The Heavenly Demon of Terror-Chapter 313: Edge of the Withering Vale, Oblivion

Samuel's POV

The rain from the Human World clung to Owen's cloak as he stepped through the breach. The raw scent of storm still clung to him, and his eyes carried the weight of something more than just memory.

Henry and I were leaning against the jagged ridge overlooking the Vale, where the dying winds of Oblivion whispered in dead tongues. He didn't speak at first. Just handed me the obsidian case.

I caught it in one hand, feeling the faint hum of power run up my wrist.

"You got it," I said.

He nodded. "She gave her word. I gave mine."

Henry blinked, glancing between us. "Wait. Yvette Jennings gave you the scroll without a blood contract or throwing a knife at your face first?"

Owen didn't answer. He just dropped down on the nearest slab of stone and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"...What did she ask for in return?" I asked.

"A favor," Owen muttered. "One I can't refuse. One she'll cash in when it's convenient—for her."

Henry let out a low whistle. "That woman terrifies me more than the Queen of Teeth."

I glanced down at the sealed scroll in my hand, the runes shimmering faintly beneath the obsidian surface. "This'll do. Roselle said it was the last piece we needed for the Gate Seal."

Owen's jaw tightened. "This better be worth it."

I looked at him, and for a moment, I understood more than I wanted to.

He didn't just leave her behind—he escaped her.

And now he'd gone back into the fire for our sake.

I gave him a nod. "It is."

Henry shifted his weight, arms crossed. "So what now? We wait for Roselle and the Goddess of Depression?"

"Despair," I corrected.

He grunted. "Same thing."

"We meet them at the Hollow Altar," I said. "Once the ritual begins, we use this scroll to stabilize the Rift."

Owen looked up at me, eyes hard. "And then what, Samuel? What comes after? You think the Null Architects will just sit and watch?"

I met his gaze. "No. I'm counting on them to come. I want them to come."

Henry raised a brow. "That's either bold... or suicidal."

"Sometimes," I said, "it's the same thing."

The wind howled through the Vale again. In the distance, lightning danced across the skies of Oblivion.

And I knew—

This was just the calm before the reckoning.

________________________________________

Roselle's POV — The Hollow Altar, Heart of Oblivion

The wind here didn't howl. It breathed.

Like a slumbering god beneath the surface, exhaling memories, secrets, and echoes of everything that had been lost in this realm.

Nocturne and I stepped onto the obsidian path, cloaks rippling behind us like banners of ancient war. The Hollow Altar rose ahead — jagged, skeletal pillars circling a basin of black starlight. The air shimmered with waiting power. Old magic. Forgotten oaths.

Nocturne was silent beside me. But that was typical. She didn't speak unless her words would bruise a soul.

Her void-colored dress billowed in slow, unnatural rhythm, and her violet eyes gleamed like fresh wounds in the dark. Her presence made the air colder, heavier. Even Oblivion bent around her sorrow.

"They've arrived," she finally murmured, eyes flicking toward the far edge of the Altar. "I can feel the Harbinger. And the Wolf."

"Samuel and Owen," I said, stepping forward, "along with Henry."

Nocturne tilted her head. "The wild one with too many hearts and no chains? He dreams too loudly."

"That's part of his charm," I muttered, a smirk tugging at my lips.

We reached the center of the Altar, where the obsidian runes were already starting to react to the scroll Owen retrieved. They pulsed in response to my presence — to my blood. Even this place remembered me.

"Still think this plan will work?" Nocturne asked, voice soft but biting.

"No." I looked up at the black sky. "But I know it has to."

She gave me a sidelong glance. "You're gambling your soul on a man who once said you were nothing but shadows and lust."

I smiled faintly. "And yet he came back, didn't he?"

"Only because you let him think it was his idea."

I laughed softly. "Despair and manipulation. We make quite the pair."

She didn't respond — only moved to the far side of the Altar and placed her palm to one of the twisted runic pillars. Shadows curled around her fingers like serpents seeking home.

"I've already begun weaving the siphon," she said. "Once the scroll is placed and the Harbinger spills his blood, the seal will hold long enough."

"Long enough for what?" I asked.

"For the Null Architects to see."

I froze.

Not hear. Not sense.

See.

"You want them to come, too?" I asked slowly.

Nocturne's voice turned to frost. "They've watched from the fractures too long. It's time we pulled them into the light."

I narrowed my eyes. "You always were the most dangerous one among us."

Nocturne turned her face slightly toward me, her expression unreadable.

"I'm the only one who accepted what we were meant to be."

Footsteps echoed behind us.

Samuel.

I didn't turn immediately — just stared at the ritual space, the flickering runes, the altar that once drank the blood of kings and gods alike.

"This is it," I whispered to the darkness. "No turning back now."

And I felt it — the weight of the storm building just beyond the veil. The Pale Queen, the Null Architects, the secrets of the Forgotten Gate.

Everything was about to unravel.

Or be reborn.