Despite the nurous severe wounds etched across his body and his dangerously depleted energy, none of the Voroes dared to approach the Depravita.
Vlad’s aura was overwhelming—so dense and oppressive that even those monstrous beings, bred for slaughter and destruction, faltered for a heartbeat when drawing near. Their instincts scread at them to stop.
The battlefield that had monts ago teed with bloodlust was now hushed near his presence, cloaked in the raw, unshackled wrath that rolled off him like a crashing wave.
He exhaled slowly, each breath shaky but controlled. Then, without a word, he stored the corpse of the fallen Half-Step Legend in his spatial ring.
With the last remnants of his power, Vlad activated his teleportation, vanishing from the heart of the enemy lines and reappearing near the Graecia ranks. At the sa ti, the Spatial Domain Sphere flickered and collapsed into itself.
But he didn’t stop there.
Without addressing anyone, the Depravita of Wrath turned and vanished again, flashing past the battlefield, and phasing through the stronghold’s protective wards.
Even for a blitzkrieg unit, abandoning the battlefield without formal clearance was a serious breach of command. But no one spoke a word of reprimand.
Vlad’s rampage had broken the Voroe’s advance and saved dozens—perhaps hundreds—of lives. Moreover, anyone with even a hint of energy sensitivity could feel the storm inside him—the chaotic distortion of a body pushed far past its limits.
If Vlad suffered backlash mid-battle, it would be a disaster for himself and those around him.
The Depravita kept moving, only slowing once he reached the doors to his private residence. The mont he crossed the threshold, his strength gave out.
With a sharp gasp, he collapsed to the ground, allowing his body to release all the tension it had been holding. Exhaustion struck like a tidal wave, and the backlash from the repeated consumption of energy potions surged forth. A bitter, tallic taste filled his mouth, and his skin ran cold with strain.
He didn’t fight it.
For the first ti since the battle began, Vlad allowed himself to shut everything down. His body fell to the ground, channeling what little energy remained toward recovery, no longer bothering with the fight.
Though he had been on the battlefield for less than an hour, the devastation he wrought had shifted the montum of the entire battle. Now, it would be up to the others to capitalize on the opening he’d created.
And capitalize they did.
Even after Vlad’s retreat, the battlefield’s fury only intensified. With the shield-bearers gone and the Voroe formation fractured, the Graecia forces pressed forward like an unstoppable tide. In less than three hours, almost a third of the Voroe Sages had fallen, and their Guardian troops were nearly obliterated.
Though Graecia had suffered casualties of its own, their defensive formations and survival-centric strategies kept losses to a minimum—fewer than fifteen.
Then ca the cry from the sky.
"RETREAT!"
The voice of one of the Voroe Legends thundered down from above. Though the three Vorotallicae Legends still raged in the heavens, even pressing their Graecia counterparts, the overwhelming losses among their ground forces could no longer be ignored. They had no choice. The Sages had reached the tipping point where continued combat would an total collapse.
The Voroe Sages had been waiting for the order. Upon hearing it, they imdiately began to fall back, using the remaining Guardians as sacrificial shields. The brainwashed warriors stood in the path of the Graecia’s pursuit, their lives thrown away to buy seconds for their commanders.
Hatred, frustration, and wounded pride painted the faces of the Voroe Legends as they disengaged. Before vanishing into the horizon, they cast one last, scornful gaze toward General Tiberius and his fellow Greacia powerhouses.
General Tiberius remained still, hovering in the sky, watching them go. His eyes, sharp and stern, betrayed no emotion. Yet internally, he allowed himself a brief sigh of relief.
The ice-born, wingless draconic Voroe had been imnsely powerful—perhaps even too powerful—and more than once during the fight, Tiberius had felt the cold edge of death scraping against his neck.
His gaze drifted downward, back to the city behind him. There, lying within a chamber, was the Depravita of Wrath. He could sense Vlad’s presence, unconscious but alive.
In any other situation, seeing a soldier asleep while war raged would enrage a general—but not now.
Tiberius smiled faintly and muttered, "Sleep well, kid. You’ve earned it."
The other two Greacian Legends flanking him shared a glance and nodded, their expressions softening.
But the mont passed.
Their gazes returned to the field, the weight of command falling upon them again. "Back to the stronghold!" Tiberius commanded, his voice echoing with authority.
The Graecia soldiers, worn and bloodied but victorious, nodded in unison and began their return to the safety of Korokor Stronghold. The wounded were supported, and the dead were carried with solemn reverence.
As the soldiers marched, two figures broke off from the line—Fafnir and Ouroboros.
Both were covered in blood and wounds, proof of the ferocity of their battles. Their breath was ragged as they approached the small yellow cat.
"Big brother... what’s happening with Master?" Ouroboros asked, his tone confused but concerned.
"I was about to ask the sa," added Fafnir, his draconic face twitching with unease. "Teacher doesn’t usually act that recklessly. Sothing’s motivating him."
There were no secrets among Depravitas. After all, they were one soul split into many bodies.
"Boss is preparing for his evolution," Jormungandr explained. "He’s striving to beco a True Depravita..."
Their eyes widened in unison as they heard the full explanation of the small yellow cat. The revelation hit them like a thunderclap. In that mont, everything made sense—the fury, the recklessness, the relentless hunger for battle.
Ouroboros’ eyes flared with fury. He had fought beside the Viking princess before. She was strong, honorable, and soone he truly respected. The idea that soone would hurt her, imprison her, or use her as a pawn filled him with rage.
Even Fafnir, who had no deep connection to Freya, clenched his fists. The Depravita of Envy had grown a powerful sense of justice—and injustice against those close to his family was unacceptable.
"Should we also begin our evolution?" Ouroboros asked, voice low and burning.
Jormungandr imdiately shook his head. "No. Our Core Sins are more nuanced than Wrath. Boss’s path is direct, but ours requires a different kind of refinent. We must focus on our bodies. Expand our energy pools. Solidify our foundation."
The two Depravitas nodded in solemn agreent. Their eyes glead with resolution and desire for power.
Reviews
All reviews (0)