The Doomsday World where Vlad had just arrived was known as the Dark Land, an eternal battlefield between the Vorotallicae Race and the Faerathia Empire, holand of the ancient Faelaras.
According to the intelligence gathered by Overlord, the Faelaras were a reclusive and arrogant species. They were born with a natural affinity for energy manipulation, making them very powerful from birth and enhancing their cultivation speed. The lifespans of their Mortals stretched over millennia, but their fertility was tragically low.
For centuries, their dwindling numbers had been offset by unmatched military might. Yet the long war against the Chaovorathis Plane had nearly broken them. Their armies were shattered, their borders eroded, and even their brightest generals were dead or dying.
"The Faelaras are powerful," Vlad murmured to himself as he scanned the horizon. "But power ans little when arrogance blinds the eyes that wield it."
He had two objectives in this world. The first one cripple the Vorotallicae presence and sever their connection to the Chaovorathis supply routes. And the second was to forge an alliance with the Faerathia Empire—by persuasion or by force.
And the first step toward either goal was information.
Vlad’s bright eyes glead as he extended his perception. The air quivered under the reach of his consciousness, a storm of invisible pressure sweeping through the land for hundreds of kiloters.
"Royal Guards," he said coldly.
The leaders of the hundred elite Legendary Demon Soul Hunters bowed instantly.
"Yes, my Lord?"
"Hold position. I’ll scout ahead."
Without another word, Vlad’s form dissolved into a beam of light.
Monts later, he detected a Vorotallicae Sage moving cautiously through the wasteland. There were wounds all over its body, hinting that it might have just escaped from a battlefield and was trying to silently return to a stronghold of its kin.
It was moving alone, unaware of the doom descending upon it.
The Sage froze mid-step. It felt a chill cut through its circuits, a faint pulse of killing intent that lasted less than a heartbeat. Then—darkness.
Vlad appeared behind it, his hand already buried through the back of its skull. He closed his fingers, and the creature’s soul was torn free, struggling like a ghost.
With a single breath, the True Depravita of Wrath devoured the entity’s essence. Although Vlad did not have the devouring talent of Jormungandr, he was more than powerful enough to unravel and read the soul of a Sage.
The soul burned like cold fire as it disintegrated, unraveling into fragnts of mory and thought.
Vlad’s mind flooded with images—schematics, orders, coordinates, and commands. In seconds, he saw everything the Sage had seen: the location of the main fortress, troop compositions, and even the identity of the Vorotallicae commander leading the campaign.
A sharp light flickered in his eyes.
"So that’s how it is."
The situation was even worse for the Faelaras than he’d expected. Reinforcents from the Chaovorathis Plane had recently arrived—dozens of Superior Legends, all ard to the teeth. They were led by a being whose na had already beco synonymous with devastation: Kukulkan.
The mories of the Sage showed him the image clearly. He was a colossal figure draped in jagged, black armor that seed half-forged, half-grown from molten ore. His very presence distorted gravity. Red light burned behind the slits of his helt, casting a hellish glow across the room he occupied.
His armor pulsed like living flesh, runes shifting beneath the surface as if souls were trapped within, screaming silently. From his belt hung three skulls—trophies from defeated Faelaras generals. His hands were long and clawed, each finger ending in blades sharp enough to carve through reinforced Legendary armor as if it were paper.
Despite his monstrous form, he was not so mindless brute. Beneath the armor was a calculating mind, a general whose strategic brilliance had united the fragnted legions of the tallic race.
The Vorotallicae had always been machines of war, but under Kukulkan’s command, they had beco an army of destroyers.
"Their situation is really dire," Vlad muttered, half to himself. However, instead of worrying, he smiled faintly. It wasn’t a smile of amusent—it was anticipation.
The Faerathia’s desperate situation would make them pliable. A proud race would never kneel for aid when victorious, but when standing on the edge of defeat, they would gladly accept help.
He opened his palm, releasing a cloud of black insects that sward over the Sage’s corpse. In less than a second, flesh, alloy, and bone were consud, leaving nothing but empty dust and silence.
