Chapter 946: Beyond myth
The Master’s Hand tore through the sky, faster and faster, each movement radiating kinetic force that grew heavier by the heartbeat. Energy coalesced into pure, unrestrained momentum, transforming the severed limb into a cataclysmic weapon. Every swing shattered the air, birthing shockwaves that cracked the fabric of space itself, not merely breaking the sound barrier but warping reality around it.
Across the Zanis Homeworld, countless battles raged—White Death against Pompeyo, Altharion against the alien Lord—but for a single frozen moment, all those clashes halted. Every warrior, every soldier, every monstrosity turned their gaze skyward.
They saw Vlad, the True Depravita of Wrath, plummeting like a meteor from the void, diving straight toward the incoming hand. Even from the distance, they could feel it—the wild, uncontainable pressure of the Master’s Hand, its sheer mass of destruction. To any rational eye, it was clear: if the two collided, Vlad could not possibly win.
But Vlad was not rational.
He was wrath incarnate.
He understood the power he faced, and yet he did not slow down. On the contrary, he pushed harder, diving faster, his body wreathed in plasma and psychic power. Just as they were about to collide, the purple eye carved into his forehead ignited, glowing with otherworldly brilliance as he called forth Freya’s Seal of Sin.
"Allure of Reflection."
Though the words left no sound from his mouth, they echoed across the firmament, reverberating through every corner of the Zanis sky. In that instant, a phantom manifested around Vlad, purple and translucent, yet vast and undeniable. It was not a shield nor a barrier, but a perfect mirror—a phantom copy of the Master’s Hand itself!
The power and momentum of the severed limb mirrored themselves within Vlad, surging into his body, fusing with the monstrous strength already dwelling inside him. His might multiplied, his aura exploded outward. For one impossible second, the wrathful warrior surpassed the divine momentum of the eldritch god’s severed hand.
"CRACKKKKKKKKKKK!"
The sky shattered like glass. Reality trembled as Vlad accelerated beyond the limits of reason, his figure a blazing spear hurtling straight into the severed fingers of the Master’s Hand.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!"
The collision shook the world. A detonation so immense roared across the heavens that mountains split and oceans churned into tidal waves. Earthquakes erupted across the Zanis Homeworld, entire cities pulverized beneath the echo of their clash.
Vlad’s body convulsed violently, blood erupting from his mouth, nose, and ears as the unbearable strain shredded his organs. His bones cracked like brittle wood, and even his Lord-Tier sword split under the catastrophic pressure, cracks webbing across its once-immortal steel. But his eyes only burned brighter. Wrath and madness fueled him, and he roared.
"ARGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It was not the cry of a man. It was the roar of war, of destruction incarnate, echoing into the void itself. The True Depravita of Wrath poured everything into his strike, his sword pressing deeper, sundering through flesh, tendon, and bone. The severed hand convulsed, ichor spilling in rivers, black blood falling from the sky like unholy rain.
The blade carved onward, closer and closer to the eye embedded in the back of the monstrous palm. The eye thrashed violently, agony radiating from its alien pupil, but it could not stop him. Vlad screamed once more, channeling his very soul into his final push—until at last his sword split the eye in two, shattering it in a blinding explosion of gore and psychic backlash.
The cut did not stop there. His blade, cracked and failing, traced through the palm, splitting the hand from fingertip to wrist.
Across the Zanis Homeworld, shock and awe seized every heart. Soldiers and monstrosities—all bore witness to the impossible sight. The True Depravita of Wrath had cleaved the Master’s Hand in half.
Vlad’s body trembled, his weapon finally shattering into fragments that scattered like dying stars. His soul nearly collapsed, his energy gone, his body broken. Yet a wide smile stretched across his blood-stained lips.
He had succeeded.
The moment of triumph came at a terrible cost. The fusion broke. Jormungandr, Freya, Ouroboros, and Fafnir appeared beside him, each one unconscious, drained beyond their limits. Vlad himself could barely remain conscious. He had forced his existence past its boundaries, and now he was paying the price.
But then salvation came.
An Archangel clad in radiant light emerged. Though grievously wounded from summoning the Spear of Destiny, his body still trembling from the backlash, Overlord had spent his recovery within Vlad’s space ring, devouring treasures and resources at a frantic pace, forcing himself back into fighting condition. He was far from his peak, but strong enough for what needed to be done.
With a single gesture, he pulled the five True Depravitas into his space ring, securing them in safety. Then he turned to the severed remnants of the Master’s Hand.
The spirituality inside the flesh was broken, the core will shattered, but the hand still lived. Even dismembered, the alien god’s power was too immense, and if left alone, the hand would reforge itself. The Master was truly beyond comprehension—so strong that even his severed remains defied death.
Fortunately, Overlord had the perfect answer.
He raised his hand, releasing a barrage of god-weapons. Blades of celestial steel, spears forged of pure divine equations, chains woven from heavenly light—all pierced the fragments of the Hand, pinning them in place. The Archangel’s aura surged, sealing them with righteous authority.
And then, he opened his mouth.
From within, an abyss unfolded—the Nightmare Universe itself, writhing and shifting like a living void. The core consciousness that once belonged to the alien entity had been broken. Now only Overlord controlled it, bending it to his will as if it were merely another extension of his body.
The void split into twin streams and descended upon the severed pieces of the Master’s Hand, consuming them piece by piece. The black ichor, the bones, the alien flesh—all were devoured by the endless hunger of the Nightmare Universe.
It happened so swiftly, so decisively, that the world itself took a moment to realize what had occurred. And then, like a tide breaking free, sound returned.
The warriors of the Graecia Empire erupted into cheers. Their voices rose as one, echoing across the ruined world in a chant of victory, a chant of might, a chant of reverence.
"Xaos King!"
"Xaos King!"
"Xaos King!"
The cry spread across armies, through the heavens and earth, from the mouths of mortals and immortals alike. It was more than a victory chant—it was proclamation.
The Xaos King had marched into Hell itself, had carved his way into the very heart of the Zanis Homeworld, a place the empire could not reach. He had shattered the barrier that protected the enemy, shut down the portal to the dark dimension, and faced the severed remnant of an eldritch god whose power transcended divine comprehension. And he had prevailed.
These feats were not merely accomplishments. They elevated his name beyond myth, into a destiny that even gods could no longer ignore.