The Zanis Homeworld, once a land of might and splendor, a jewel among worlds, had fallen into ruin. Once, it boasted thousands of magnificent metropolises, cities that glowed like beacons of civilization. Now, it was little more than a burning graveyard, a desolation where smoldering ruins stretched endlessly across the horizon. While the True Depravitas and Overlord fought their way through Hell, the armies of the Graecia Empire advanced across this dying world. They moved like a tide of fire, leaving devastation in their wake, annihilating everything that still dared to cling to life. And now, the full might of the Empire pressed itself against a shimmering forcefield that protected the planet’s heart—an immense barrier of alien power. Above, at the very peak of the skies, hovered the White Death. His eyes were closed, his expression as cold as a glacier, but the energy coiled within him was volatile, ready to erupt at any moment. He waited, silent and still, but the instant the barrier fell, he would unleash himself. His task was clear. March into the heart of the Zanis bloodline, kill Pompeyo, erase his family’s name from existence, and, above all, prevent the summoning of that monstrous being whose single hand had been said to hold the strength to crush a world. The soldiers of the Empire mirrored their Lord’s grim resolve. Every one of them stood tall, their auras unsheathed, blazing outward like countless blades honed for slaughter. They had no illusions about the path ahead. They knew the dangers would be immense. They knew many would not live to see the end. Yet determination burned in their hearts like living steel. Inside the forcefield, the scene was no less grim. Beneath the ground, hidden from the Empire’s gaze, stood Pompeyo. His body bore no wounds, not even a scar. The mysterious hand that had plucked him from Vlad’s blade had not only saved his life but reforged his flesh, healing him and even making him stronger than before. It was a gift, and one Pompeyo received with zealous fire. His eyes gleamed with renewed fervor as he turned toward the endless roads of people herded forward under his command. Their eyes were dull, their minds clouded, drugged to suppress terror and reason. They did not understand what was happening, which was its own form of mercy. Step by step, like cattle to the slaughter, they were forced toward a massive pit. One by one they tumbled into the abyss. Their bodies shattered against jagged rocks at the pit’s edge—stones so sharp and unyielding they could split the flesh of even a Superior Legend. By the time their corpses reached the pit’s depths, they were torn to pieces, blood and viscera painting the walls and pooling into a crimson sea. With every scream, every life extinguished, the pit glowed brighter. With every act of brutality, its radiance deepened, its power sharpened. Space itself trembled, cracks rippling outward. Through those fractures drifted abominations: foul, disgusting creatures that slithered into the world, each one a nightmare given form. Pompeyo’s eyes shone with manic delight. His heart pounded with thrill and hunger. He could feel it—the portal was nearing completion. Soon, it would be strong enough to connect directly to the home of his Master. But as he watched the horrors pour forth, Pompeyo felt something else stir in his heart. Desire. Envy. These nightmares were weaker than him, yes, but they bore something he lacked. Something he had coveted all his life. The passage of time meant nothing to them. They were eternal, beyond decay, beyond death. And Pompeyo wanted it. He craved to endure until the end of time and beyond—to watch suns die, galaxies collapse, and still remain strong and young. For that, he would gladly sacrifice his own bloodline. The Zanis clan was nothing but kindling for his ascension. His gaze shifted upward, piercing through the skies to where the White Death hovered in cold silence. Pompeyo’s lips curled into a smile, his eyes alight with boundless killing intent. "Once my Master arrives, I will let you understand the price of your insolence, Alexandros. I will tear your body apart piece by piece." The thought brought him perverse joy. But then something pulled his attention away. He turned toward his castle. It should have been empty—all his family members had already been driven toward the pit. Yet he sensed it clearly: two new life forces had appeared within its walls. ʀᴇᴀᴅ ʟᴀᴛᴇsᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀᴛ 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⟡𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕥⟡𝕟𝕖𝕥 Confusion flickered across Pompeyo’s face. That shouldn’t have been possible. He had not made the mistake of leaving the portal open. Destroying it outright was impossible, given the way it anchored itself into the Laws of Space-Time of the Zanis Homeworld. But he had cut off its energy flow on his side, sealing it with layer after layer of barriers. For the Devils on the other side to force it open, they would have needed to expend a colossal amount of Origin Power—an act so costly it would cripple their entire sector. No sane Devil Lord would willingly do such a thing. But the intruders who came through now cared little for crippling Hell. And in less than a second, they revealed themselves. Pompeyo’s eyes widened as two figures stepped through, their presence