Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 1008: Killing a Sacred King (II)

"I got you."

Those words struck deeper than any blow. Barbatos froze, his monstrous heart lurching in confusion. Before he could even process what had happened, agony ripped through his chest — a frozen blade pierced straight into his heart. His eyes widened in disbelief as a surge of divine cold spread through his veins, freezing the molten fire within.

He had never even seen the strike coming. The blade had emerged from behind the True Depravita of Wrath, phasing cleanly through Vlad’s chest before impaling the Sacred King from within. Only then did Barbatos understand — Vlad had not made a mistake by blocking Overlord’s line of sight. It had all been a trap.

The Depravita of Wrath had deliberately positioned himself between them, hiding Overlord’s attack behind his own body. A deception. A perfect setup.

"Ragnarok."

Overlord’s cold, mechanical voice echoed through the sky like the toll of a divine bell. The sword buried in Barbatos’s chest began to tremble violently. Cracks spread along its surface, glowing with blinding, cerulean light — a light so pure and cold that it burned.

"Wait!" Barbatos roared, desperation breaking through his fury. But it was too late.

The weapon shattered.

An explosion of freezing light erupted outward, expanding into a sun of impossible brilliance. Space itself screamed as the blast engulfed the sky, washing everything in a tide of azure fire. For a single moment, it seemed as though a new star had ignited inside the Chaovoratities Plane.

Every being on the battlefield turned to look. The light was too bright to bear, forcing even Lords to avert their gaze. And then, through the heart of the explosion, two figures were thrown free — Vlad and Overlord, their bodies torn and blistered from the blast, their armor cracked and lined with frost.

Though wounded, they had survived their own cataclysm. 𝐟𝕣𝗲𝕖𝕨𝗲𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝗲𝚕.𝗰𝚘𝐦

As the blinding glow began to fade, Vlad steadied himself midair, blood dripping from his mouth, but his eyes alight with a savage satisfaction. Overlord’s expression was unreadable, but a faint glint of triumph shone in his artificial gaze.

Slowly, the radiant sun began to dim — and when the light finally died, what remained was a frozen body, suspended motionless in the air. Barbatos, the Sacred King, encased in an unbreakable tomb of eternal ice.

A hush fell over the battlefield. Then, the body began to fall — crashing into the ground with a thunderous impact before shattering into countless shards of glacial crystal.

Death.

A Sacred King of the Vorometallicae — one of the supreme rulers of a cosmic race — had fallen in his own domain, slain by invaders. The shockwave of that event would echo across the stars, through every plane of existence.

But for those present, there was no time for awe.

What mattered was victory.

They had done it. They had killed a Sacred King.

"KILL!"

The True Depravita of Wrath’s voice roared like thunder, shaking the heavens as his will surged across the entire Chaovoratities Plane. Overlord joined him, both streaking back into the fray, their eyes burning with bloodlust.

"Hahaha! Let’s show the young ones the power of the old generation!" roared Orkin, King of the Dvergars, his laughter booming like an earthquake. He raised his hammer high, volcanic light flaring from its head as he unleashed a wave of superheated energy that melted the very sky.

Emperor Brightkin, Queen Ankil, and Dragon King Merlin felt their spirits ignite with the same fiery determination. The death of Barbatos was the spark they needed. One Sacred King had fallen — the rest could too.

Without hesitation, they began to burn their life force, unleashing everything they had. Golden, crimson, and obsidian auras erupted across the battlefield, painting the darkness in divine light. It didn’t matter if this battle crippled them for centuries — victory here would end the nightmare forever.

Vlad rejoined Emperor Brightkin, their movements perfectly synchronized. Together they struck at Dormatu, the Sacred King, with the power of corruption. The monstrous entity was forced onto the defensive as golden light and crimson death essence tore into him.

Every strike from Brightkin burned with purifying light that seared Dormatu’s flesh, while Vlad’s Soul Blade carried waves of annihilation that corroded his very soul. Deep wounds opened across the Sacred King’s body, each one glowing with divine fire or bleeding black mist.

