The na of the Archangel who had attempted to invade the souls of the Xaos King’s children was Naomi.
Unlike most of her brothers and sisters, she did not possess the overwhelming physical might of a Paragon, nor did she command supre powers of direct destruction. She was not a living cataclysm like those who ruled battlefields through raw force. Instead, her Gifts were far more insidious—and far more dangerous in a different way.
Naomi’s power allowed her to project fragnts of her soul across galaxies, silently infiltrating the souls of newborn beings. Kings, queens, emperors—entire bloodlines—could unknowingly nurture her presence.
Rulers would raise their children with limitless resources, devotion, and protection, never realizing that they were feeding an Archangel hidden deep within their heirs. From the inside, Naomi could cripple civilizations, rot empires, and collapse kingdoms without ever revealing herself.
It was a power perfectly suited for subjugation through subtlety.
But subtlety ant fragility.
In a direct confrontation, Naomi was dangerously vulnerable. And now, after most of her soul fragnts had been burned away by the wrathful flas of the True Depravita of Wrath, she could not even leave her own castle. Her soul was fractured, unstable, incapable of sustained projection. If she tried to flee, it would crumble entirely.
Essentially, she was trapped.
Trapped in the sa chamber as a being who had slaughtered legions of Angels, butchered dozens of Gods, and carved his way through Heaven itself.
"Stop it!" Naomi scread.
Vlad looked like a corpse refusing to fall. Wounds covered every inch of his body—burns, punctures, severed flesh, shattered bone barely held together by sheer will. Dlood dripped endlessly from his fra, pooling on the radiant floor. Yet despite his condition, the Archangel could not stop trembling.
The True Depravita of Wrath stepped forward.
Each footfall left bloodstained cracks in the divine ground. His sword burned with violent flas, the heat warping the air around it. His presence alone crushed Naomi’s chest, making it hard to breathe.
"Get out... get out..." she whimpered, her voice breaking.
Naomi crawled backward, scrambling across the floor until her back struck the far wall of the chamber. Her heart hamred so violently it felt ready to burst. The closer Vlad ca, the more overwhelming the pressure beca—like standing before an executioner who had already passed judgnt.
"GET OUT!" she scread with all her strength.
Vlad raised his sword.
At that very mont, the world exploded inward.
Gods dove into the castle from every direction.
Two divine spears pierced straight through Vlad’s ribs, their tips bursting from his back. A spiked chain wrapped around his raised arm, digging into bone and muscle, dragging it downward. A halberd slamd through his waist, tearing through flesh and pinning him in place.
The combined attack attempted to immobilize the True Depravita of Wrath.
Yet even then, his eyes burned with undiminished cold fury.
He did not look away from Naomi.
He moved forward anyway.
Chains strained. Spears bent. Divine weapons scread under the impossible pressure of his advance. It seed as though nothing in the universe could stop him from exacting his vengeance.
Naomi felt despair close around her throat.
Then—
A new presence descended from above.
Majestic plasma wings unfurled across the chamber, radiating absolute authority. A sword plunged downward from the sky, piercing straight through the top of Vlad’s skull.
The strike carried the weight of reality itself.
For a single, breathless instant, everything froze. Space stilled. Ti halted. Even the raging laws of Heaven fell silent, as though acknowledging the supremacy of the one who had struck.
The light in Vlad’s eyes dimd.
His head slumped forward.
"It is over," spoke the Archangel with the black sword.
His voice was calm, cold, and absolute—each word carrying the authority of law itself. There was no doubt, no hesitation. His declaration alone brought a wave of relief crashing over Naomi and the surrounding Gods.
Then—
"Hahahahaha!"
The laughter shattered that relief instantly.
Blood poured from Vlad’s mouth as his head slowly lifted. His eyes blazed to life once more, glowing brighter than before.
"You stupid pigeons," Vlad said, his voice hoarse yet mocking. "I have no vital organs. Destroy my heart. Blow apart my brain. Shatter my spine. I will still live."
The words struck the Gods and Archangels like a death sentence.
