The God of Underworld-Chapter 342 - 41

At this moment, in the battlefield where Michael, Lugh, and Ra are located.

The Glass-Lungs, a Matured Outer One of terrifying conceptual weight, had now become a localized apocalypse that brought them despair.

It hung in the rift like a cancerous diamond, its thousands of crystalline chambers pulsating with a rhythmic, wet sound.

Each inhalation sucked in the prayers of mortals and the auras of minor gods, and each exhalation released a grey, suffocating vapor of Nihility.

This vapor was not just a gas, it was the manifestation of the very concept of "Primordial Chaos".

Where it touched the wings of the Seraphim, their feathers turned to dust.

Where it touched the golden shields of Ra's sun-warriors, the metal rotted into a brittle, nameless grey ash.

The razor-thin filaments of Primordial Chaos—vibrating at frequencies that shattered the laws of geometry—lashed out like invisible scythes, severing the conceptual anchors of the gods themselves.

Lugh felt his spear grow heavy and cold, and the "Light of the Tuatha Dé Danann" was being choked out by the grey fog.

Beside him, Ra, the ancient Sun of Egypt, looked older than he ever had; his solar disk was no longer a roaring furnace, but a flickering ember, struggling to breathe in the oxygen-less vacuum of the Glass-Lungs' domain.

"...Is this the end of ours?" Lugh whispered, his voice cracking. "Is the world to be erased by a thing that was just bored of our story?"

Despair, a heavy and oily darkness, began to settle over the millions of angels and deities.

The Great Breach was widening, and the "Glass-Lungs" were winning.

But then, from the center of the faltering angelic host, a pillar of white-hot, absolute fire erupted.

Michael, the Archangel, stepped forward, his wings, which had been drooping under the weight of the grey vapor, suddenly snapped open with the sound of a thousand rushing waters.

They glowed, no they didn't just glow, they became conduits for a Primal Faith that existed before the first star was named.

"Do not look at the shadow!" Michael's voice boomed, carrying the weight of the Eternal Word. "Do not let your hearts be troubled! If you believe in the Light; believe also in the Power that binds the Light!"

The fire surrounding Michael was not the fire of the sun, nor the fire of the forge. it was the Fire of his faith, it was the heat of a conviction that refused to be written out of existence.

"For it is written!" Michael roared, his eyes turning into twin suns of incandescent holiness. "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it!" (John 1:5).

As he spoke, the grey vapor touching his aura didn't just dissipate—it was Incinerated.

Michael raised his flaming sword high, and as he did, the millions of angels behind him felt a sudden, rhythmic thrumming in their own hearts.

It was the Song of the Morning Stars, the original melody of creation, the song that was composed and written by angel most beloved by God.

"Look upon me!" Michael commanded, his wings casting a shadow of brilliant gold over the terrified gods. "We are not mere inks written on a book! We are the chosen guardians of the Father's House! And 'Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me!' (Psalm 23:4). The Lord is our Shepherd, and we shall not want!"

The fire of Michael's faith acted as a spiritual catalyst as it spread through the ranks of the gods like a wildfire through dry grass.

Ra felt the "Heat of the First Dawn" return to his solar disk; he stood taller, his eagle-eyes refocusing on the enemy. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

Lugh felt the "Prismatic Will" of his people surging back into his spear.

"Hear the Archangel!" Ra bellowed, his voice regaining its solar thunder. "The Nile may dry, but the Sun shall never be extinguished!"

"For the Land! For the Home!" Lugh cried, his spear igniting with a rainbow-hued flame that cut through the grey smog.

Under Michael's leadership, the unified host launched a counter-attack fueled by the Fire of Faith.

Millions of angels began to chant in the language of the First Heaven, their voices creating a "Conceptual Shield" of pure light that pushed back the Glass-Lungs' filaments.

The Seraphim dived, their bodies becoming spears of holy fire, striking the crystalline chambers of the monster.

Michael himself led the charge, for at this moment, he was no longer a warrior; he was a Decree.

He flew directly into the heart of the grey vapor, his sword carving through the filaments of Primordial Chaos as if they were cobwebs.

"'Who is like unto God?'" Michael shouted—the very meaning of his name.

He slammed his flaming blade into the central chamber of the Glass-Lungs, the impact was causing Spiritual Detonation as the fire of his faith flooded the crystalline interior of the monster, seeking to shatter its "Nothingness" with the "Absolute Presence" of the Word.

The Glass-Lungs let out a shriek of grinding, shattered glass—a sound that was the conceptual opposite of Michael's song.

A dozen of its largest chambers exploded, sending shards of obsidian and grey glass flying through the vacuum.

The grey vapor began to recede, turning into a harmless mist as Michael's fire purified the air.

For a moment, it seemed as if the victory was won.

The gods cheered, and the angels sang a chorus of Hallelujah that shook the pillars of the Hyperverse.

But as the smoke cleared, the cheering died in their throats.

The Glass-Lungs was still there.

It had been shattered, yes. Its central core was cracked, and half of its filaments were burned to ash, but it was not dead.

Instead, it was Adapting.

The shards of shattered glass didn't drift away, but began to vibrate and fly back toward the monster's core.

