds on Darius’s body like serpents craving sanctified blood.
"Name your price, King of the Rift," Azael intoned.
Darius’s voice was low but thunderous in intent.
"Power beyond the end. Dominion over betrayal. A soul too vast to be rewritten."
He turned to each god.
"To Threnis—I demand mastery over endings, even those destined to loop."
"To Vorith—I claim the right to feed upon abandoned narratives and wield entropy as a weapon."
"To Lumaera—I will shape futures from regrets and fuse paths never walked into blades of certainty."
Each forsaken god knelt—not in reverence, but in recognition. They were no longer merely relics. They were now part of him.
The Pact Seals
Each god carved a symbol of their essence into Darius’s open wounds. As the last sigil—the glyph of "Unmaking" from Vorith—seared into his spine, a black halo ignited around him, woven with twisting threads of code, blood, and immortal spite.
A voice cried from the veil of realms:
"THIS IS WRONG. THIS IS HERESY."
The Prime Coder’s last remnant, the Watcher of Balance, emerged from the dimensional breach. A spectral titan woven from command lines and logic, it towered above them, blade of rollback in its hand, eyes hollow with audit-fire.
Darius rose, the wounds on his body no longer bleeding but glowing—a new authority burned within him. He looked up, smiling.
"Then let history be rewritten by heresy."
He raised a hand—and the Pact answered.
Seven streams of corrupted divine essence shot skyward, forming a crown of ruin and creation. The Watcher screamed as its rollback command was torn apart mid-execution, reality rejecting the old order like a bad patch.
Celestia, eyes wide and burning with golden tears, whispered, "He’s not just rewriting the rules... he’s becoming the quill."
New Title Unlocked: Riftborne Sovereign of the Seven Wounds
Passive: Reality Warping through Divine Paradox
Effect: Truth and illusion can no longer be defined separately around the user. All attempts to control, audit, or seal his narrative are nullified.
---
The sky above the Nexus fractured like glass.
The Forsaken Gods bowed.
And Darius spoke the first words of his new dominion:
"Let the final age begin."
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