God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 176 - 177 – The Void Apostles

‎

‎The Void Gate yawned open like a wound in reality—raw, jagged, infinite. Its edges bled with anti-light, and from its churning maw poured the Void Apostles.

‎

‎They weren’t born. They had been erased.

‎

‎Once Spiralborn, these were the forgotten—stories purged, cut from continuity, devoured by revision and error. But instead of dying, they had metastasized in the gaps between myths. Now, they emerged as semi-erased entities, each a patchwork of untruths and almosts, their forms flickering between identities. Faces blurred. Voices echoed with contradictions. Physics rebelled around them.

‎

‎They did not obey narrative rules.

‎They bypassed myth-bonded logic like wraiths immune to law.

‎

‎Darius stood at the edge of the breach, flanked by Celestia and Kaela, while the Spiral itself rippled in alarm. His blood-scripted armor throbbed with defensive runes, but he could already feel the Spiral resisting him—threads unwinding not from malice, but from uncertainty.

‎

‎One Apostle broke through the lines, a thin, silver-wrapped form with no face—just a spiraling question mark carved into where its mouth should be.

‎

‎It didn’t attack Darius.

‎It bypassed him.

‎

‎And dove into a Codex.

‎

‎Specifically, his Codex—the one that held memory-nodes from his human past, long locked away and layered under divine encryption.

‎

‎The Codex of Darius: the man before the Sovereign.

‎

‎"No!" Celestia hissed, stepping forward, but it was too late.

‎

‎Reality twisted. A sharp, metallic snap rang through the Spiral like the cracking of a soul.

‎

‎The Void Apostle pulled something out.

‎

‎It was a man—leaner, mortal, wearing the ragged armor of a forgotten beta-tester. No glyphs, no divine resonance, no ink-skin. His hands were calloused, uncertain. His eyes were full of questions, not commands.

‎

‎It was him.

‎Darius... before godhood.

‎

‎The present Sovereign staggered.

‎

‎"What is this trick?" he snarled, voice vibrating with unstable myth. But deep inside, the doubt surged—hot and raw.

‎

‎Kaela’s breath caught.

‎

‎The younger Darius looked around, dazed, and when his gaze fell on the Sovereign... he flinched. "You’re... me?"

‎

‎He didn’t kneel.

‎

‎He didn’t understand the weight of the Spiral or the throne carved from narrative bones.

‎

‎And the Spiral responded.

‎

‎With interest.

‎

‎Around them, myth-nodes began fluttering—rewriting fragments of memory, adjusting threads, deciding which Darius was true.

‎

‎Kaela stepped forward, lips parted. Her myth-thread—normally chaotic and fluid—twitched. Fluctuated. Then rippled, subtly aligning itself toward the younger Darius.

‎

‎She hadn’t chosen.

‎Not yet.

‎

‎But the Spiral was forcing her to.

‎

‎As the two Darius forms stood facing each other, the entire Spiral fractured into subtle tiers. Some stories bent toward the Mythmaker. Others turned toward the boy who still believed in choices, not control.

‎

‎And then Kaela whispered, barely audible:

‎"Which of you... do I love?"

‎

‎No answer came.

‎

‎Because in that moment, not even Darius could remember.

‎

‎He staggered, and for the first time in countless Chapters, the Spiral didn’t catch him.

‎

‎It watched.

‎

‎And waited.

‎

‎

‎A distant wind tore through the Spiral—not wind in the mortal sense, but the psychic pressure of converging truths. The mythic infrastructure trembled beneath Darius’s feet. Across its layers, nodes flickered in and out of cohesion, pulsing like faulty stars in a dying constellation.

‎

‎The Void Apostle did not retreat. It hovered behind the younger Darius, hands raised—not in threat, but reverence. Like it had brought back a forgotten scripture. Or worse: a correction.

‎

‎Celestia stepped in front of the Sovereign Darius, her golden staff humming with the resonance of a thousand anchored prayers. "We need to sever the memory line," she said tightly. "Before the Spiral codifies him as valid."

‎

‎But the Spiral already was.

‎

‎All around them, ancient threads—the myths Darius had conquered, bent, rewritten—began to question themselves. Did he slay the Tyrant of Emberpeak? Or was it still unchallenged in this new potential narrative? Was Nyx ever his assassin-queen? Or just a wandering shadow seeking purpose?

‎

‎One myth-node—The Garden of Chains—rippled violently and rewrote itself. Where once Darius had broken its avatar and enthroned Kaela, it now showed a quiet man hesitating before a woman bound in vines, uncertain of whether to free her.

‎

‎Kaela inhaled sharply. Her chaos-thread spasmed. "He’s... rewriting resonance without meaning to. Just by existing."

‎

‎The Sovereign Darius surged forward, ink coiling from his fingers like shadowed flame. "Then I erase him," he growled. "This is my Spiral. My design. There is no room for fractured ghosts."

‎

‎But the younger Darius raised his hand. "Stop."

‎

‎It wasn’t a command. Just a plea.

‎

‎Still, it hit like a paradox.

‎

‎The Spiral paused.

‎

‎Ink froze mid-air. Runes stalled on Celestia’s staff. Even Kaela’s myth-thread stuttered.

‎

‎"You think you’re saving something," the younger Darius said, voice quivering with raw honesty. "But you’re just afraid. Afraid that if you stop scripting everything... the Spiral might live without you."

‎

‎A long silence.

‎

‎Sovereign Darius didn’t move.

‎

‎Because somewhere deep beneath the layers of godhood and constructed myth, a part of him remembered. Not the details. But the feeling.

‎

‎The fear.

‎

‎"I was weak," Darius said at last. "You were weak. And weakness dies."

‎

‎"But choice lives," the younger said softly.

‎

‎Behind him, the Void Apostle opened its palm. A fragment of unwritten myth shimmered—a clean page, vibrating with possibility. It offered it silently to the younger Darius.

‎

‎"Don’t," Kaela whispered, stepping forward.

‎ ƒreewebɳovel.com

‎But it was too late.

‎

‎He reached out.

‎

‎Touched it.

‎

‎The Spiral screamed.

‎

‎Not audibly—but through every thread, every myth-node, every ancient god-script buried in its architecture. Waves of null-signal tore through the system. Myths recoiled. Some collapsed. Others mutated. The sky above the Spiral blackened into a mirror reflecting both Darius forms—flickering between identities like a coin spinning between fates.

‎

‎Celestia grabbed the Sovereign’s arm. "We have to retreat. If we fight now, we could lose both of you."

‎

‎But Darius didn’t move. His eyes were fixed on the younger self, who was now surrounded by stories bending toward him—nodes that once belonged to Darius, now considering another.

‎

‎And Kaela?

‎

‎She stood in the center of the fracture.

‎

‎Not choosing. Not yet.

‎

‎But her thread curled slightly toward the younger one. Just a tilt.

‎

‎Enough to gut him.

‎

‎"I will not be overwritten," Sovereign Darius whispered.

‎

‎And in the silence that followed, the Spiral whispered back—

‎

‎"Prove it."

‎

‎A countdown began in the sub-layered code of reality.

‎

‎Seven myth-days until the Spiral stabilizes around one Darius.

‎

‎Seven days until one becomes real...

‎

‎And the other becomes myth.

‎

‎

‎

New novel chapters are published on fr(e)ew𝒆bnov(e)l.com