Chapter 947: Supreme War Hero of the Graecia Empire
While the armies of the Graecia Empire roared with triumph, voices raised in awe and exultation, not all hearts shared in that glory.
Far from the cries of victory, Pompeyo trembled. His breath came in ragged gasps, his eyes wide with disbelief and horror. Everything—his plans, his sacrifices, the lives he had traded away—had amounted to nothing.
The portal to the Dark Dimension had been destroyed. The fragment of that eldritch being that had managed to breach the world was now being consumed, devoured piece by piece by the writhing blackness of the Nightmare Universe, its teeth and eyes feasting on what remained of divinity.
Pompeyo’s entire world fell into shadow. All his paths led only to ruin, and the echoes of the soldiers’ chants pierced his heart like blades. Rage, envy, and despair boiled within him, a storm that threatened to consume his very sanity.
"It’s all because of him." The words clawed through his mind, bitter and poisonous. "If not for that wretch, for that monster, I could have won. My Master could have been free."
He clenched his fists until blood seeped from his palms. Every memory of failure, every humiliation, every battle lost—it all burned together into hatred. If not for Vlad, if not for the Xaos King’s interference, Pompeyo was certain the outcome would have been different. He would have ruled. The Empire would have fallen. The Graecians would have been the ones drowning in despair.
But now, everything was ash.
His lips curled into a hateful snarl as his eyes drifted toward Alexandro, the White Death. The Graecian warlord floated in the air above the battlefield, his white flames illuminating the ruin below, his soldiers chanting the name of another man—not his.
Pompeyo’s smirk was venomous. "Look at them cheer the name of another," he spat, his voice cracking under the weight of mockery and madness. "You’ve been cast into the shadow of someone else’s saga, haven’t you, White Death? You’ve fought, you’ve led, but now the world praises another. How does it feel to be a side character in the story of your own war?"
Alexandro’s eyes narrowed slightly, the glacial calm of a man who had long transcended mortal pride. Pompeyo’s words were not meant to wound the body—but to infect the mind. He wanted to leave a scar, a seed of resentment that might one day pit the two titans—White Death and Xaos King—against each other.
But the seed never took root.
Alexandro’s lips parted, not in anger, but in a smile—cold, proud, and radiant. His white flames surged to life, burning brighter than ever before as his voice rang across the entire world.
"Kill everything in the name of the Supreme War Hero of the Graecia Empire—the Xaos King!"
Pompeyo froze, disbelief paralyzing him. For a moment, he thought he had misheard. But the roar of the soldiers below shattered that illusion.
Alexandro had not silenced the chants of Vlad’s name. He had amplified them. He had declared, before gods and monsters alike, that the Xaos King stood beside him, an equal in glory. That his deeds, his courage, and his wrath were worthy of the Empire’s eternal praise.
Pompeyo’s expression twisted. "You... fool," he hissed. "You would share your crown?"
But Alexandro only smiled wider. He was not a man driven by fame or vanity. He did not care for thrones or worship. His strength came from conviction, from within. He knew who he was and what he fought for. Whether they hailed him or another meant nothing.
The White Death’s spear blazed with light so pure it seemed to erase color from the world. His killing intent sharpened to a divine edge, yet within his eyes burned not hatred—but purpose. The long, bloody war was nearing its end. If he was to ensure the Empire’s survival—if his people were ever to know peace again—he needed to finish what had been started.
He needed to kill the traitor who began everything, Pompeyo Zanis.
"Time to silence you forever."
The white flames coiled tightly around Alexandro’s spear, compressing until they burned invisible, pure entropy bound into weapon form. With a burst of impossible momentum, he vanished—reappearing before Pompeyo in a flash of annihilation.
"BOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!"
The impact tore through the land. The world quaked as Pompeyo was hurled across the battlefield, rolling through shattered mountains and molten stone. Entire ridges collapsed under the force of his body crashing through them, his armor—crafted with forbidden runes and blessed by his Master’s will—fracturing under the Law of Entropy that clung to Alexandro’s spear.
Before Pompeyo could even stop himself, before his body could recover balance, the White Death was there again.
Another strike.
Another explosion.
The second blow sent the Patriarch spiraling in the opposite direction, blood erupting from his mouth, his organs rupturing under the weight of celestial destruction.
Pompeyo tried to rise, tried to summon the world’s Origin Power, but his strength was fading, his essence unraveling. The flames of the White Death clung to him, eating away at his very soul. Every breath he took seared his lungs, every heartbeat felt like a hammer to the chest.
To the soldiers below, their battle was no mere duel—it was a revelation. A god of flame and order purging the last vestige of corruption from the world.
Even as the portal to the Dark Dimension had been sealed, even as the fragment of the Master was consumed by the Nightmare Universe, chaos still reigned. The monstrous horrors spawned from the rift continued to fight, unrelenting, their madness unending. They felt no pain, no fear, only the primal urge to destroy.
But the armies of the Graecia Empire were relentless. Fueled by the triumph of their leaders, by the sight of victory finally within reach, they surged forward like an unstoppable tide.
Steel clashed against bone, flame against shadow. Step by step, inch by inch, they pushed the abominations back. The air burned with divine fire and shattered reality.
The monsters fought like beasts, but the soldiers of the Empire fought like gods. Victory was in sight, and they would not falter now.
Yet, on the far edge of the battlefield, another struggle raged—a quieter, more desperate one.
Altharion, Crown Prince of the Graecia Empire, battled the Alien Lord. His glaive flashed in arcs of radiant gold, carving deep wounds into the abomination’s flesh. Yet for every cut he made, the wounds closed almost instantly, healed by malignant, cancerous cells that multiplied faster than he could destroy them.
The prince’s armor was scorched, his breath ragged, blood streaking his cheek. He was strong, strong enough to fight even Lords of Hell, but this was different. The Alien Lord was not merely powerful; it was unholy. A being of nightmare that could not die in any natural way.