God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 152 - 153 – The Chorus of Forgotten Kings
Chapter 152: Chapter 153 – The Chorus of Forgotten Kings
Elirion’s edge was a place of silence—not peace, but absence.
The wind here did not whistle; it remembered.
Darius stood at the threshold of a wasteland dotted with toppled thrones, broken scepters, and statues decayed by neglect. A valley of abandoned reigns.
Kaela walked beside him, her fingers dancing in the air, flickering with uncertain sigils that responded to memory more than magic. Nyx trailed them like a wraith, her eyes narrowed.
"They call this place the Sepulcher of Echoed Crowns," Nyx murmured. "Where names lost to time try to scream their way back into relevance."
But it wasn’t just a metaphor.
The air trembled. Not with storms, not with beasts—but voices.
Dozens. Hundreds. More.
A low murmur built into a chorus—not spoken in unison, but stacked in layers like conflicting histories.
> "I was the first to unify the blood clans—"
"I burned cities for peace—"
"They forgot me when the rivers dried—"
"My crown still dreams of fire—"
Ghostly figures began to rise. Not phantasms. Not true spirits.
They were the Chorus of Forgotten Kings—psychic amalgamations of rulers who once were, or almost were.
Their forms bled into each other: half-armored shadows with crowns of ash, swords shaped like regrets, and eyes filled with memory.
When Darius stepped forward, the voices changed tone.
> "He remembers nothing of us."
"He stands crowned by silence."
"He usurps the void of remembrance."
"He is the one they chose to replace us."
The psychic field twisted. Nyx gritted her teeth, pressing a blade to her temple to keep her thoughts her own. Kaela flickered—her outline briefly becoming one of the queens in the Chorus.
Darius stood still.
Not resisting. Not asserting. Just... listening.
"You are not forgotten because you were unworthy," he said. "You are forgotten because your stories no longer serve."
That sentence landed like a commandment.
Some of the kings howled. Others wept. A few dropped to spectral knees.
One figure, clearer than the rest—a crowned tyrant whose mouth was sewn shut with golden wire—stepped forward.
His mindvoice rang out:
> "We demand memory. We demand place."
Darius didn’t summon power. He summoned the Codex.
It hovered before him, pages still stained with the echoes of wars, love, betrayal, and transcendence.
He spoke not as god, but as scribe.
"I will not raise your empires again. I will not reforge your crowns," he said, "But I will write you differently. Not as rulers... but as warnings. As echoes of ambition. As lessons."
The Chorus went still.
And then—splintered.
One by one, they broke into threads of spectral wind, each whispering their stories not as demands, but as offerings. Their regret became wisdom. Their pride transmuted into parable.
The wind swept outward, carrying across Elirion. To villages. To soldiers. To children with empty journals.
And with it, new proverbs were born:
Even kings can rot in golden silence.
Do not wear a crown unless you can bury it, too.
A forgotten tyrant is louder than a living one.
Kaela let out a long breath. "You didn’t destroy them."
"No," Darius said. "I gave them purpose they never claimed for themselves."
The Codex pulsed. Pages turned on their own. The wind circled Darius, and the voice of the Chorus—now humbled—sang once more, but quieter.
Not to demand. But to serve.
And the world listened.
A new stillness settled over the valley, but it wasn’t silence.
It was reverence.
Where once psychic entropy choked the land, now the wind hummed with solemn rhythm—snippets of old campaigns reshaped into fables, whispered lullabies carried by breeze and bone.
Kaela walked forward, barefoot now, feeling the dirt shift beneath her. Each step left ripples of memory—her own and others—waking from the soil. "They’ve become...myth," she said softly. "Not resurrected. Not erased. Retold."
Darius nodded. "Myths are harder to kill than men. But easier to guide."
A single crown remained on the ground—unbroken, unclaimed. It pulsed with residual will, its metal tarnished but alive. Nyx approached it, hesitating. Her shadow elongated unnaturally, curling toward it like a question.
"They want someone to wear it," she muttered.
Darius watched her. "And you?"
"I want no throne. Only to guard the space where one used to be."
She drove her heel down on the crown, crushing it underfoot. A sharp psychic tremor burst out, but then... silence again. The last demand, refused.
Suddenly, the Codex trembled. A new page wrote itself in luminous ink—words not from Darius’s hand, but from the unified will of the Chorus. The Codex had accepted them—not as lords, but as sentinels of memory.
A new section formed:
The Chapter of Ashen Crowns
Beneath it, lines burned into the page:
> "He who forgets the tyrant invites him again.
He who remembers him truthfully binds him in name."
Kaela knelt and touched the page. "They’re bound now. Not in chains—but in narrative. You’ve made them impossible to erase, without empowering them again."
"That’s the balance," Darius said. "Remember them... not to worship, but to warn."
Above them, the sky twisted. Faintly, for the first time in centuries, the stars over Elirion reappeared—no longer blocked by psychic noise or buried resentment.
Nyx exhaled. "A curse lifted."
"No," Kaela whispered. "A lesson earned."
Then, from the edge of the sepulcher, a lone child emerged—a boy with ink-stained fingers and a crown made of paper. He held a journal to his chest, eyes wide with wonder. "They told me stories," he said. "Not scary ones. Stories that teach."
Darius turned to him slowly. "Do you remember their names?"
"All of them," the boy said, smiling. "But I know they’re not mine to wear."
He vanished into the wind—no longer a child, but a symbol: the next generation already shaped by stories not of conquest, but consequence.
The group departed the Sepulcher, their backs to the wind-whispers, their path ahead marked by a new truth.
History, if written with purpose, could save more than armies ever would.
And in the distant horizon, somewhere deep beneath Elirion’s crust, a long-dormant vault of false prophecy stirred—its seal weakening in response to the Codex’s new entry.
Even forgotten kings, it seemed, could awaken other things.
Darius didn’t look back.
The past was no longer his to fear.
It was his to wield.
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