Chapter 950: Pompeyo’s end
Alexandro watched as the Zanis Patriarch fled toward the void. Whatever sliver of respect the White Death once held for that man disintegrated then and there.
Pompeyo Zanis — once a warrior revered across empires, a symbol of unyielding power and ambition — had become nothing more than a coward and a traitor. The man who had once ruled entire systems now fled like a cornered beast, unwilling to face the weight of his own crimes.
Alexandro exhaled slowly, his breath cutting through the silence that followed the chaos of war. His expression hardened. There was no mercy in his heart. Without a word, without even a ripple of hesitation, he launched himself forward.
Space and time folded before his advance. The air shattered like glass as the White Death crossed thousands of kilometers in the blink of an eye. When reality realigned, he was there — standing before Pompeyo, whose eyes widened with a terror that no crown, no power, could hide.
"Mercy... I will—"
The Patriarch’s voice broke before the plea could finish. Alexandro did not wait to hear the rest. His spear flashed — a streak of pale annihilation — and pierced Pompeyo’s skull clean through. The blade of entropy flared, flooding the man’s soul dimension with raw cosmic power.
For an instant, Pompeyo’s body twitched, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then the light in his eyes dimmed. The energy in his veins went cold. The man who had once stood among the universe’s mightiest — a World King, a lord in one of its grandest empires — was gone. His soul was erased, dissolved into nothingness. Not even echoes remained.
Alexandro withdrew his spear slowly. His face remained expressionless, his eyes empty of pity. With a flick of his wrist, he opened his space ring and stored the corpse. A traitor and a coward deserved no grave. The body would be stripped for anything of value — artifacts, organs, essences. Death offered no redemption.
He finally allowed himself a breath. A long, weary sigh escaped his lips. The war had been long — longer than he had ever endured — and the weight of it pressed heavily upon him. His muscles ached; his soul was frayed. For years he had borne the strain of command, every decision carving deeper scars into his will.
He had felt the slow unraveling of fate with every battle — the widening cracks in reality, the ever-tightening grip of the apocalypse that threatened to consume his empire. When the portal to the Dark Dimension opened, it had nearly been the end. Yet now... it was over.
They had won.
Victory — bought with the blood of tens of thousands, with worlds burned to ash — but victory nonetheless.
He turned his gaze back toward the battlefield. All across the shattered plains of the Zanis Homeworld, the sky still shimmered with the fading residue of divine and alien power. The ground was littered with corpses — human and monstrous alike. Yet, despite the devastation, the war was ending. Only scattered pockets of resistance remained: thousands of monstrous entities still rampaging across the ruins.
Alexandro’s lips curved slightly in disdain. "Hmph."
He raised his spear. A ripple of white energy radiated outward, calm and soundless at first — then it erupted into streams of flame. The White Death’s flames swept across the battlefield like living serpents of light. The flames hissed and coiled, devouring every creature they touched. The shrieks of the abominations echoed briefly... then were silenced forever.
Within moments, thousands of them were gone. Within minutes, none remained.
The soldiers of the Graecia Empire stood frozen, their weapons trembling in their hands as they surveyed the aftermath. The silence felt alien after so much destruction. Their eyes, once wild with battle, now slowly softened as realization dawned. The monsters were gone. The enemy was gone.
The war was over.
Then — softly at first, barely more than a whisper — a single voice rose.
"Victory!"
It echoed across the plains, then another took up the call, and another, until the entire army roared the word in unison.
"Victory! Victory! Victory! Victory!"
The cry shook the very foundations of the world, a chant born from exhaustion, relief, and unbridled triumph. Their voices carried through the burning ruins, through the skies torn by war, through the hearts of the fallen who could no longer rise.
Overlord, still seated in meditation, opened his eyes briefly to glance at the scene. His expression remained calm, detached. The cheers mattered little to him — the mission had always been larger than glory.
The White Death, by contrast, allowed a rare smile to touch his lips — faint but genuine. It was the smile of a man who had carried an empire through hell and brought it out alive.
The cheers lasted for nearly a minute before exhaustion reclaimed them. One by one, soldiers fell to the ground — some collapsing from fatigue, others simply sitting where they stood, breathing hard. The bodies of the dead surrounded them, silent witnesses to their victory.
Alexandro did not demand order. He allowed them to rest where they fell, to breathe, to grieve, to sleep. Protocol meant nothing now. They had earned their peace.
He checked once more on his son. Altharion was being treated by the medicae unit — still unconscious but alive, his body cocooned in divine light. Satisfied, Alexandro finally allowed himself to close his eyes and focus inward. His own wounds screamed for attention, but he no longer felt urgency. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he could tend to himself without fear of what tomorrow might bring.
Hours passed.
The sounds of war — the thunder of weapons, the clash of armies — faded completely. In their place came the soft, almost sacred sound of rest: soldiers sleeping on the bloodied soil, breathing in ragged unison. Ten hours passed before the first rays of the sun rose over the horizon, casting long shadows over the ruined homeworld.
The men and women of the Graecia Empire stirred. Slowly, strength returned to their limbs. They rose, battered but alive, their eyes steady once more. The war was over — but the aftermath had only begun.
There was still work to do.
The wounded had been stabilized, and now they needed to be transported back to the White Blade, their fortress adrift in the void. There, they could make use of the healing sanctums. The fallen had to be gathered as well. They could not be left to rot among the ruins. Every soldier who died here had bought this victory with their life. They deserved a proper rest — a place where their families could come to remember them.
The White Death watched as the army began to move again. Commanders shouted orders; engineers activated teleportation beacons. The gears of discipline began to turn once more. The generals would handle the logistics, the priests would bless the dead, and the soldiers would carry one another. His duty here was done.
He turned and began walking toward the Archangel.
Overlord was still seated upon a floating fragment of stone, his body wreathed in gentle, flickering halos of light. As Alexandro approached, the Archangel’s eyes opened — and rows of shimmering code scrolled across his irises like rivers of information. For a moment, their gazes met, and the White Death felt a pulse of tension crawl down his spine.
He was stronger than Overlord, yes — at least in raw might. But behind the Archangel loomed the power of the Nightmare Universe itself, a force that had only grown more terrifying after devouring every last fragment of the Master’s Hand and the Alien Lord. It was a power that warped existence, that even he could not predict.