Chapter 952: The death of a sovereign
The exchange between the White Death and Overlord carried on for nearly an hour — a battle of words, logic, and will.
Neither raised their voice, but each sentence carried the weight of worlds. Every argument was measured, every pause calculated.
At last, the A.I. Chip Clone inclined his head. "It is a deal, then."
The Emperor of Graecia exhaled deeply. It was the first breath he had allowed himself since the negotiation began. He felt as though the very essence of his soul had been wrung dry — the mental strain greater than what he had endured when facing Pompeyo in battle.
Still, he managed a faint smile. Exhaustion warred with relief across his face.
The deal he had sealed with Overlord guaranteed the safety of the Empire. The Graecian fleets would have the Xaos Kingdom’s support during reconstruction; their borders would remain secure, and none would dare strike at them while they rebuilt. But the cost... the cost was steep.
For a moment, Alexandro allowed himself to think of that price — then shook his head sharply. Sentiment was a luxury he could not afford. His duty awaited. He turned from the Archangel and strode toward the war camp where his generals and the heads of the surviving noble families waited. His expression hardened once more into the cold mask of command.
As the Emperor departed, Overlord closed his eyes. Around him, the Nightmare Universe pulsed like a living shadow, feeding on the energy that still lingered from the fallen monsters. Streams of life force flowed into his body, mending his shattered Archangel form. The psychic energy, in turn, flooded into the space sanctuaries where the True Depravitas lay in suspended healing.
Their physical wounds had already mended — thanks to the overwhelming regeneration granted by their Depravita Constitutions. Yet the deeper damage remained: the essence they had burned away during the battle against the Master’s Hand.
In that battle, Vlad had pushed himself and the others beyond all limits. To defeat an entity whose power rivaled that of a top-tier Lord of Hell, he had ignited his Depravita Sun and the other the other True Depravitas, consuming part of their essence to reach a higher state of destruction. It had been their only chance.
The sacrifice had nearly killed them.
But now, as the Nightmare Universe nourished them with new vitality, their suns began to blaze again. Slowly, steadily, the light returned.
Days passed.
Days became weeks.
And finally, one by one, their eyes opened.
The five True Depravitas rose from their crystalline chambers, their auras flaring across reality like supernovas. The ground beneath them trembled under their awakening.
Power coursed through their bodies, divine essence roaring like fire through their veins. Smiles broke across their faces — genuine, feral smiles born of victory and evolution. The war had pushed them to the brink, forcing them to break every barrier, to transcend what they once were. Now their strength had multiplied. Their souls had refined. The path ahead — toward the next evolution of the Depravita Path — stood clearer than ever.
For Vlad, that evolution meant something far more profound. It was the key to his dream — the chance to split his soul once more, to give birth to another True Depravita. Each new fragment brought him closer to ultimate unification. If he could merge with five True Depravita, his power might finally reach the level he sought — enough to embark upon a saga he had envisioned for a very long time.
When the five emerged from the spatial sanctuaries, they were greeted not by celebration but by devastation.
The land around them was scorched beyond recognition. Mountains had been flattened. Rivers had turned to ash. The air shimmered with the residue of divine flame. It was the aftermath of the greatest war in the Graecia Empire’s history — and the final testament to its ferocity.
But something else drew their attention.
Everywhere they looked, enormous pillars of black crystal rose from the ground, stretching endlessly into the sky. There were hundreds, perhaps thousands, pulsing faintly with crimson light.
"What are these?" Freya murmured, her silver hair whipping in the dry wind.
Overlord’s voice answered, calm and resonant, echoing through their minds. "They are Origin Pillars. They are siphoning the world’s life force and origin power. Once the last trace is drained, the Zanis Homeworld will become a hollow shell — ready for annihilation."
The True Depravitas exchanged glances, a flicker of awe and grim respect crossing their features.
When the White Death had vowed to destroy the Zanis Homeworld, he was not kidding around. He meant to erase the planet completely, ensuring that no rift to the dark dimensions could ever open again.
As they watched, the sky above cracked with thunder. Shards of dark lightning spread like veins through the firmament. The ground below withered further, its color fading to lifeless gray. The aura of death spread outward in waves, devouring everything.
The world was dying — by deliberate design.
Overlord stood amid the decay, unmoving, his golden wings dimmed but steady. For him, this desolation was a feast. The death energy saturating the air flowed eagerly into the Nightmare Universe, feeding its endless hunger.
The True Depravitas, though, felt no sorrow. Their victory had come with unimaginable sacrifice, but the war was over. The darkness that had haunted their realms was gone. And even amidst the ruin, they could taste triumph.
Vlad looked toward Overlord, a grin playing at his lips.
"We’ll be waiting in the void," he said. "Make sure to rise again once the Nightmare Universe has fed enough."
Overlord inclined his head silently.
The five Depravitas ascended into the crimson sky, their laughter echoing through the dying world. For the first time in what felt like eternity, they could rest. It was time — at last — to enjoy the peace they had earned.
...
While the Graecia Empire basked in the light of triumph — its people rebuilding, its banners raised high — something darker stirred far, far away.
A storm raged above Valhalla.
The heavens split open, lightning cascading like rivers of fire. Rain fell in endless torrents, drenching the ancient halls of the gods. Within the longhouse once belonging to Odinvaldr himself, the air was thick with blood and silence.
On the cold stone floor lay the body of the Viking Empress.
A gaping wound, the size of a fist, marred her chest where her heart should have been. The divine light in her eyes had long since faded. Her hair was soaked in her own blood.
Standing above her was the Lord of War, Antorus.
Half his body had changed — twisted, mutated by a power not of this world. His right arm had transformed into a monstrous blade of bone and sinew, still dripping with divine blood.
He stared down at the corpse for a long, silent moment. His face was unreadable. Then, slowly, a tremor began to shake his frame — first subtle, then violent.
A low, guttural sound rose from his throat.
And then, laughter.
Wild, broken laughter filled the longhouse, echoing through the storm like the cry of a mad god.
The lightning flashed again, illuminating his distorted form — half man, half abomination — and the shadow of the fallen Empress beneath him.
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End of Book 10 - Lords of Hell