The entire Ninth Layer of Hell plunged into carnage as the warriors of the Six Sun Alliance fought with everything they had. This was no ordinary battlefield. It was the final barrier, the last obstacle standing between them and the creation of a sanctuary strong enough to shield their people from the nightmare that loomed over the universe.

This was not a war of conquest or ambition—it was a war for survival. And because of that, every warrior burned through their strength, their vitality, and even their very essence to secure victory.

Explosions thundered across the battlefield in relentless succession. The Thiamatos Units detonated themselves without hesitation, unleashing devastating bursts of destruction that consumed everything in their vicinity.

For the Legends of the Six Sun Alliance, each explosion was not a loss, but a call to arms. It fueled their resolve, driving them to fight harder, to push further beyond their limits. Their spirits burned brighter with every sacrifice, determined to prove themselves worthy of those who had fallen.

In less than three hours, more than half of the Thiamatos Units—costly creations forged from countless resources—had been expended. Yet the results were undeniable.

Casualties among the Alliance’s Legends remained astonishingly low, numbering fewer than two hundred. Meanwhile, the enemy suffered catastrophic losses. Millions of Devils had been annihilated, their endless tide finally beginning to thin. What once appeared to be an infinite horde had been reduced by more than half.

More importantly, the Divine Kingdoms that empowered the Angelic Gods began to weaken at the loss of their divine servants. And that was not all, as their connection to the Ninth Layer’s Origin Power faltered as destruction spread across the battlefield.

"ARGHHHH!"

A cry of agony echoed across the war-torn land. It was a God.

Altharion, the Crown Prince of the Graecia Empire, drove his halberd through the chest of a powerful Angelic God, shattering both body and soul in a single, decisive strike. The divine figure exploded into fragments of light, unable to regenerate under the overwhelming pressure.

A fierce smile spread across Altharion’s face. This was no minor foe—it had been one of the strongest among them, a being at the Limit Lord Rank. Its Divine Kingdom had allowed it to evade death time and time again. But now, weakened by the destruction of its domain and the relentless pressure of the battlefield, its end had finally come.

"KILL!"

That single word roared from Altharion’s lips, carrying more power than any speech. It ignited the hearts of the surrounding warriors, reinforcing their belief that victory was within reach. Their plan was working—and that realization drove them to fight even harder.

At the center of the battlefield, the Paragon-tier clash raged on.

The White Death, the True Depravita of Wrath, and the Antimatter Doppelgänger controlled by Overlord stood at the heart of the storm. Small, grim smiles appeared on their faces. The plan had been dangerous—reckless, even—but it was succeeding. They were sacrificing immense resources, but they were pushing steadily toward victory.

And yet... something felt wrong.

Despite the destruction of their forces and the weakening of their Divine Kingdoms, Zamael and Rafael showed no signs of urgency. No fear. No desperation. Their expressions remained cold and composed, as if the losses meant nothing.

That alone was enough to raise alarms.

It did not take Overlord’s genius to realize that something was off. But recognizing danger and acting on it were two different things. They could not afford to halt their advance—not when victory seemed so close. To stop now would mean wasting every sacrifice that had brought them to this point.

So they pressed on.

Their grips tightened around their weapons. Their senses sharpened. And deep within their minds, they prepared for the unknown.

Hours passed.

After five hours of relentless battle, the Thiamatos Units were nearly exhausted. The massive force, forged from billions of Devil corpses, had been almost entirely spent. With their numbers dwindling, the burden shifted onto the true warriors—the Legends themselves.

Casualties began to rise.

Every death carried weight. Every fallen warrior was a loss that could not be ignored. And yet, the battlefield told a clear story: fewer than a third of the Devils remained. The energy sustaining the Divine Kingdoms had weakened to a critical level. Victory was within reach.

Anyone could see it.

And that was when it happened.

From the deepest core of the Ninth Layer—far beyond the battlefield—a dark, malevolent energy surged forth.

It was overwhelming.

It was ancient.

It was wrong.

The sheer presence of that power caused every being—human, dragon, devil, and even angel—to tremble. It was not merely strength. It was something far more fundamental. Something tied to the very nature of Hell itself.

Vlad, Overlord, and the White Death exchanged glances, confusion flashing across their faces. Their understanding of Hell had grown immensely throughout their campaign, refined through countless battles and the extraction of knowledge from Devil Lords. But this...

This was beyond anything they had learned.

Before they could even begin to comprehend it, the phenomenon manifested.

In the distance, a phantom river appeared.

It stretched across the horizon, vast beyond comprehension. Its waters were dark and endless, flowing with the souls of the damned. Countless figures writhed within it, their agony eternal, their suffering unending. The river seemed to extend far beyond the boundaries of Hell itself, reaching into the unknown.

The sight alone was enough to chill even the strongest hearts.

"Styx River..."

The White Death’s voice trembled slightly as he spoke the name.

It was a legend. An ancient force said to carry the souls of the wicked into Hell, where they would be transformed into Devils. A phenomenon of unimaginable scale—one that stood on the same level as the greatest Laws of existence.

To witness it was awe-inspiring.

But for the Paragons of the Six Sun Alliance, it brought only dread.

Because something like this did not appear without reason.

And it was not on their side.

Vlad’s eyes narrowed sharply. His grip tightened around Longinus as power surged through his body. Every instinct screamed danger. Without hesitation, he prepared to unleash everything he had—to strike first, before whatever was coming could fully manifest.

But he was too late.

Before he—or any of the other Paragons—could act...

It happened.