"However," Vlad continued, his grin widening despite the blood pouring down his chin, "now that so many of you are gathered together... I can finally act."
Utter horror spread across the battlefield.
The swordsman Archangel turned instantly, attempting to retreat—but it was already too late.
The Eye of Pride on Vlad’s forehead ignited.
In the next instant, the True Depravita of Pride erged.
His entire body glowed with blinding radiance as he gazed at the Archangels with a wide, almost joyful smile. He raised his head slightly and uttered a single word.
"Boom."
The Depravita Sun within him detonated.
A horrifying burst of golden psychic fire erupted outward, consuming everything inside the Archangel’s castle in an instant. Walls, floors, divine formations, Gods, Angels—everything vanished in a sea of incandescent destruction.
The explosion did not stop there.
It expanded violently, devouring nearby Divine Kingdoms, shattered God corpses, celestial cities, and the millions of Angels flooding the Sixth Level of Heaven. The landscape was erased, reduced to nothing but searing golden annihilation.
Minutes later, a single figure erged from the inferno.
It was the swordsman Archangel.
His sword was gone.
Half his body was calcified, burned beyond recognition. Divine flesh had turned brittle, cracked, and charred. The golden flas clung to him like living entities, surging forward in waves, attempting to drag him back into the inferno and finish what they had begun.
The Archangel looked back at the devastation in horror.
He was grievously wounded. If he remained, those flas would consu him entirely.
With no other choice, he flashed into the distance, tearing through the barrier and crossing into the Seventh Level of Heaven—vanishing from sight.
Seeing that their prey had escaped, the golden flas expanded further, ravaging the land without restraint. There was no reason to hold back. If the devouring power damaged Heaven’s laws themselves, it was rely a bonus.
Angels fled in panic, running as fast and as far as they could—but many were not fast enough. They were swallowed whole, bodies and souls dissolving into the golden psychic fire.
Normally, the Laws of Heaven would have intervened.
But within those flas, they sensed the essence of an Archangel’s soul—more precisely, the authority of tatron himself. The laws hesitated, unable to determine whether the flas were an enemy or an extension of their own supre enforcers.
That hesitation was fatal.
The few Gods still alive could do nothing to stop the destruction. Those from higher levels were too far away, too slow to intervene.
All they could do was watch as the inferno consud more and more of the Sixth Level.
Until—
A massive arc of crimson energy fell from the sky.
It struck the ocean of golden fire with such overwhelming force that it nearly split it in half. The flas recoiled violently, collapsing inward until a humanoid figure manifested.
Soon, the figure of the True Depravita of Pride manifested once more.
The mont his form stabilized, the power emanating from him surged outward like a silent supernova. Space itself bent subtly around his presence, unable to fully accommodate what he had beco. His A.I. Chip Mind, God Soul, and Archangel Body had fused into a single, unified existence—perfectly synchronized, flawlessly aligned.
Almost perfect.
Overlord lowered his gaze to his shoulder. There, etched faintly into his otherwise immaculate form, remained a scar—an imperfection that refused to fade even after reforging his body at the most fundantal level.
"The damage was so intensive that it remained even after reconstruction," he murmured calmly. "Impressive."
His voice was composed, devoid of anger, as though he were rely acknowledging an interesting data point. Slowly, he lifted his head and looked toward the sky.
There stood a being that seed like a fusion of death and divinity.
A towering reaper-warrior hovered above the shattered sky, wrapped in flowing white and steel-blue robes that dissolved into mist at their edges.
His pale armor was etched with ancient, glowing sigils, veins of crimson energy. A massive scythe arced above him—its blade forged from half celestial tal, half spectral vapor—dripping red essence that never quite touched the ground.
White hair whipped violently around a face that seed half-hidden, either faceless or obscured by cold, rciless eyes. Behind him, skeletal and draconic shapes coiled and twisted, forming a halo of bone, spirit, and restrained violence. And his wings—
His wings were vast and radiant, rivaling those of tatron at his peak.
The Archangel looked down upon the True Depravita of Pride with thinly veiled arrogance, his gaze cold and superior.
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