The necklace strung with razor-sharp teeth cloaked Vlad in a primal-energy force field that exponentially enhanced his physical and magical defenses, while the embedded gems gave him instant control over explosive bursts of power.
His final Divine Treasure—the crooked crown—was the simplest, yet perhaps the most terrifying: it fed directly on his Soul Dinsion, surging his energy pool up three full tiers.
"BOOOOOOOOOOM!"
A hollow thunder rolled across the sky as pure power erupted from Vlad’s core. Thanks to the crown, his energy pool leaped to Level 23—energy on par with a full-fledged Legendary!
A thrill unlike anything he had felt since his evolution to True Depravita tore through him, curling his lips into a savage grin.
"Divine Treasures are truly in a class of their own!"
But Vlad did not allow himself the luxury of awe. Cloaked in the black mantle of Skin of Wrath, he shot toward the bat-like Sebastian, four arms poised like scythes. Each hand glead with the rune-etched Mark of Cain, ready to make every wound spread and every cut deepen.
Sebastian, though blistered from the pestilence blast, t the charge head-on. He saw his ground forces crumbling under Korokor blades; the only hope of reversing the slaughter was to carve out Vlad’s heart, which would allow him to take care of the Sages and Half-Step Legends on the ground.
"DIE!" With a roar fueled by hatred and desperation, the Legendary Vorotallicae folded his wings into a living shield and accelerated, air cracking behind him.
Vlad opened with a short-range blink, slipping sideways through fracturing space and reappearing at Sebastian’s flank. Two upper arms lashed out, hand-blades carving arcs that hissed with sundering power.
The bat-lord twisted, wings intercepting the blows; mbranes rang like hamred steel, but the Mark of Cain burned into the leathery surface, rot spreading in branching fissures.
Sebastian countered instantly. Shadow bled from his form; he blurred, re-materializing above Vlad in a corkscrew dive. Talons half a ter long raked down, splitting the Depravita’s energy mantle and gouging into the solid flesh beneath.
A deep cut appeared on Vlad’s body, but thanks to his True Depravita Constitution, the Depravita Aura knitted the damage almost as quickly as it ford.
Vlad snarled, planting his lower arms against Sebastian’s chest and unleashing a point-blank gem-blast.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!"
The explosion lit the clouds white, flinging the True Depravita and the Legendary Vorotallicae apart. Smoke curled from Sebastian’s breastplate of living armor; cracks webbed outward, dripping black blood.
Before either could regain equilibrium, Vlad teleported again—this ti behind his foe—driving an elbow toward Sebastian’s spine.
The bat-lord sensed it at the last breath and whipped his leg into Vlad’s ribs, saving his spine and crushing the True Depravita’s bone.
Vlad’s aura rewove the fracture, but the pain still snapped across his nerves. However, that did not stop him from jumping back into the fray.
The air beca a blur of after-images: Vlad blinking in and out, Sebastian slipping through shadow like liquid dusk. Claws clashed with punches and open palms in the form of blades, explosive spheres detonated against armored wings, and every successful strike left its poison.
Deep crimson wounds spider-webbed across Sebastian’s arms; patches of his shadow skin blackened and sloughed away where the Mark of Cain took hold.
Yet Vlad, too, was paying for each exchange—talon strikes repeatedly pierced his sides, and one lucky slash ripped across his face, carving a glowing gash from brow to jaw before it sealed. Luckily for the True Depravita, all those healed instantly, but even with his Level 23 energy pool, his Depravita Aura was starting to run low.
Seeing the lack of lasting wounds in the True Depravita, the Legendary Vorotallicae acted with much more ferocity. He beat his wings with all his power, unleashing a hurricane force that knocked Vlad backward.
In that instant the bat-lord inhaled, compressing shadow and energy in his throat, then spat a lance of void-charged bile.
Vlad’s neckless flared; a hexagonal barrier of primal energy snapped into place, but the bile shattered it and tore a hole in his left shoulder.
For the first ti, Vlad tasted true damage. Rage—not fear—answered. The lost tissue regrew in a swirl of dark plasma as he hurled himself forward, aura roaring, all four fists spinning in a cyclone of knives.
Space fractured with each punch: micro-teleports turned his barrage into a strobing storm. Sebastian blocked three, four, five strikes—then the sixth slamd full into his sternum.