Elsewhere, Overlord fought beside Orkin, wielding the sword Gram, its runes blazing with the power of the gods. The A.I. Clone and the Dvergar King became a storm of fury and precision, their synchronized strikes creating apocalyptic firestorms that shattered mountains and cracked the earth.

Their target, Akorum, bellowed in rage. His titanic body of molten armor and rock began to melt under the relentless bombardment. Steam and lava erupted in torrents as the once-proud king was forced back, his body glowing with fractures of magma.

Across the battlefield, the armies of the Alliance saw it — the impossible sight of their rulers pushing back the unbreakable. Hope spread like wildfire.

Altharion and the other Lords redoubled their efforts, forming barriers, intercepting attacks, and ensuring that not a single Voroe Lord could reach the duels of the Kings. The Legends followed suit, unleashing every last ounce of their power. The cost was immense; lives flickered out in moments, yet none faltered.

This was their moment — a crucible of destiny, where heroes were forged or consumed.

Each heartbeat was a battle. Each breath, a victory.

The skies burned with divine and demonic light as the Alliance’s champions pressed forward. The Vorometallicae began to falter, their formations breaking under the relentless assault.

Step by step, strike by strike, the invaders gained ground.

It seemed that the impossible might be within reach.

Everything was going better than anyone had dared hope — until it happened.

The world trembled. A sound like a thousand bells ringing in unison tore through the sky. The light dimmed, and every fighter from the Alliance and the Vorometallicae turned their gaze to the highest sky.

The highest heavens were shrouded in a cataclysm of white fire and dark-blue lightning, their clash painting the sky in chaos. The storm was so intense that even Lords like Vlad could not pierce through its brilliance. The very fabric of reality screamed as the forces within battled for dominance — until, without warning, a massive explosion tore the heavens apart.

The torrent of energy ruptured the storm, scattering flames and lightning across the firmament like shattered stars. From that chaos, a lone figure was hurled downward at terrifying speed — the White Death.

He plummeted like a fallen comet, blazing with remnants of his power, and when he struck the ground, the impact shook the entire world. The explosion carved a crater so vast it could have swallowed countries— a wound upon the planet, an open scar that pulsed with collapsing laws and broken reality. Mountains shattered. The atmosphere wailed. The world itself trembled in pain.

Yet amidst that apocalyptic devastation, the Sacred Kings of the Vorometallicae began to smile. Their radiant grins reflected not mercy, but triumph. The ruin of their land no longer mattered — the heavens could burn, the earth could break — so long as the invaders were destroyed.

It seemed that Apophis, the mightiest of their kind, had succeeded where all others had failed. The strongest of the Sacred Kings had cast down the White Death, the most formidable warrior of the Alliance. Victory, long uncertain, appeared at last within reach.

But before the Vorometallicae could celebrate, movement stirred in the heart of the crater.

The White Death rose.

His armor was shattered, his frame bloodied and scorched. Fissures of seared flesh ran across his body, and his breathing came in ragged gasps. Yet in his eyes — those cold, glacial eyes — burned defiance. Not rage, not despair, but absolute will.

He lifted one trembling arm toward the heavens. Power gathered around him, silent yet boundless. The air warped. Light bent. And then his voice — calm, commanding, and merciless — resounded across the battlefield.

"Null Horizon!"

At once, reality bent to his command. A milky-white sphere bloomed around him — smooth, silent, and endless. Within that sphere, all things ceased to exist. Energy dissolved. Vibrations died. Matter unmade itself. It was a domain of pure negation, where even the concept of being unraveled into nothing.

The growing sphere pulsed once, twice, and then began to contract, compressing its annihilating force around the White Death’s arms. He was forging his power into one final strike — a weapon that could erase existence itself.

Apophis’s golden eyes narrowed. His instincts screamed danger, and the Sacred King understood that he could not allow that technique to complete.

Before he could act, two more figures appeared high above — the True Depravita of Wrath and Overlord.

They felt the oppressive might of Apophis, a power far beyond their own. Yet they could also sense the cracks in his aura — wounds, exhaustion, and fading strength. They knew victory was impossible, but that was not their goal.

They had come to buy time.

If they could hold him for even a moment longer, the White Death would finish his preparation.

Or at least... that was their hope.