Vlad tightened the grip on his sword, the flas of death roaring brighter and brighter until his entire body ignited in a storm of annihilation. He beca a cosmic tempest in humanoid form, his wrath and strength burning ever higher, his aura searing the very air around him.
Beside him, Overlord dismissed Durendal, replacing it with Gram, the fla-forged sword that burned with the heat of a collapsing star. The A.I. Chip Clone’s eyes glowed with cold, chanical brilliance. Every enemy before him was nothing but data to erase—variables to eliminate so he could achieve the objective.
"ARGHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The True Depravita of Wrath roared. Wrathful energy surged like molten rivers through his veins and heart as he lunged forward, Overlord flashing beside him like a golden phantom.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!"
The mont they struck, a massive explosion engulfed the battlefield. Hundreds of the nightmare-born creatures clawing their way from the dinsional rift were consud, their bodies erased in an instant. Yet for every one that fell, two more erged from the abyss, filling the skies with wings, tendrils, and howling maws.
They felt no fear. They felt no pain. Their only instinct was to stop the intruders and safeguard their Master’s awakening. Life and death ant nothing to them—only the will of the nightmare mattered.
Vlad and Overlord fought with speed and fury, carving paths of ruin through the swarms. Death-flas consud whole packs of abominations, while Gram split the air in arcs of solar fire. Together, their power was so imnse that the very sky burned, collapsing into seas of destruction around them.
And yet—the monsters kept coming.
Though their fangs could not pierce Vlad’s immortal flesh nor Overlord’s Archangelic body, their endless numbers slowed the duo’s charge. Relentless waves of claws, wings, and jaws drained their energy bit by bit, halting their advance.
If ti had been on their side, it would not have mattered. Step by step, they would have carved through. But ti was the one thing they did not have.
Away from them, Pompeyo’s aura surged. The black hole—born from the collapse of Hell’s shattered portal—was shrinking. The World King of the Zanis Howorld was suppressing it, smothering its growth with sheer will and soul power. Once he was free, he would co for them.
Worse still, below them the sacrificial pit trembled. Rifts were widening, larger and larger, threatening to open fully. If they did not act soon, the thing Pompeyo served—an entity that might rival or even surpass the Dream of Madness—would break through.
If it erged, it was ga over. Everything in the world would die.
The scythe of death hovered over their necks, but Vlad and Overlord did not falter.
They clenched their teeth, burning their very life force, igniting their energy to its absolute peak. The only goal: reach the mountain range. If they could destroy it, the forcefield would collapse, and the Graecia Empire’s armies could pour in.
They forced their way forward, every motion ripping apart monstrosities in gory bursts. Yet they were not fast enough.
The black hole winked out—erased under Pompeyo’s control. The Patriarch of the Zanis Family wasted not even a fraction of a heartbeat. His form blurred, flashing toward the duo like a golden cot of hate.
And as if that was not enough, another horror ca from below.
From the largest rift yet, a being of nightmare crawled into reality.
It was a horror of blended forms—skeletal, insectoid, and avian, fused into a grotesque parody of life. Its twisted body seed both bone and root, as if grown in mockery of flesh. Veins of violet and black pulsed beneath skinless limbs, while wings of fragile, veined mbranes spread wide, blotting out the ruined sky.
Its elongated arms ended in staff-like appendages—not forged but grown, tipped with claws sharp enough to shear steel. Its head was crowned by a cage of bone, cradling a grinning skull that floated within, suspended in a halo of spines.
It radiated no wisdom, no sanity—only crushing power. Power enough to endanger even Vlad and Overlord. A Lord had erged from the dark dinsion and would kill anything that attempted to close the pit before its Master fully erged.
A wave of death intent rolled across the battlefield, so heavy it bent the will of reality. For the first ti in years, the two felt the cold certainty of death brush against their spines.
But fear did not claim them. Anxiety did not slow them.
Instead, their resolve burned higher. Their determination crystallized into unbreakable clarity.
Overlord drew a deep, sharp breath, his entire existence igniting. A single golden portal flared open behind him, shaking the heavens with its appearance.
