God of Death: Rise of the NPC Overlord-Chapter 138 - 139 – Memory of the First Flame

The Forge Throne was older than time, older than the written words that governed gods and mortals alike. Its blackened iron pulsed with the embers of creation itself—the last remnant of the First Flame, kindled by the First Storyteller.

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‎Darius knew the truth the moment his fingers grazed the throne’s molten edges. It was not simply a seat of power; it was a conduit, a bridge to the genesis of all reality. The moment stretched into eternity, the weight of his own existence pressing against him like an unforgiving tide.

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‎But with that realization came the cost.

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‎A flicker in his mind—like a candle snuffed out.

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‎Kaela’s laughter, her rebellious smirk, her fire in the dark—all gone in an instant.

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‎Another flicker.

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‎Nyx’s voice, sharp as shattered glass and soft as twilight’s embrace—vanished.

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‎The memories unraveled like dying threads, slipping through his grasp no matter how fiercely he fought to hold them. Reality did not permit contradiction. By embracing the authority of the First Storyteller, Darius had become something beyond its boundaries—an architect of fate with the power to shape existence itself.

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‎But his past could not coexist with his future.

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‎The Forge Throne began to reshape around him, its form twisting into something new. A desk, a book, a blade forged from the marrow of forgotten worlds. The ink that bled from his fingertips onto parchment carried the weight of judgment. Each stroke of the quill shifted the foundations of reality itself.

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‎He could rewrite everything. He could erase Elira’s fall, undo Celestia’s sacrifice, restore the gods to their former stature, or condemn them to eternal ruin. He was no longer bound by the constraints of mortality or divinity—he was the story itself.

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‎But the price was steep.

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‎With every correction, with every reimagined moment, pieces of himself were lost to the void. His memories, his relationships, his regrets—fragmented into dust, swallowed by the hunger of the First Flame.

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‎His breathing grew ragged.

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‎His heart pounded.

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‎He was losing himself.

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‎Then, amidst the chaos, a whisper.

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‎Soft, aching. A familiar presence.

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‎Celestia.

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‎She did not speak—she was only an echo now, a lingering warmth where once she had stood beside him. But even as she faded, she reached out with what little remained of her essence, brushing against his fractured mind.

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‎A reminder.

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‎Love.

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‎It was the only thread that held his soul together. Not power. Not conquest. Not vengeance. Love was the binding force—the last tether to who he had once been, before the gods had turned him into their instrument, before fate had written him as a pawn in its endless cycle.

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‎Darius exhaled slowly, the ink-stained quill trembling in his grasp.

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‎He would not rewrite it all.

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‎Not blindly.

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‎Not recklessly.

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‎Instead, he would forge a new tale—a story where the broken could rise, where the forgotten could reclaim their place, where love could outlast even the cruelest forces of fate.

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‎And so, the First Storyteller wrote.

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‎

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‎But a beginning.

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‎The ink bled across the parchment like liquid fire, shaping words that trembled beneath the weight of creation. Every stroke of Darius’s quill was a decree, a rewrite of existence itself.

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‎But the more he wrote, the more the world trembled.

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‎The First Flame pulsed at his back, surging in violent bursts, feeding off the fragments of his unraveling mind. With every alteration, a thread of his past snapped.

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‎Kaela.

‎Nyx.

‎Celestia.

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‎Their voices dimmed, their memories thinning into spectral echoes.

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‎Darius clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around the quill until his fingers ached. He had fought for control all his life. First, against the gods who had imprisoned him within their rigid order, then against the mortals who feared his power, and now—against the very essence of reality itself.

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‎But even he could not hold onto something that was slipping through his grasp like sand.

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‎A tremor rocked the Forge Throne. The Mirrored Archive shuddered, its endless walls of shimmering script rippling like water disturbed by unseen hands. A force—something beyond the gods, beyond fate—was watching.

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‎Elyon’s lingering presence hung in the air, a whisper woven into the strands of the Archive. The twin of the Prime Coder had vanished, consumed by the power Darius had taken, but his influence remained.

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‎"You wield the story, but do you understand its weight?"

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‎Darius ignored the voice. He could not afford doubt—not now, not when the very fabric of existence rested in his palm.

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‎He pressed the quill to the parchment once more.

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‎A rewrite.

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‎Elira’s fall—halted. Celestia’s sacrifice—averted. The Dominion—preserved.

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‎But the ink refused to take.

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‎The parchment beneath his fingertips burned away, revealing lines of code etched into the void—unchangeable. Immutable. The Prime Coder’s first decree.

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‎There were laws even the First Storyteller could not break.

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‎A pulse of rage surged through Darius. He refused to be bound—not by gods, not by fate, not by the ghosts of creators long gone.

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‎He reached deeper.

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‎Beyond the parchment, beyond the Archive, beyond the veil of existence itself.

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‎And there—buried in the depths of forgotten creation—he found it.