When he returned to his forces, the hundred elite Demon Soul Masters straightened instantly. A single glance from him was enough; they needed no words to understand. Each warrior suppressed their aura, the heat of their energy folding inward until their presences vanished completely.
Behind them, the ranks of Reapers—ten thousand strong—responded as one. Linked directly to the A.I. Core embedded within Vlad’s soul, they acted with chanical precision. At a single pulse of thought, every system in their bodies activated in perfect synchronization.
"We move."
The command was silent, transmitted through thought alone.
Despite their overwhelming numbers, the army moved like ghosts. The Reapers lted into the terrain, their dark armor blending seamlessly with the soil. Only Vlad and his hundred elite remained visible, gliding across the surface with lethal grace.
Speed was everything now. Every second mattered.
Their path led toward a colossal mountain range in the distance. Its five towering peaks clawed at the heavens, jagged and cruel, like the fingers of a god made of stone and rage.
The locals called it the Dark Hand, and for centuries it had been one of the most contested regions in the Doomsday World. The mountain range was both a strategic barrier and a gateway, dividing two continents and offering whoever held it complete control over the region.
Now, it belonged entirely to the Vorotallicae.
Every ridge shimred with defensive energy. Massive constructs patrolled the valleys, and the air itself vibrated with the hum of reactor forges buried beneath the ground.
At the center of it all stood a fortress, vast and obsidian, its structure fusing technology and magic in impossible harmony. And within that fortress, upon a dais of black crystal, stood Kukulkan himself.
Before him floated a holographic projection, a virtual map displaying the entire battlefield, filled with endless streams of data. His crimson eyes scanned every report, every movent, every pulse of power within his domain.
Despite his monstrous form, there was intelligence in his gaze. The kind that belonged not to a beast, but to a conqueror.
A sharp, thrilling light flared within Kukulkan’s eyes. For months he had waged this brutal campaign across the Dark Land, driven by one promise, the decree of the Sacred Kings of the Vorotallicae Race. If he succeeded in conquering this Doomsday World, if he could bring the Faerathia Empire to its knees and claim this land for Chaovorathis, he would be rewarded beyond imagination.
He would receive the sacred cores and resources required for his Ascension—the transformation that would elevate him into a full Lord-tier being, a living weapon capable of shaping reality itself. The thought of that glory burned in him like molten iron.
But as visions of triumph filled his mind, sothing shattered the rhythm of his thoughts. His crimson eyes narrowed, instinct screaming a single word—danger.
He turned sharply, armor grinding like thunder, just in ti to see a figure of shadow and fire tearing through the air toward him.
A man—humanoid in shape but radiating power so dense it warped the space around him. His blade crackled with the fury of a cosmic storm, each swing leaving fractures of light across the dim chamber.
Kukulkan’s mind reeled. A human? How had anyone breached the endless layers of defenses surrounding his citadel? The energy barriers alone could atomize a fleet, and yet this intruder had walked straight into his sanctum as though through air.
But Kukulkan was no re tactician. He was a warlord, forged in a thousand battles, and instinct took over before reason could question it.
He roared—a sound that split the air—and raised his massive tallic claw. The obsidian plates along his arm unfolded, forming a barrier of living alloy just as the sword ascended.
"BOOOOOOOOM!"
The explosion tore through the fortress like a miniature supernova. Shockwaves rolled outward, shattering crystal walls and hurling molten debris in all directions. Kukulkan’s colossal body was blasted upward, crashing through the ceiling and vanishing into the dark sky beyond.
When the light faded, Vlad stood amidst the ruin, cloak snapping in the burning wind. For a brief instant, genuine surprise flashed across his eyes.
The Vorotallicae warlord had survived his strike.
"Impressive," Vlad muttered, watching the hole torn through the fortress roof. "Even a Peak Superior Legend would have been cut in half. So... you’ve already tempered your body to the Lord Tier."
All around him, the fortress began to pulse with red light. Sirens blared, runes ignited, and automated voices scread warnings in an alien tongue.
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