"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!" "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!" The battlefield around the Primordial God’s tomb thundered with one explosion after another. Vlad and Metatron clashed with a ferocity that tore everything around them, their duel becoming a storm of destruction too vast for mortal comprehension. The body of the True Depravita of Wrath was ripped apart again and again, each piece reforming in bursts of red psychic power as his immortal constitution regenerated. Metatron, by contrast, did not rely on regeneration—his flesh and blood simply refused to yield. Despite hundreds of full-power sword strikes carving across his form, he stood firm. The radiant durability granted by Durendal defied death itself. Yet even as their titanic figures clashed across the skies with power that could level worlds, it became clear the end was drawing near. Vlad’s aura burned low. Even with the Eye of Gluttony constantly siphoning energy from the battlefield, his Depravita essence drained too quickly. The strain of fusing with four True Depravitas at once gnawed at his soul, threatening collapse. He could not endure much longer. Metatron, though standing tall, was no less broken. His body bore countless shallow cuts, each one precisely placed in a vulnerable point. Blood streamed across his frame, and though Durendal blunted the depth of each wound, they weakened his movements, slowed his reactions. Even invulnerability had its limits. Worse, his soul and life force still reeled from the terrible price he had paid earlier, when he unleashed Heaven’s trump card to stop the release of Dream of Madness and defeated the Lords of Hell and Abyss. The two warriors locked eyes. Both understood. The final exchange was coming. One strike to decide everything. Without pause, they launched at one another. Vlad shattered volleys of divine weapons as they erupted from Metatron’s portals, his blade flashing like black lightning, tearing through each radiant spear. He forced the distance into melee, knowing that only at close range did he have any chance to pierce the Archangel’s defenses. Metatron met him with flawless martial grace. Durendal moved at lightspeed, carving arcs of divine radiance. More portals bloomed around him, vomiting forth god-weapons from every direction. Each clash shook the tomb, the ground below fracturing into titanic scars. The brutality of their duel escalated until, with a final concussive impact, both were hurled downward. Their bodies smashed into the earth, blood spilling from mouths and eyes as dust and flame erupted. Vlad roared, channeling every last ember of wrath into his blade. His aura flared wildly, unstable, burning beyond its limits. He was a falling star on the verge of collapse, but his intent was unbreakable. Metatron said nothing. His eyes glowed with determination so pure it felt as though Heaven itself gazed through them. Durendal shimmered—and then vanished. In its place appeared a new weapon. It was not a massive sword, but its presence dwarfed the sun. Flames coiled along its edge, heat radiating like the breath of world-devouring dragons. The Voice of Heaven had abandoned invulnerability. Instead, he chose pure destruction for the final blow. The ground split beneath their feet as they lunged. Vlad’s wings left a trail of psychic flame embodying the Seven Deadly Sins, while Metatron’s left a radiant stream of light and order, the embodiment of Heaven’s eternal might. They collided with the fury of colliding stars. Vlad’s blade pierced Metatron’s chest, driving deep, carving through divine muscle and bone. Yet he fell short of the heart. Pain ravaged the Archangel’s body, but his eyes did not waver. He had willingly sacrificed his chest to gain perfect positioning. "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!" A volcanic eruption of flame exploded from the sword. Fire older than suns consumed everything, heat so great it could have incinerated a star. Vlad’s body was hurled away, his screams swallowed by fire. He struck the ground like a comet, rolling across shattered stone as blood poured from his mouth. The damage was catastrophic. By the time his broken form skidded to a halt, the fusion collapsed. The Depravitas of Gluttony, Greed, Envy, and Lust were torn free from his soul, their broken bodies scattering beside him. Each was grievously wounded, barely conscious, their energy too depleted to attempt another fusion. Metatron staggered. His chest bore a cavernous wound where Vlad’s blade had pierced him. The hole glowed with deathly energy, rotting at the edges. His condition was dire beyond measure. Even if he returned to Heaven immediately, years—perhaps decades—of seclusion and cultivation would be required. If mishandled, the wound might scar his soul for millennia. And yet, even in that ruined state, the Archangel was still strong enough