Vlad tightened the grip on his sword, the flames of death roaring brighter and brighter until his entire body ignited in a storm of annihilation. He became a cosmic tempest in humanoid form, his wrath and strength burning ever higher, his aura searing the very air around him. Beside him, Overlord dismissed Durendal, replacing it with Gram, the flame-forged sword that burned with the heat of a collapsing star. The A.I. Chip Clone’s eyes glowed with cold, mechanical brilliance. Every enemy before him was nothing but data to erase—variables to eliminate so he could achieve the objective. The True Depravita of Wrath roared. Wrathful energy surged like molten rivers through his veins and heart as he lunged forward, Overlord flashing beside him like a golden phantom. "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMM!" The moment they struck, a massive explosion engulfed the battlefield. Hundreds of the nightmare-born creatures clawing their way from the dimensional rift were consumed, their bodies erased in an instant. Yet for every one that fell, two more emerged from the abyss, filling the skies with wings, tendrils, and howling maws. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ 𝔫𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔩⁂𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢⁂𝔫𝔢𝔱 They felt no fear. They felt no pain. Their only instinct was to stop the intruders and safeguard their Master’s awakening. Life and death meant nothing to them—only the will of the nightmare mattered. Vlad and Overlord fought with speed and fury, carving paths of ruin through the swarms. Death-flames consumed whole packs of abominations, while Gram split the air in arcs of solar fire. Together, their power was so immense that the very sky burned, collapsing into seas of destruction around them. And yet—the monsters kept coming. Though their fangs could not pierce Vlad’s immortal flesh nor Overlord’s Archangelic body, their endless numbers slowed the duo’s charge. Relentless waves of claws, wings, and jaws drained their energy bit by bit, halting their advance. If time had been on their side, it would not have mattered. Step by step, they would have carved through. But time was the one thing they did not have. Away from them, Pompeyo’s aura surged. The black hole—born from the collapse of Hell’s shattered portal—was shrinking. The World King of the Zanis Homeworld was suppressing it, smothering its growth with sheer will and soul power. Once he was free, he would come for them. Worse still, below them the sacrificial pit trembled. Rifts were widening, larger and larger, threatening to open fully. If they did not act soon, the thing Pompeyo served—an entity that might rival or even surpass the Dream of Madness—would break through. If it emerged, it was game over. Everything in the world would die. The scythe of death hovered over their necks, but Vlad and Overlord did not falter. They clenched their teeth, burning their very life force, igniting their energy to its absolute peak. The only goal: reach the mountain range. If they could destroy it, the forcefield would collapse, and the Graecia Empire’s armies could pour in. They forced their way forward, every motion ripping apart monstrosities in gory bursts. Yet they were not fast enough. The black hole winked out—erased under Pompeyo’s control. The Patriarch of the Zanis Family wasted not even a fraction of a heartbeat. His form blurred, flashing toward the duo like a golden comet of hate. And as if that was not enough, another horror came from below. From the largest rift yet, a being of nightmare crawled into reality. It was a horror of blended forms—skeletal, insectoid, and avian, fused into a grotesque parody of life. Its twisted body seemed both bone and root, as if grown in mockery of flesh. Veins of violet and black pulsed beneath skinless limbs, while wings of fragile, veined membranes spread wide, blotting out the ruined sky. Its elongated arms ended in staff-like appendages—not forged but grown, tipped with claws sharp enough to shear steel. Its head was crowned by a cage of bone, cradling a grinning skull that floated within, suspended in a halo of spines. It radiated no wisdom, no sanity—only crushing power. Power enough to endanger even Vlad and Overlord. A Lord had emerged from the dark dimension and would kill anything that attempted to close the pit before its Master fully emerged. A wave of death intent rolled across the battlefield, so heavy it bent the will of reality. For the first time in years, the two felt the cold certainty of death brush against their spines. But fear did not claim them. Anxiety did not slow them. Instead, their resolve burned higher. Their