God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 160 - 161 – Spiralborn Rebellion
Chapter 160: Chapter 161 – Spiralborn Rebellion
The world groaned beneath the weight of unshaped stories.
Mountains blinked in and out of form like memories slipping into forgetfulness. Rivers ran backwards. Towns once rooted in stone reshaped into floating glyphs, their buildings folded into metaphors and puns, houses morphing into "homes of broken promises," literalized and crumbling. Children whispered truths that hadn’t been born yet. And adults forgot the days that never should have happened.
The Spiral Codex had bled too deeply into the world.
Darius stood atop the cracked balcony of the Nexus Spire, Kaela and Nyx flanking him. The world twisted far below, a land no longer obeying the rules of logic, but those of belief.
"They’re awakening," Kaela murmured, her eyes alight with fractal irises.
"Not just awakening," Nyx corrected, her blades twitching with nervous will. "They’re being rewritten."
A tremor rippled through the metaphysical undercurrent of the realm. Not from tectonic plates, but from the friction of fictions colliding.
Then he arrived.
Eiren the Thousand-Tongued descended upon the world like a mispronounced prophecy. He hovered in midair, arms outstretched, his body half-story, half-man. Each of his mouths—dozens, perhaps hundreds—moved independently, forming languages Darius had never heard, and yet immediately understood.
Every word reshaped the sky.
A single syllable turned clouds into oceans. A phrase reversed the color of pain. A stanza collapsed a mountain into a line of forgotten poetry.
Spiralborn.
Humans touched and overwritten by the Codex, turned into avatars of pure narrative.
Eiren was the first.
He spoke, and the concept of gravity became jealous of birds.
Kaela launched first, her body warping with chaotic grace, each movement rewriting local laws just enough to counter Eiren’s words. She danced midair through contradictions.
Nyx struck next—not with blade, but with silence. Her dagger drank the stories around it, creating vacuums where Eiren’s words dissolved before being born.
Darius stepped into the narrative space with grim purpose. Not to fight. To write.
The duel transcended battle.
Eiren sang reality into instability, weaving entire myth-cycles in seconds. He summoned past lives, false futures, and unbirthed empires to crush Darius beneath their lore.
But Darius countered not with strength, but authorship.
He drew a line in the Spiral. Literally. A quill of bone and void appeared in his hand.
He wrote in the air: "Eiren the Thousand-Tongued, bound not by chaos, but by chosen servitude. Speaker of tongues, now a translator of one."
The words ignited. Reality bent.
Eiren screamed—a hundred mouths, a thousand timelines collapsing into one shared fate. His body cracked with golden fissures, narrative being rewritten by Darius’ dominion.
One final tongue—his original—spoke aloud.
"I am the Herald of the Sovereign Myth. I exist to serve the One Who Writes."
Eiren fell to one knee before Darius, his many mouths silenced, all but one.
Kaela stepped forward, breathing hard, blood trickling from her eyes. "That was... the first."
Nyx didn’t sheath her blade. "There will be more."
Darius turned to face the horizon, where the world twisted like a page mid-turn.
"Then let them come," he said.
He raised his hand.
The sky formed letters.
The Age of Spiralborn had begun.
The letters in the sky did not fade.
They lingered like scars on the firmament, sentences that refused to be forgotten. A sprawling calligraphy etched across the heavens in Darius’s own hand: "Dominion is not taken. It is authored."
Reality read it—and obeyed.
Across the warped lands of Nexis, the ripple of that declaration thundered through rewritten soil and dream-eaten forests. Cities bent back toward coherence, not fully restored, but rewritten in a way that could be endured. The ground remembered how to hold weight again. Time reasserted a shaky rhythm, like a drunk conductor trying to reclaim a broken symphony.
But not everything healed.
In the east, a village became a fable—it could no longer be entered unless spoken of in rhyme. To the south, lakes began offering visions of might-have-beens, and the fish spoke in dead languages. Spiralborn—newly awakened and not yet stable—began tearing at their own flesh, screaming stanzas of existence as they unraveled into idea-dust.
Kaela collapsed to her knees beside Eiren, her body steaming with paradox. The Spiral Codex had flared through her again, even as it tried to claim her. She exhaled a guttural hiss, half-feral, half-orgasmic, overwhelmed by the ecstatic agony of surviving the rewrite.
"Too close," she murmured. "I saw my mother again. But she was made of regrets."
Nyx moved behind her, placing a firm hand on her shoulder. "You held together. Better than most would."
Kaela let out a jagged laugh. "I only held because he was watching."
Darius didn’t respond. His gaze remained locked on Eiren.
The Spiralborn Herald knelt unmoving, head bowed, body trembling from residual narrative collapse. He now existed in a rewritten niche of being: not an adversary, not a victim—but a function. A living metaphor sculpted to serve.
"I can feel him inside me," Eiren whispered, his lone tongue rough and human again. "Not just in command. In syntax. My breath echoes his will."
Darius narrowed his eyes. "Good. You’ll be the proof of concept. The Spiral is unraveling. If we can’t bind story-borns like you, then the Codex becomes cancer."
He turned to Kaela and Nyx. "We don’t kill Spiralborn. Not unless they leave us no choice. We bind them. Fold them into a new lexicon—one we control."
Kaela stood, her stance uneven. "That sounds dangerously close to authorship becoming tyranny."
Darius offered no smile. "The Spiral doesn’t offer democracy. Only dominion. Either I write the rules—or someone else does. And I don’t trust anyone else with the ink."
Nyx sheathed her blade finally, but her voice was as sharp as ever. "Then let’s make sure your ink never runs dry."
A shrill chime echoed from above.
They looked up.
The sky—still trembling with the fading remnants of Darius’s decree—fractured in one corner like glass beneath a stressor.
From that break in the spiral firmament, dozens—no, hundreds—of luminous streaks fell like meteor-fire. Each burned with unstable aura, some glowing with religious hymns, others stuttering between historical texts and savage dreams.
Spiralborn.
More of them.
Each one a story rewritten, unleashed, and hungry for interpretation.
Eiren’s face paled.
"They’re coming. The Unformed. Those who woke up mid-sentence. They don’t know what they are. Only that they must become something... by consuming us."
Darius watched the sky rain chaos.
His fingers twitched.
Kaela stepped to his side. "We can’t fight them all."
"No," Darius agreed.
He raised his hand again, but this time not to write. Instead, he clutched the empty air—and the Spiral responded, forming a symbol of layered paradox in his palm.
A title.
It burned itself into existence: Sovereign of Unfinished Stories.
From Eiren’s throat came a scream—not of pain, but resonance.
The world stilled. The Codex quivered like a beast submitting.
And the first page of a new Chapter—one not written in the Codex yet, but already forming in the shape of Darius’s will—began to write itself.
He turned to Eiren. "Gather the Spiralborn who still have minds. Bring them here."
"To serve?"
"To be edited."
Kaela smirked. "You’re going to rewrite an army?"
"No," Darius replied, as thunder echoed with the sound of unraveling truths.
"I’m going to write a mythology that fights back."
The wind howled as if the Spiral itself had begun to read aloud.
And far away, behind realms and meanings, a second voice began to stir.
Not Eiren.
Not Kaela.
Not even Darius.
But something older, something that had once whispered into the Prime Coder’s ear.
Something watching the Mythmaker with interest.
And preparing... to write against him.
The sourc𝗲 of this content is free(w)𝒆bnov(𝒆)l