to finish his enemies. He raised his hand, golden portals spiraling into existence. He would summon one last volley of god-weapons, enough to annihilate Vlad and the other Depravitas where they lay. But before he could unleash it, the ground behind him cracked open. Stone shattered, fire erupted, and a new figure emerged. A body forged of divine power, radiant with white light. The Divine Avatar moved without hesitation, sword flashing directly toward Metatron’s neck. The Archangel reacted instantly. A spear manifested in his grip, thrusting backward. The blade pierced the Avatar’s skull, ending the ambush in a single strike. "Hmph. Did you truly think the surprise attack of a mere Legend could reach me?" Disdain dripped from his voice, proud and scornful. But then his eyes widened. The Avatar’s body glowed—not its head, but its stomach. Metatron realized the truth too late. The Divine Avatar was not a warrior. It was a vessel. The explosive charge within it detonated. "KAAAAAA-BOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!" A torrent of destruction erupted point-blank, engulfing the Archangel’s body in a storm of divine fire and raw annihilation. Light consumed everything, blotting out the battlefield. The explosion was not merely immense—it was apocalyptic. It tore through the tomb with a roar like the birth of a star, charged not only with raw elemental force but with waves of psychic energy that assaulted flesh, soul, and spirit alike. From within the inferno, a roar of rage and hatred split the air. Metatron emerged, his aura flaring in a desperate burst, scattering the flames that sought to devour him. His stoic expression, so unshakable until now, finally faltered. The blast had struck deeper than flesh. His soul, already fractured, was thrown into utter disarray. Thought itself grew difficult. His vision blurred, his grip on consciousness slipping like sand through fingers. To remain upright, he clenched his fists until blood ran down his palms, bit the tip of his tongue until copper filled his mouth, forcing himself to stay awake. He could not collapse—not yet. His enemies still lived. Metatron turned his gaze toward Vlad and the battered True Depravitas. He knew he had to kill them swiftly, before his strength failed. But then the ground trembled once more. This time, what emerged was far worse than a Divine Avatar. A nightmare surged from the earth—a mantle of flesh, eyes, and gnashing maws, writhing like a living cloak of madness. It lashed forward, wrapping around the Archangel before he could raise his blade. The monstrosity sank its teeth into his body, fusing to his skin, crawling into his wounds. Shock and revulsion contorted Metatron’s face as the parasitic abomination latched onto him. He could feel it digging, probing, trying to invade him—not only physically but spiritually. His mind was flooded by a torrent of alien emotions: rage, despair, greed, envy, lust. The dark tide sought to drown his thoughts, hollow him out, make him a vessel. Tʜe source of this ᴄontent ɪs 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭⟡𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘦⟡𝘯𝘦𝘵 "No..." he growled, his voice trembling with fury. He would not—could not—allow himself to be consumed. But before he could raise his hand, before he could gather the divine might to burn the parasite away, his negative emotions betrayed him. Twisted into a conduit, they opened the door for something worse. A ripple tore through space, and the five True Depravitas, their bodies mangled and drenched in blood, teleported into existence right before him. Vlad struck first. His sword drove into Metatron’s chest, the blade biting deep, forcing the Archangel backward until his body slammed into the shattered ground. Every ounce of wrath Vlad still possessed burned through that thrust. Freya followed, her rusty sword—ancient, cursed—piercing Metatron’s left wing and pinning it to the earth as if nailing a star to stone. Jormungandr, no longer a towering serpent but a crackling snake of lightning, coiled around the Archangel’s right arm and sank its fangs into divine flesh, paralyzing it with venomous electricity. Ouroborus and Fafnir attacked together, their claws tearing into his legs, pinning them with the savagery of beasts desperate for survival. One by one, the five True Depriavtas locked the Archangel down. Blood streamed from his wounds. His divine aura, though still blinding, sputtered and cracked. Metatron struggled, wings straining, fire blazing in his eyes, but even his might could not immediately cast them off. They were not fighting to win a duel. They were sacrificing everything to immobilize him, to hold him in place long enough. Above them, the mantle of flesh writhed with unholy hunger, its maws gnashing, its countless eyes unblinking. It pressed tighter around the Archangel, beginning the process of assimilation.