Four deafening explosions echoed across the chamber as the Depravitas’ counterattacks overwheld the orbs of white fla hurled by the White Death. The room trembled from the violent energy discharge, and heat waves rippled through the vast hall. Their victory was not just a display of strength—it was a statent. The Depravitas had demonstrated might that clearly surpassed ordinary Legends.
A True Depravita could easily overwhelm and defeat a normal Legend. With their unique abilities, even clashing head-on with High Legends was well within their capabilities.
Only one fireball remained, blazing with deadly radiance—and it was aid at Janus.
The Imperial Prince had attained the Legendary level shortly after the end of the war in the Land of the Three Calamities. The brutal conflict, the near-constant brush with death, and the pressure to survive had pushed his potential to the brink, allowing it to explode into power. But even so, the mont he faced the sphere of white fla, he felt an overwhelming pressure crashing down upon him.
Still, he did not retreat.
Though it took him a mont longer than the Depravitas to prepare, Janus stood tall, unmoving. He was a prince of the Graecia Empire—and fear had no place in his heart.
The formation within his heart ignited, glowing like a miniature star. His Legendary Demonic Soul surged, funneling its energy into his sword. A wave of heat and power roared around him as he raised the blade.
"AHHHGGGRR!"
With a primal roar, Janus channeled every ounce of his strength into the swing. A majestic arc of milky-white energy erupted from the sword, slashing through the sphere of flas. The two forces collided in mid-air with a sound like thunder, before the white energy cleaved through the fireball and surged forward, still brimming with power.
Vlad and the other Depravitas turned their eyes to Janus, surprised and quietly impressed. Though Janus had sacrificed his Legendary Demonic Soul—a devastating loss—the result was undeniable. He had unleashed an attack with the potential to kill a powerful High Legend.
Their eyes shifted back toward the arc of white energy as it continued its flight—this ti toward the Emperor himself.
But Alexandro did not flinch.
He stood motionless, eyes fixed on the incoming arc. Just as it neared him, the attack abruptly dissipated. Not with an explosion, but with a whisper—as though it had struck an invisible wall that unraveled its existence entirely.
The White Death looked at Janus and gave a slight nod. "Very good."
Those two words struck harder than any explosion.
Janus clenched his fists, eyes glinting with pride and restrained excitent. His father was not the sentintal type. Even though they were bound by blood, their relationship had always been distant, formal. For Alexandro to acknowledge his effort—no matter how briefly—ant everything.
Then ca the next command.
"Go to the Imperial Treasury," the Emperor said. "Choose a new Legendary Demonic Soul."
Confusion flashed across Janus’ face. He remained silent for a mont before straightening his back and replying.
"I have proven my strength. I should be allowed to remain and hear the conversation."
Alexandro’s eyes narrowed slightly. His gaze locked on his son, weighing his intent. But Janus didn’t budge. His posture was strong, his will unshaken.
A faint smile curved the Emperor’s lips.
"Good. You’ve grown."
This ti, the approval in his voice was stronger than before. Clearly, it was not Janus’ strength that impressed him most—but his willpower.
"You will be inford," the Emperor continued, "but your role will not be the sa as theirs. Compartntalization is essential in matters of national survival."
Understanding dawned in Janus’ expression. A smile followed, quiet but content. He bowed respectfully to his father, to the Marshal, and to the hooded figure cloaked in shadows, before nodding to the Depravitas and leaving the chamber.
As the doors closed behind him, silence returned. Only the Depravitas remained before the Emperor.
Alexandro glanced at each of them, then his gaze settled on the sword in Freya’s hand.
"Is there anything you wish to share from your journey to Valhalla?"
Vlad felt a subtle shift in the Emperor’s tone—one that suggested he already knew sothing, at least regarding the rusted blade. But how much, Vlad couldn’t tell.
After a mont, Vlad rolled his shoulders back and began.
"During our ti in Valhalla, I encountered many things—so enlightening, others disturbing. Secrets that should not have remained buried."
He spoke clearly, recounting the events in the Viking realm.
