I Was Reborn in Another World, But I Awoke Inside a Corpse

Chapter 112: The God Who Remained 

The sky did not thunder.It fractured.

A jagged line of violet light, too deep to be lightning and too sharp to be cloud, tore itself across the sky like a wound forced open by something that did not belong in this world. The heavens wept silence. The sun dimmed. The temperature dropped as if the mountain itself held its breath.

And then—she came.

Not from above. Not from below.

But from in between.

One moment, the cliff was barren. The next, a figure stood in the center of the sundered seal, the ruined earth curling around her presence like a scar trying to heal itself. Her skin shimmered black and polished like glass, inscribed with scripture not written in any living tongue. Every motion she made rippled with ancient, divine weight.

Itzpapalotl had arrived—not as a whisper, not as a vision or a dream, but in full form. Whole. A god no longer waiting to return—but demanding to be remembered.

Her body did not glow like mortal magic. It resonated with meaning. Her shadow stretched impossibly long, even though the sun stood high. Her eyes—reflective, mirror-like voids—showed no pupil, no color, only what others feared most. She wore no armor, but her aura was denser than any metal, and around her danced chains of symbols too complex to read, yet immediately understood by the soul.

Every person present—warrior, scholar, adventurer, prince—felt their spine stiffen. They didn't flinch because of her strength. They flinched because they felt like children.

And yet, one man stepped forward.

Isaac.

He did not draw a weapon.He did not cloak himself in power.He simply walked toward her, calm and quiet, until they stood separated by less than ten paces.

Her head tilted slowly, almost inquisitively, as if measuring the scale of the being before her. Her mirrored gaze flicked up and down his form—then narrowed.

"You carry his scent," she said, her voice not spoken but heard in every ear, layered and distant, like thunder under water. "His flame, his memory, his defiance. You walk in the echo of the one who ended me."

Isaac met her gaze without so much as a blink. "You're not facing him," he replied softly. "You're facing me."

"Then you will follow him."

He tilted his head slightly. "I doubt that."

She vanished.

There was no windup, no burst, no flash.

Itzpapalotl simply wasn't there—until she was, again, a hair's breadth from Isaac, clawed hand wreathed in a dark violet halo of divine scripture, aiming directly for his heart. The air ruptured, the earth trembled beneath the pressure of [Soul Rend Vector – Rank S+], a technique designed to rip the soul from the body mid-beat.

But Isaac's hand was already raised. Not in panic. Not in defense.

In confidence.

He caught her wrist as easily as one might catch a falling leaf.

And her charge—divine, precise, absolute—stopped.

Dead.

For a moment, the entire mountain range was silent.

Then Isaac looked up into her eyes, and his voice was cold iron.

"You're slower than I thought."

He twisted his grip, casually, like someone snapping a twig—and the divine flesh around her forearm cracked with a sound like shattering crystal.

With a flick of his wrist, she was launched into the air—no arc, no recoil, just raw kinetic rejection. Her body spun, slammed into the stone ridge, skipped like a comet across three cliff faces before disappearing in an explosion of fractured stone and blinding light.

Even before the dust cleared, she emerged.

Broken ribs healing as her divine flesh knotted itself back together. Wings of darkness spread wide from her back as she roared, the air around her pulsing violently with [Memory Inversion Field – Rank S], a technique that turned received damage into retaliatory power.

She struck again.

This time not just one—it was dozens.

Echoes of herself moved with her. Fractal illusions, layered on top of one another, all attacking from different angles. Daggers of crystallized memory, spears of severed timelines. A storm of death condensed into a single breath.

Isaac didn't move.

Not because he couldn't.But because he didn't have to.

The moment the attacks reached him, they fractured—broke—on his skin like waves crashing against a cliff.

Behind him, space warped.

A ring of armaments began to form—[Armament Phantom – Rank S+] brought them into being, each more impossible than the last: a silver lance made from thunderclouds, a chain of glass teeth that vibrated with sorrow, a blade shaped like the edge of silence.

They hovered behind him like a court of judgment.

Isaac raised a single hand.

The weapons moved.

Itzpapalotl tried to counter, screaming in the divine language of gods who had seen the world born. She summoned shields of prophecy and rage, barriers made from the bones of forgotten prayers.

They shattered.

Every defense she called upon was dismantled.

Every counter met with precision.

Each impact carved glowing, bleeding lines across her form.

And still—Isaac said nothing.Because this wasn't a battle.

This was a statement.

Far away, Sylvalen watched from the ledge, the Spiritforge Blade humming in rhythm with her heartbeat.

Beside her, Volmyr's claws dug into the frozen stone. "That's not just overwhelming," he murmured. "That's… cruelty."

Atheon, arms crossed, golden aura flickering, looked visibly shaken. "Even father never fought like that."

Lira whispered, "Then why doesn't he just finish it?"

Sylvalen didn't answer.

Because she already knew.

Itzpapalotl screamed and activated [Unholy Ascension – Rank S+].

Her body tore apart from the inside—wreathed in a divine lattice of condensed memory and divine law. Her form became light, pulsing with chaos and entropy, barely held together by will alone.

The world around her cracked. Magic burned. Mountains bent.

She raised a spear formed from the first lie ever spoken by a god.

She hurled it.

The air screamed.

And Isaac—

He reached out.

And stopped it with two fingers.

No ripple.

No sound.

The spear shattered.

"You're not the one meant to die here," he said softly.

Itzpapalotl fell to her knees, confused, furious. "You… You will not end me?!"

He turned—not to flee. But to give way.

To her.

To Sylvalen.

She moved.

She didn't hesitate.

The Spiritforge Blade ignited with silver flame—not fire, but memory given form. It wasn't blazing with rage or vengeance.

It was acceptance.

She ran. Not because she was faster than the god—but because the god was now waiting for her.

Isaac had created the opening.

She would finish what began two thousand years ago.

Itzpapalotl rose one last time, divine body fractured and fading.

"That blade…"

"It carries him…"

"But it answers to you…"

Sylvalen didn't respond.

She leapt—spun—drove the blade through the last of the god's heart.

There was no scream.

No explosion.

Just silence.

Then ash.

Then light.

Then peace.

She landed slowly, her boots touching the ground as the sword pulsed once, then dimmed.

Behind her, Isaac stepped forward.

He didn't say anything right away.

Neither did she.

The mountain air was quiet.

Only when she finally looked at him did she whisper, "You could've done it yourself."

Isaac smiled faintly. "That wasn't the point."

She exhaled, and for the first time in years, her breath didn't shake.

"Thank you," she said, voice steady.

He nodded. "You earned it."