determination crystallized into unbreakable clarity. Overlord drew a deep, sharp breath, his entire existence igniting. A single golden portal flared open behind him, shaking the heavens with its appearance. The words cut the air like divine judgment. Blood poured from his eyes, mouth, and ears, his soul trembling on the brink of collapse. But he succeeded. From the portal emerged the twin sister of the Longinus Spear—the same weapon Metatron had once used to repel the Dream of Madness itself. The strain was unbearable. The weapon trembled, its momentum weak, its glow dim. It barely broke the barrier of sound as it advanced. A powerful hand caught it. Vlad’s eyes blazed with fury and hunger. He poured every shred of his essence into the weapon—his life force, his wrath, his Depravita Aura. His muscles coiled, his body twisted, and with a full rotation, he unleashed all that momentum into the Spear of Destiny. The spear transformed into a divine missile. It pierced the swarm of monsters like a burning star, vaporizing everything in its path, and streaked straight into the mountain range. Pompeyo’s eyes widened. For one frozen heartbeat, silence reigned. Then cracks spiderwebbed across the mountains, spreading in every direction. "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMM!" The range erupted. Mountains burst apart, collapsing into ash and ruin as explosions consumed the heart of the Zanis Homeworld. The shockwave rippled outward, shaking the entire planet to its core. Pompeyo’s heart trembled with a horror that felt almost physical as the forcefield’s glow thinned and then faded. The barrier that had kept the Graecia Empire’s armies at bay—his last line of defense—was collapsing. Rage tore through him like a living thing. "You bastard!" the World King roared, voice cracking with fury. He drew on every scrap of Origin Power the Zanis Homeworld still offered and forged it into a gargantuan golden spear. The weapon seethed with hatred; the air around it burned red with the aura of murder. With a single, terrifying motion, Pompeyo hurled himself toward the two intruders. Vlad did not hesitate. He snapped his space ring open and shoved the bloody, exhausted body of Overlord into it—storing the A.I. Clone in cold safety while leaving himself to meet the oncoming death-blow. He raised his sword to receive the spear. The impact was cataclysmic. Bones cracked like dry wood; shock fired through Vlad’s arms, up his spine, through his whole body. The force of Pompeyo’s strike sent him careening into the ground, carving a canyon through the scorched earth as he skidded and rolled. Pain shredded him, every breath a white-hot razor, but there was no time to lie broken. Pompeyo did not pause. He came at Vlad like a golden comet, the spear blazing with the stolen might of a world. Vlad twisted just enough to avoid a direct blow to the head, but Pompeyo followed the motion. He spun the shaft and drove it into Vlad’s chest with a savage, precise stroke. The blade sheared through flesh and bone—ribs splintered, cartilage ruptured—and hurled the True Depriavta of Wrath bodily into a jagged mountain. Rock slammed against him, embedding his form in charred stone; dust and flame choked the air. It was difficult to inhale. For a beat it felt as though everything might end there: flame, stone, and the muffled sounds of Pompeyo’s fury rushing past. The Patriarch raised his spear, preparing the final, crushing strike. Then the world changed. A fist struck Pompeyo’s face with such grievous force that his body flipped end over end and tumbled across the scorched plains. Pompeyo managed to regain control over his body almost immediately, but his eyes flashed in disbelief. He looked up to see a figure bathed in white flame: the White Death himself, descending like a judgment from the highest sky. The White Death gave Vlad a small, almost courteous bow. His voice was a low instrument of ice. "I will take care of him. You did well." There was no warmth in the words—only the promise of finality. Pompeyo shuddered as the White Death turned his attention fully toward him. For a second terror replaced rage in the patriarch’s face. Then madness stoked his features into a feral grin. "Fine—then end this," he snarled, scrabbling to rise even as the world around him shifted into the lethal calm that precedes an execution. The White Death’s eyes narrowed; his aura condensed as the power of entropy burst with more and more strength from his body as his spear manifested in his hand. The two Lords who had once stood at the peak of the Graecia Empire looked at each other, and the only thing they could see was killing intent. This battle would not end until one of them was gone.