overwhelming. Their weapons ignited with deathfire and solar flame, and without hesitation they struck the portal. "No!" Pompeyo roared, his voice breaking with fury. The blow landed with world-shaking force. The seals shattered instantly, the portal collapsing inward. In the next heartbeat, the gateway twisted upon itself, folding, tearing, devouring its own foundation. The light dimmed, the structure buckled—and then it transformed into a swirling singularity. A black hole was born, tearing at the very heart of the Zanis Homeworld. "Gods damn it!" Pompeyo roared, his voice cracking with hatred and rage as he watched the singularity blossom within the ruins of his ancestral castle. The ancient structure, which had endured for countless millennia, shattered in an instant under the crushing pull of infinite gravity. But the black hole did not stop there. It swelled larger, growing stronger the more it devoured, feeding greedily on everything around it. Left unchecked, it would continue until there was nothing left. Pompeyo wasted not a single second. He erupted from the underground pit like a missile of divine fire. His eyes burned with murderous light—and in that instant, he caught sight of the ones responsible. Both figures hovered in the air with radiant wings, their presence unmistakably reminiscent of Archangels. Yet they could not have been more different. One radiated an aura enhanced by the Seven Deadly Sins. The other was colder, aloof, his four eyes gleaming with endless streams of codes, his movements precise, calculated—an intelligence forged, not born. Pompeyo’s gaze hardened. He did not recognize the emotionless Archangel with the eyes of code, but he knew the other all too well. His appearance had changed, yes, his aura now stained by Hell itself, but there was no doubt. The sinful Lord who had nearly ended his life. The one who had forced his Master’s hand, delaying the summoning and ruining years of preparation. Pompeyo’s lips peeled back in a snarl. "Go and die!" With a sweep of his hands, two massive golden spears materialized, their shafts blazing with Origin Power. The veins of the Zanis Homeworld itself pulsed through him, lending him strength, and he hurled the weapons with enough force to pierce even a weak Devil Lord’s heart. The spears tore through the sky like twin suns, splitting clouds, shrieking as they ripped through layers of space-time itself. But Vlad and Overlord did not flinch. The True Depravita of Wrath’s body swelled with might, muscles tightening like coiled steel, every vein burning with physical power and death aura. Beside him, the A.I. Chip Clone raised his hand and summoned a weapon bathed in golden radiance. The holy sword gleamed, its presence evoking the unyielding resilience of Heaven itself. Together, the two met Pompeyo’s assault head-on. When spear and blade collided, the firmament seemed to tear. Cracks spiderwebbed through the fabric of space-time, reality trembling under the catastrophic pressure. The shockwaves rolled outward in waves, leveling distant mountains, shattering rivers into mist. And yet, despite the power behind Pompeyo’s attack, the duo did not yield. They poured everything into their defense, their strength roaring against the current of destruction. The first spear shattered into fragments of light, disintegrating into nothingness. The second followed, bursting apart under the force of Vlad’s sword and Overlord’s will. When the dust cleared, the two remained unbroken, cutting through the storm of ruin like a pair of unstoppable meteors. Pompeyo’s eyes widened, his fury twisting his face. "Damn it!" He wanted nothing more than to turn and annihilate them where they hovered, insolent and defiant. But he could not. The black hole behind him pulsed larger, its pull threatening to consume even him. To ignore it for even a heartbeat longer would doom his entire plan. Snarling, Pompeyo extended his soul outward. His aura erupted in a tidal wave of golden flame, flooding the air, weaving itself into the singularity. Slowly, with monumental strain, he anchored it, halting its growth. Still, his rage did not abate. From the corner of his eye he saw the duo, marching relentlessly toward the mountain range above the underground pit—the very core of the forcefield that protected his ritual. If they reached it, the shield would collapse, and with it, all he had labored for would come undone. His roar shook the skies. The order thundered across the battlefield, a command infused with divine malice. Vlad and Overlord did not falter. They moved like streaks of lightning, streams of light cutting through the air. Their wings beat furiously, propelling them faster and faster toward their target. Their eyes burned with deadly purpose, fixed on the mountain range, uncaring of the chaos behind them. But they had not gone unnoticed. The ground split open. From the pit of sacrifice, from the fractures of space and time birthed by blood and slaughter, monsters rose. They were horrors given flesh—things that should not exist, born of madness and nightmare. Wings of rotting flesh beat against the sky, jaws lined with teeth like obsidian daggers gnashed hungrily, and eyes, hundreds of them, burned with feverish hatred. They surged upward in swarms, their screeches shaking the very bones of the world. The first wave lunged for the duo, blotting out the sun.