The "Nothingness" of the Outer One was deep—deeper than a single strike could reach as the creature began to reform, but this time, it was different.

It began to mimic the "Fire" of Michael. It grew new, crystalline wings that flickered with a False Light, and its filaments began to hum with a mockery of the angelic song.

The monster looked at Michael with its thousands of fractured, crystalline eyes.

It had tasted the fire of his faith, and instead of dying, it was beginning to Consume the concept of faith itself to fuel its own hunger.

Michael's expression remained firm, but his grip on his sword tightened. The fire was still burning, but the shadow before him had just grown teeth that could bite the soul.

"It still breathes," Ra whispered, his sun-disk flickering as he sensed the monster's new, twisted frequency.

"Then we shall strike it until it forgets how," Michael replied, his wings flaring again, even as the Glass-Lungs began to exhale a new, darker vapor that smelled of Sacrilege.

Michael turned to Lugh and Ra, his face set in a mask of marble-like resolve.

"Hold the line at all costs," the Archangel commanded, his voice vibrating with the authority of the First Heaven. "Fortify the dimensions. I shall prepare the Final Doxology. We shall simulate the advent of the Sovereign, for only the image of the Anchor can shatter a vacuum this deep."

Ra bowed his head, his solar disk flaring in a desperate wall of fire. "Don't worry, I promise this as the God King of Egypt! The Sun shall not set while the Archangel prays!"

Lugh planted his feet upon the void, his spear splitting into a million prismatic barriers. "Go, Michael! We will keep this glass horror from your back!"

Michael ascended, but he did not go toward the enemy, but higher into the zenith of the sector.

He spread his glowing wings to their absolute limit, and as he did, he sent a mental clarion call to every Angel, Seraph, and Throne within the ten universes.

"'Lift up your heads, O ye gates; and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of glory shall come in!'" (Psalm 24:7).

Millions of angels ceased their individual combat and formed a colossal, spiraling formation behind Michael.

They began to chant in the Enochian tongue—the language of the unwritten laws as fheir individual auras began to bleed together, losing their distinct identities to become a singular, terrifying sea of white-hot holiness.

Michael stood at the apex of this celestial pyramid.

He closed his eyes and reached deep into the Heart of the Hyperverse, touching the resonance of Hades to borrow power from his Lord.

They were going to simulate, the coming of the one true god.

"'And I saw a great white throne, and Him that sat on it, from whose face the earth and the heaven fled away!'" (Revelation 20:11).

The simulation began.

The millions of angels acted as a collective lens, focusing their light through Michael's form as a phantom image began to manifest behind the Archangel—a figure of impossible scale, draped in robes of purple starlight, holding a spear that crackled with the authority of the Ten Worlds.

It was a conceptual shadow of Hades, projected through the medium of angelic faith.

The Glass-Lungs sensed the change as the "False Light" it had mimicked began to crack.

The creature lunged forward, its filaments of Primordial Chaos whipping through the air like lashes of localized non-existence as it tried to pierce the angelic formation, to break the focus before the "King" arrived.

"'The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?'" Michael's voice now carried the weight of the entire angelic host. (Psalm 27:1).

The grey vapor of the Outer One struck the outer shell of the angelic formation and was instantly vaporized.

The "Nothingness" of the monster met the "Absolute Necessity" of the Throne.

Michael raised his sword, which had now grown into a pillar of blinding, violet-white flame.

The simulated image of Hades mirrored the movement, the phantom spear leveling at the Glass-Lungs.

"'Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!'" (Romans 12:19).

The Archangel unleashed the attack: The Seventh Trumpet of the Lord.

A wave of sound and light erupted from Michael, carrying the frequency of Perfect Law.

It was not a physical strike, but a Declaration of Existence!

It hit the Glass-Lungs with the force of a trillion suns, and the crystalline chambers, which had been inhaling divinity, suddenly found themselves overfilled with a light they could not process.

The "Nothingness" inside the monster was forcibly replaced with "Being."

The Glass-Lungs shrieked, its internal geometry collapsing as the simulated presence of the Supreme Deity forced it to obey the laws of physics.

Its wings of false light were stripped away, and its obsidian core began to glow with a frantic, terminal violet.

"'And the seventh angel sounded; and there were great voices in heaven, saying, The kingdoms of this world are become the kingdoms of our Lord!'" (Revelation 11:15).

The explosion shattered the sector.

The Glass-Lungs was ripped apart, its crystalline shards reduced to fine, holy sand.

The grey vapor was cleansed from the Breach, replaced by the scent of frankincense and the hum of the True Heavens.

Michael drifted down, his wings singed and his eyes weeping golden tears from the strain of channeling the Divine Image.

The angelic host behind him fell into a respectful silence, their energies spent.

But even as the "sand" of the monster drifted away, Michael's expression did not soften.

He looked at the Breach, the monster was gone, but the Wound it had created was still there, and something far larger—the "Ultimate Shadow" of the Black Tide—was beginning to push its way through the gap.

"We have cleared the way," Michael whispered, his sword flickering as its flame finally went out. "But the King must now truly walk his ramparts."