When the gates finally opened, what the Archangel, the Demon Lord, and the Devil Lord beheld was no mere tomb or prison—it was the embodiment of horror itself. Bound within a void that seemed older than time, a grotesque entity writhed at the heart of the dimension. Its body was no single form but a churning abyss, a mass of tangled tendrils that stretched in every direction like rivers of living darkness. The thing strained ceaselessly against colossal chains of black metal, each link forged from forces so ancient and terrible they seemed to hum with the echo of creation itself. From this imprisoned horror radiated not just darkness but a malice so profound it felt as though reality itself recoiled. Demon and Devil alike were beings of cruelty, of ambition, of endless slaughter. Yet even their wickedness had its logic—they sought to conquer, to shape the worlds they ruined into empires of their own. The aura of this chained monstrosity was something else entirely. It was chaos absolute: not conquest but obliteration, not tyranny but madness. Civilization, order, even thought itself would be annihilated in its wake. In the realms it touched, only endless nightmare would remain. Before the trio could brace themselves against its presence, a single eye manifested within the core of the entity—a blazing orb of crimson fire, glaring with hunger and malice so overwhelming that even Orous and Hajack faltered, their breath caught in their throats. Metatron, proud Archangel of Heaven, trembled despite himself, wings tightening in instinctive defense. And then, as if one eye were not enough, more appeared. Dozens. Hundreds. A sea of slit-pupiled crimson orbs emerged inside the tomb, unblinking, staring from every angle like a galaxy of predators encircling their prey. Even the most infamous of the Primordial Gods—their names etched in the blackest histories of creation—could not compare. This was something older, viler, deeper: an eldritch god of chaos and malice. A being that saw all, hungered for freedom, and whose awakening would drown the cosmos in madness. Unlike the shaken trio, Emanon smiled. His lips pulled so wide it seemed his face might split apart, his expression stretched between ecstasy and mania. Emanon’s voice rose, triumphant, echoing through the chamber like the chant of a zealot. "Dream of Madness, my brother! The blood of the Unholy Trinity has been spilled within your tomb! The essence of Heaven, Hell, and the Abyss lies at your feet. The key has been presented!" The three combatants glanced down and froze. At the entrance of the tomb of the chained god, a formation glowed upon the ground. Its lines were etched not with chalk or flame but with their own blood, shed during the desperate battle. Their essence—stolen, gathered, and woven by Emanon—had been the key to unlock this prison. In that instant, a dreadful realization settled over them: every step, every strike, every wound had been orchestrated to feed the ritual. Emanon had played them from the beginning. It seemed unthinkable that this monstrous being had manipulated the tides of Hell and Abyss, planting whispers, pulling strings until its reach even drew Heaven’s envoy into this sacred dimension. Yet the evidence was undeniable. Worse still, they felt the walls of the dimension itself seal tight. The portal through which they had entered was gone, leaving them trapped within the tomb alongside the horror. "Awaken from your slumber and devour the blood and souls of these lowly creatures as you rise back to power!" Emanon did not spare them a glance. His eyes remained fixed on his bound brother, his voice thick with reverence. Everything had unfolded according to his design. All that remained was to break the chains and usher the world into madness. He lifted his arms, his laughter echoing. A flash of power split the chamber. Above the chained god, a new figure appeared, his presence cutting through the void like a sword of its own. Four eyes blazed upon his forehead, each burning with determination and the weight of cosmic power. Of course, he was no other than Vlad. Without hesitation, he poured every ounce of strength into his blade. The weapon, wreathed in impossible energies, descended and struck the crimson eye at the heart of the eldritch god. The impact exploded in a blast so vast it shook the interior of the tomb, the eye bursting outward like a star collapsing. The entity screamed. A sound of agony, of fury, of hatred too vast for words. The cry shook the bones, tearing through body and spirit, echoing as though the dimension itself howled in pain. Flames of psychic torment seared outward as the chains rattled under its thrashing. "YOU DARE!" Emanon roared, his voice thick with disbelief and rage. Hatred poured from him like a tide as he glared at Vlad. Follow current ɴᴏᴠᴇʟs on 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩·𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢·𝔫𝔢𝔱 But Vlad was already gone. In a blur of Negative Teleportation, the True Depriavta vanished from before the chained god and reappeared behind Emanon. His sword drove through the zealot’s back, erupting from his chest in a spray of blood. Emanon’s body convulsed, his eyes wide with shock as Vlad whispered his merciless intent through his glare alone. Energy surged along the blade, ready to erupt and end him in one strike. Yet before Vlad could unleash it, Emanon’s body dissolved. With a wet, sickening sound, his flesh burst apart into countless larvae, each writhing and melting into the ground until not a trace of him remained. Vlad snarled, his brow furrowing. Emanon’s trickery ran deeper than even he had anticipated. The man’s presence had vanished completely. No heartbeat. No shadow. No trace. But the True Depriavta of Wrath knew better than to waste time chasing a phantom. The greater threat remained. Without hesitation, Vlad turned his fury upon the formation that acted as the key to the tomb. In a single strike, he shattered it, scattering the lines of blood and essence, unraveling the ritual Emanon had forged. The prison’s gate shuddered, beginning to close once more. But they had acted too late. From within the tomb, a deafening crack resounded. The sound of chains snapping. The eldritch god bellowed, its fury shaking the void, as massive tentacles burst outward, tearing free from broken bonds. The dimension convulsed under the force of its awakening, and the air itself seemed to splinter.