He explained how Freya had slain a Viking warrior nad Lucius, a man who had wielded the rusted sword she now held. That blade had amplified Lucius’s strength to unnatural levels, hinting at a dangerous power within. Then Vlad described his battle with Earl Octavio—how the Viking Superior Legend had used the sa strange energy to mutate into sothing monstrous, attaining the might of a Half-Step Lord.
Vlad hadn’t had a choice. He was forced to put his life on the line to end Octavio’s twisted existence.
He went on to explain what the Empress of Valhalla had told him: that Antorus, the revered Lord of War of the Viking civilization, had changed after his journey into the Emptiness. That sothing in that void had corrupted him. Now, Valhalla was on the brink of collapse.
Though the information was sensitive, the Empress had never explicitly asked for secrecy. And even if she had, Vlad would have shared it anyway. Valhalla was only one inter-civilizational teleportation away from Graecia. If the alien corruption spread to the Vikings, Graecia was next.
As Vlad concluded, a heavy silence settled in the chamber.
Marshal Maximo and the hooded figure slowly turned their eyes toward Alexandro. The tension in the air deepened, becoming almost tangible. Sothing unspoken passed between the three, thickening the atmosphere into sothing dark and ominous.
Vlad frowned slightly but said nothing. He stood in silence, patiently waiting as the Emperor’s piercing gaze returned to him.
"What I am about to share now," Emperor Alexandro said, his voice like tempered steel, "is a war secret of the highest level. Speaking of it outside this room is considered treason. The punishnt—without exception—is death. Is that understood?"
A heavy silence fell across the throne room.
In the next mont, all five Depravitas—Vlad, Freya, Jormungandr, Fafnir, and Ouroboros—felt a sudden, invisible pressure crash into their minds. It wasn’t magic, nor physical energy. It was the weight of absolute authority. A psychic imprint of the White Death’s seriousness. There was no room for debate, no doubt that the warning was real.
Each of them adopted solemn expressions and nodded in unison, the room thick with gravity.
The Emperor’s piercing gaze traveled slowly across them, inspecting every face for hesitation or weakness. When he found nothing but steel resolve, he nodded once and continued.
"The sa alien force that has corrupted Valhalla," he said darkly, "is now spreading within Graecia."
The words struck like thunder.
The Depravitas’ eyes widened, their minds reeling from the revelation. It was one thing to know that Valhalla—an empire of legendary warriors—had been infiltrated. But to learn that this sa force had also set its roots in Graecia? That was almost unthinkable.
Two high civilizations under simultaneous attack.
It was madness.
Whoever was behind this alien corruption was either foolish and suicidal—or they were so powerful, so arrogant, that they truly believed they could bring both civilizations to their knees.
Alexandro allowed a few monts for the weight of the revelation to sink in before continuing.
"This corruption has found its host in the Zanis Family. Its champion... is the Zanis Patriarch, Pompeyo. A Lord-level being. He is not only an imnsely powerful cultivator but also the undisputed head of the Zanis Association—one of the most influential entities in our empire."
A heavy, suffocating aura descended on the chamber. The air seed to grow colder.
The Zanis Family. That na was not whispered in shadows or feared like so criminal syndicate—it was a pillar of the empire’s economy and political system. Pompeyo’s influence stretched through markets, alliances, and institutions. In many ways, his hold on the Empire’s infrastructure was as deep as Antorus’s hold on Valhalla.
Freya narrowed her eyes, then took a step forward.
"What is your plan?" she asked, voice calm but steady.
Back in Valhalla, the Empress had been uncertain. She had seen the danger but hadn’t known how to confront it. There had been no clear path forward—only fear and indecision. Freya needed to understand how the White Death would act differently. She needed to know whether Graecia had a stronger hand.
Alexandro looked at her with the slightest flicker of confusion, as if her question was unnecessary.
"It should be obvious," he replied coldly. "I will kill Pompeyo. Then, I will eradicate the entire Zanis Family, dismantle their organization, and—just to be sure—I will destroy their howorld."
The final sentence fell like a guillotine blade.
There was no hesitation in the Emperor’s voice, no remorse in his eyes. His words were not a boast—they were a declaration of war. Ruthless, precise, and absolute.
For Alexandro, survival was not a matter of diplomacy. It was extermination or corruption. And he had already chosen.
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