Armor and flesh caved; the force of the Mark of Cain blossod inside the Legendary Vorotallicae’s chest like black roses. He howled, blood misting the air.
But even wounded, the Vorotallciae was brutally strong. He clamped his claws around Vlad’s renewed shoulder, locking them together, and drove his wings into Vlad’s midsection.
Ribs shattered again; Vlad hacked blood but answered with a head-butt that cracked Sebastian’s jaw and snapped fangs loose.
Locked together, they spiraled downward. At the last mont, Vlad teleported behind Sebastian, booted him earthward, and collided with the ground with explosive force.
Not even a second later, Vlad and Sebastian rose to the sky again, continuing their fight.
The duel raged on, the True Depravita bleeding, healing, and bleeding again—until the clouds themselves glowed with stray power destructive energy.
The struggle on the ground was no less violent—or spectacular—than the duel raging in the sky, yet the balance of power there was decidedly one-sided. While Vlad and the bat-winged Sebastian fought as near equals, the Korokor battalion tore through the Voroe legions like a burning tide.
Many Voroe had already been crippled by Karot’s plague blast; pustules bubbled on their skin, fever dulled their reflexes, and every breath ca laced with agony. Those walking corpses barely lifted their blades before being cut down.
Angelo’s vanguard punched straight through the enemy’s front ranks, scattering formations that had already lost their sense of cohesion. Once the Voroe lines splintered, any hope of organized resistance collapsed with them.
Every warrior in Korokor colors fought as if a lifeti of wrath and determination had been condensed into this single hour. They knew how narrow their window of victory truly was. Blood sared armor; broken weapons littered the churned earth. Yet none slowed—each soldier drove body and energy past the limit, unwilling to waste the chance Vlad’s poisons had bought for them.
Most units advanced with disciplined precision, locking shields and rotating spear walls to grind forward. Others—powerhouses in their own right—moved like hurricanes through the chaos.
Fafnir crushed every single Voroe in his path using his extrely dense body, while Ouroboros twisted through enemy elites like a viper of living lightning, dislocating limbs and snapping necks in a blur of grappling arcs.
Janus slipped behind half-step Legends and severed spines with a single wave of his sword.
Agamnon summoned massive explosions of golden flas and dark abyssal fire that consud Sages in all directions.
Wherever these champions passed, the battlefield resembled a butcher’s block.
Not far from the main clash, an even more spectacular contest unfolded. The Depravita of Gluttony stood on top of Fang. Their opponent was the once-proud Asuru, the ice-born, wingless draco Vorotallicae.
Karot’s plague had left Asuru a ruin. Sickly sores wept black fluid across scales that had once shone like frozen sapphire; large swaths of hide had sloughed away entirely, exposing raw muscle that stead in the cold air. He swayed on his feet, vision swimming, nausea clawing at his gut. Yet the remnants of his legendary vitality would not let him succumb without a fight.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
A colossal bolt of fire-laced lightning erupted from Jormungandr’s maw, turning the air white. Asuru lurched sideways just in ti, the blast skimming past and carving a smoking trench.
The reprieve lasted less than a heartbeat, as before Asuru could respond, Fang’s tail moved. It cracked across the distance and struck squarely against Asuru’s sternum. Bones shattered with an audible crunch, and the draco-Voroe was launched backward, skipping across the muddied field like a stone over water.
A crimson sar marked his path—not rely from Fang’s blow, but from the flesh that peeled away as diseased skin t unforgiving earth. Dazed, Asuru clawed at the soil, forcing ravaged lungs to draw a wheezing breath. His blurred gaze caught movent overhead—sothing vast, incandescent, and descending far too quickly.
High above, Jormungandr had transford into a six-hundred-ter serpent of pure lightning and roaring fla spiraled downward, each scale a rune of hunger, each fang a promise of annihilation. The construct’s glare alone lted the ice covering the Vorotallicae into steam.
Asuru tried to stand, but vertigo spun the world sideways; bile surged up his throat, draining away all the strength left in his body. He managed only a hoarse croak—whether a curse, a plea, or a final battle cry none could tell.
Then the serpent struck.
The impact detonated a do of fire and golden sparks that drowned the screams of friend and foe alike. A shockwave rolled across the battlefield, sending waves of fire and arcs of lightning in all directions.
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