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‎The Memory of the First Flame.

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‎A flickering ember, barely visible, trembling in the abyss. It was the moment before the first word was spoken, before the first world was shaped, before the first god dreamed reality into being.

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‎Pure, raw possibility.

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‎If he touched it, he could undo everything.

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‎Not just rewrite. Unmake.

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‎The breath caught in his throat. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

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‎It was tempting.

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‎He could erase the pain.

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‎Undo his suffering.

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‎Reclaim his lost memories.

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‎A world where Kaela still stood beside him. Where Nyx never wavered. Where Celestia never had to burn.

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‎He reached out—

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‎And then stopped.

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‎Celestia’s echo still lingered, a warmth against the void, whispering the one truth he could not ignore.

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‎Love was not preserved in rewrites.

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‎It was lived.

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‎He withdrew his hand, closing his fist. The ember flickered once more before vanishing into the darkness.

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‎The ember’s fading light left behind a hollow silence, stretching across the Mirrored Archive like a wound carved into the fabric of creation. Darius stood unmoving, his breath shallow, his body trembling.

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‎He had chosen.

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‎Not the path of absolute erasure. Not the temptation of rewriting reality into a perfect dream.

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‎Instead, he had embraced **the story**—the truth that some things must be lost, some wounds must remain, and some love must exist only in memory.

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‎But the gods would not allow it.

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‎A fissure split across the Archive’s walls, cracks forming in the crystalline text as the Prime Coder’s decree trembled beneath the weight of Darius’s defiance. The old laws had seen only destruction and obedience—but never a force like him.

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‎From the void between words, they emerged.

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‎Spectral beings, forged from raw code and divine law, the Keepers of the Last Edit.

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‎They were faceless, for they had never been named.

‎They were silent, for they had never been questioned.

‎They were ruthless, for they existed only to correct the disobedient.

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‎And now, they came for him.

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‎Darius turned as the first Keeper lunged, a shifting, unreadable force of absolute decree. He willed the quill into a blade, its form twisting from ink into metal, charged with the remnants of the First Flame.

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‎The battle was unlike any he had fought before.

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‎These were not warriors.

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‎They were words made flesh—laws given form.

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‎The stroke of their blades rewrote existence itself. With each clash, the Archive buckled, entire histories fracturing into meaningless fragments, echoes of forgotten ages unraveling in their wake.

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‎Darius fought with desperation. He twisted the Forge Throne’s influence around him, bending the remnants of Elyon’s power into shields of burning script. Every parry, every strike, was a battle against the fundamental laws that shaped reality itself.

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‎But he was losing.

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‎The Keepers did not tire.

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‎They did not feel.

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‎They did not break.

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‎And they knew something he did not—

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‎Reality could not sustain contradiction forever.

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‎Darius was contradiction.

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‎And the Prime Coder’s decree did not permit it.

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‎A Keeper’s blade struck his side—and for the first time, Darius felt the weight of unwriting.

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‎His vision dimmed.

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‎His thoughts blurred.

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‎A piece of him—some fragment, some memory—was erased, stolen by the Keepers’ silent will.

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‎Another strike—his name flickered in the void, unsteady.

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‎Another—Kaela’s image faded in his mind, uncertain.

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‎His strength wavered.

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‎And then—

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‎A voice.

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‎Not a Keeper. Not a god.

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‎Something else.

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‎Familiar.

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‎Distant.

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‎But real.

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‎Celestia.

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‎Her echo returned—not as a whisper, but as a force, stronger than before.

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‎A surge of light blazed through the Archive, pushing back the Keepers, forcing them into retreat.

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‎Darius gasped, his knees hitting the ground. His vision was hazy, his thoughts fractured.

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‎But she was there.

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‎Still watching.

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‎Still guiding.

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‎Not an ending.

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‎Not yet.

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‎And the Prime Coder’s decree did not permit it.

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‎A Keeper’s blade struck his side—and for the first time, Darius felt the weight of unwriting.

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‎His vision dimmed.

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‎His thoughts blurred.

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‎A piece of him—some fragment, some memory—was erased, stolen by the Keepers’ silent will.

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‎Another strike—his name flickered in the void, unsteady.

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‎Another—Kaela’s image faded in his mind, uncertain.

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‎His strength wavered.

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‎And then—

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‎A voice.

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‎Not a Keeper. Not a god.

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‎Something else.

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‎Familiar.

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‎Distant.

‎

‎But real.

‎

‎Celestia.

‎

‎Her echo returned—not as a whisper, but as a force, stronger than before.

‎

‎A surge of light blazed through the Archive, pushing back the Keepers, forcing them into retreat.

‎

‎Darius gasped, his knees hitting the ground. His vision was hazy, his thoughts fractured.

‎

‎But she was there.

‎

‎Still watching.

‎

‎Still guiding.

‎

‎Not an ending.

‎

‎Not yet.

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