"Spear of Destiny."
The words cut the air like divine judgnt.
Blood poured from his eyes, mouth, and ears, his soul trembling on the brink of collapse. But he succeeded. From the portal erged the twin sister of the Longinus Spear—the sa weapon tatron had once used to repel the Dream of Madness itself.
The strain was unbearable. The weapon trembled, its montum weak, its glow dim. It barely broke the barrier of sound as it advanced.
And then—
A powerful hand caught it.
Vlad’s eyes blazed with fury and hunger. He poured every shred of his essence into the weapon—his life force, his wrath, his Depravita Aura. His muscles coiled, his body twisted, and with a full rotation, he unleashed all that montum into the Spear of Destiny.
"ZNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!"
The spear transford into a divine missile. It pierced the swarm of monsters like a burning star, vaporizing everything in its path, and streaked straight into the mountain range.
Pompeyo’s eyes widened.
For one frozen heartbeat, silence reigned.
Then cracks spiderwebbed across the mountains, spreading in every direction.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!"
The range erupted. Mountains burst apart, collapsing into ash and ruin as explosions consud the heart of the Zanis Howorld. The shockwave rippled outward, shaking the entire planet to its core.
Pompeyo’s heart trembled with a horror that felt almost physical as the forcefield’s glow thinned and then faded. The barrier that had kept the Graecia Empire’s armies at bay—his last line of defense—was collapsing. Rage tore through him like a living thing.
"You bastard!" the World King roared, voice cracking with fury. He drew on every scrap of Origin Power the Zanis Howorld still offered and forged it into a gargantuan golden spear. The weapon seethed with hatred; the air around it burned red with the aura of murder. With a single, terrifying motion, Pompeyo hurled himself toward the two intruders.
Vlad did not hesitate. He snapped his space ring open and shoved the bloody, exhausted body of Overlord into it—storing the A.I. Clone in cold safety while leaving himself to et the oncoming death-blow. He raised his sword to receive the spear.
The impact was cataclysmic. Bones cracked like dry wood; shock fired through Vlad’s arms, up his spine, through his whole body. The force of Pompeyo’s strike sent him careening into the ground, carving a canyon through the scorched earth as he skidded and rolled. Pain shredded him, every breath a white-hot razor, but there was no ti to lie broken.
Pompeyo did not pause. He ca at Vlad like a golden cot, the spear blazing with the stolen might of a world. Vlad twisted just enough to avoid a direct blow to the head, but Pompeyo followed the motion. He spun the shaft and drove it into Vlad’s chest with a savage, precise stroke. The blade sheared through flesh and bone—ribs splintered, cartilage ruptured—and hurled the True Depriavta of Wrath bodily into a jagged mountain. Rock slamd against him, embedding his form in charred stone; dust and fla choked the air.
It was difficult to inhale. For a beat it felt as though everything might end there: fla, stone, and the muffled sounds of Pompeyo’s fury rushing past. The Patriarch raised his spear, preparing the final, crushing strike.
Then the world changed.
A fist struck Pompeyo’s face with such grievous force that his body flipped end over end and tumbled across the scorched plains.
Pompeyo managed to regain control over his body almost imdiately, but his eyes flashed in disbelief. He looked up to see a figure bathed in white fla: the White Death himself, descending like a judgnt from the highest sky.
The White Death gave Vlad a small, almost courteous bow. His voice was a low instrunt of ice. "I will take care of him. You did well." There was no warmth in the words—only the promise of finality.
Pompeyo shuddered as the White Death turned his attention fully toward him. For a second terror replaced rage in the patriarch’s face. Then madness stoked his features into a feral grin. "Fine—then end this," he snarled, scrabbling to rise even as the world around him shifted into the lethal calm that precedes an execution.
The White Death’s eyes narrowed; his aura condensed as the power of entropy burst with more and more strength from his body as his spear manifested in his hand.
The two Lords who had once stood at the peak of the Graecia Empire looked at each other, and the only thing they could see was killing intent. This battle would not end until one of them was gone.
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