Chapter 175: The Prophet of the Pale Flame
The violet rift in the sky remained as a jagged reminder of the Warden's fall, casting an eerie, bruised light over the valley. At the farmhouse, the air was thick with the scent of ozone and the heavy, metallic tang of divine blood. Volt, the Demon King, stood on the porch, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He could feel the desperate shifting of the celestial gears; the High Council was no longer merely angry—they were terrified. For the first time in an eternity, the gods had realized that the "Author" was not just writing a new story, but systematically erasing theirs.
While Anos and Akuto sat by the hearth, their bodies absorbing the massive surge of energy from the recent battle, a sudden, unnatural stillness descended upon the farm. The wind died instantly. The crackling of the fire became a silent dance of orange light. From the edge of the forest, a figure emerged—not a warrior in golden armor, but an old man draped in tattered robes the color of dead ash. He carried a wooden staff topped with a flickering, pale flame that gave off no heat.
This was Malachi, the Prophet of the Pale Flame, the oldest messenger of the Upper Realm. He was the one the gods sent when their swords failed—a bringer of warnings and ancient pacts.
Volt stepped down into the yard, his presence causing the frost-covered grass to turn into obsidian shards. "The Council sends a ghost to do a god's work?" Volt's voice was a low growl that shook the foundations of the house. "You are far from your golden halls, Prophet."
Malachi stopped ten paces away, the pale flame on his staff leaning toward Volt as if drawn by a vacuum. "I come not to fight, Sovereign," the Prophet whispered, his voice like dry leaves skittering over stone. "I come to show you the end of the book you are writing. You have gained much influence in this realm. Your sons have tasted the essence of the Warden. But look at the world around you. Your 'Author's Mark' is a flame that consumes everything it touches."
Malachi raised his staff, and the pale flame expanded, projecting a vision into the cold air. In the vision, the farmhouse was gone, replaced by a wasteland of black crystal. Anos and Akuto were standing amidst the ruins, but they were no longer men—they were hollow shells of pure power, their humanity burned away by the very divinity they had consumed.
"The Council offers a pact," Malachi continued. "Cease your expansion. Return the stolen authority of the Author. In return, the High Council will grant this valley eternal peace, hidden from the eyes of the Void and the wars of the heavens. You can live as a father, Volt, not as a catalyst for the world's ending."
Anos and Akuto stepped out onto the porch, their auras flaring in response to the Prophet's words. Akuto's eyes flashed with the golden flecks he had gained from Uriel. "A pact? Now that they are losing, they want to talk about peace?" Akuto spat, his hand twitching toward the God-Slayer.
Volt looked at the vision of the wasteland and then at his sons. He saw the potential for the darkness Malachi described, the risk of their power growing so large that it crushed the very thing they were trying to protect. For a fleeting second, the heart of the father wavered. He thought of the peaceful life Vanessa and Aki deserved. But then, he looked at the golden crest on his wrist. It wasn't just a mark of power; it was a mark of truth.
"The gods speak of peace as if it is a gift they bestow," Volt said, stepping closer to the Prophet until the pale flame began to flicker and die in his shadow. "But your peace is a cage. You want me to stop writing because you fear the ending I have planned for you."
Volt reached out and gripped the Prophet's staff. The wood groaned and began to turn into black ash. "Tell the Council this: I did not survive the eons and reclaim my throne to settle for a 'hidden valley.' My sons will not be 'protected' by your grace; they will be the ones who define grace for the next age."
The Prophet's eyes widened as the dark energy from Volt's mark flowed into the pale flame, turning it into a roaring violet inferno. "Then you choose the path of Ruin," Malachi gasped, his form beginning to fade back into the mist. "The Seraphim of the Seventh Wing are already descending. They will not bring warnings. They will bring the End."
"Let them come," Volt replied, shattering the staff into dust. "I have already finished the chapter where they die."
As the Prophet vanished, the stillness broke. The wind returned with a vengeful howl, carrying the scent of incense and old parchment. The surge of data within the farm's ley lines spiked again, the influence of the Demon King's family reaching a level that forced the world's 'system' to begin an emergency update.
Sasha and Karin walked down to stand beside the boys. They didn't ask about the pact. They knew Volt's answer before he even spoke it. They began to sharpen their weapons, the sound of whetstone on steel a grim melody in the winter night.
Volt turned to his heirs. "The gods have shown us their fear. Now, we must show them why that fear is justified. Anos, prepare the ley lines for a planetary-scale ward. Akuto, take the Sakuna energy and weave it into the foundations of the mountains. If the Seraphim want the End, we will give them ours."
The night was no longer just a time for rest. It was the eve of the greatest war the world had ever seen. The Demon King sat back on his throne, his eyes burning with the light of a thousand written destinies. The ink was dry, the characters were ready, and the battle for the final page had begun.