Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 1010: The end of the Vorometallicae

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMM!"

A massive explosion of white flames engulfed an entire continent as the White Sun detonated. The power released was so immense that its radiance pierced the very fabric of the world, shining outward into the void.

Shockwaves blasted across every direction, hurling Legends through the air like leaves in a storm, shattering mountains, splitting continents apart, and generating titanic earthquakes and tsunamis that ravaged the Chaovoratities Plane from end to end.

When the searing brilliance finally receded, the battlefield was revealed in grim silence.

And at its center... stood Apophis.

He remained upright, the ancient light still flickering within the eyes of the strongest Vorometallicae. But his condition was catastrophic. His chest had been torn open so wide one could see directly into his core — exposed organs, twisted and half-destroyed, still steaming with the remnants of the entropy blast.

The sacred metals fused into his flesh had melted, curled, and broken apart, leaving the interior of his body horrifyingly visible.

Gasps of horror erupted among the Vorometallicae forces. Their most powerful sovereign, their eternal pillar, stood on the very edge of death. The shockwave of that realization rippled through their ranks, shaking their confidence to its foundations.

And then things grew worse.

A torrent of writhing flesh and devouring maws tore through the sky, descending like a storm of nightmares. The mass of horrors lunged directly into Apophis’s ravaged chest cavity. Countless teeth, tendrils, and jaws began consuming his internal organs and the remnants of his life force.

"AARHRGHHHH!"

The Sacred King released a scream of pure, unfiltered agony — a sound that shook even his own race. He tried to fight, to burn the abomination from within, but his injuries were too severe. The Nightmare Universe continued devouring him, feeding on his essence, growing stronger with every heartbeat.

A cold light flashed in Overlord’s eyes as he watched the devouring mass. He had saved this last trump card for the most desperate moment — but fortune had allowed him to use it not to save their lives, but to ensure their victory. The Nightmare Universe had found its perfect prey: the strongest of their enemies.

For several moments, the battlefield echoed only with the tortured screams of Apophis, the cracking of his bones, and the wet sound of devouring flesh.

Then another voice thundered across the land.

"Now—let us finish it! KILL the remaining Sacred Kings! Let this day mark the end of the Vorometallicae Race!"

The shout belonged to Emperor Brightkin, ruler of Faerathia. His eyes blazed with righteous fury as he began burning his own life force, igniting golden flames that roared from his body. His allies had taken down Apophis. Now it was his duty — his honor — to show the glory of Faerathia and the courage of its people.

His blade ignited with a radiance like a newborn supernova, and with all his might he charged Dormatu, slashing with unbreakable conviction.

Inspired by such determination, the leaders of the alliance erupted into motion.

Orkin, King of the Dvergars, laughed thunderously as his muscles swelled and his veins glowed with molten energy. His hammer ignited with the power of a cosmic forge as he barreled into Sacred King Akorum.

"Hahaha! You’ve got spirit, fairy emperor! But watch how a Dvergar shows the galaxy the true MIGHT of brute strength!"

He slammed his hammer into Akorum’s chest.

The resulting explosion was so overwhelming it turned the sky into a river of magma.

Queen Ankil of the Amazon Kingdom said nothing, but the fierce, unbreakable smile on her face expressed everything. She charged through blades of metal and blasts of cosmic fire, allowing wounds to strike her body so she could reach Sacred King Decay. She rammed her shield into his skull, cracking bone, then sliced downward, her sword carving through armor and flesh and bursting open the king’s chest in a geyser of dark blood.

From above, Merlin, King of the Obsidian Dragons, roared with primal fury. He folded his wings and dived like a meteor, tackling Sacred King Fefnir from the highest sky. Both crashed into the ground with cataclysmic force.

Merlin opened his obsidian jaws wide and unleashed a relentless torrent of plasma, the air itself igniting around him in an inferno of destruction. The heat scorched his own scales, but he did not stop. Only when the very ground beneath them melted into liquefied stone did he pause for breath.

Witnessing their rulers fight with such burning determination, the Legends of every allied world felt their spirits ignite. They began burning their own life force, letting their strength surge to unimaginable heights as they tore through the Vorometallicae forces.

Moments earlier, the battle had been evenly matched. Now it shifted into a massacre.

It wasn’t just strength. It was purpose.

The warriors of the Alliance saw victory before their eyes — real, tangible, undeniable. They were willing to burn their lives because they believed in triumph, and because they knew the rewards of this war would heal them, restore them, and make them stronger than ever. They fought like warriors who saw glory waiting on the other side.

The Vorometallicae saw only death.

Their strongest king was dying. Their elites were being pushed back. Their enemies were rising higher with every passing second. Fear crept into their hearts, and fear turned to hesitation. Many began quietly planning their escape, conserving strength for flight rather than battle.

Why should they care about defending their homeland? The Chaovoratities Plane was valuable only because it served as the center of their power — a stable stronghold from which they consumed other worlds. If it no longer served them, then the fate of the world, the fate of their people, meant nothing.

Such was the fatal flaw of a cruel, militaristic race.

They could achieve great things. They could grow faster and stronger than most civilizations in existence. They could dominate, conquer, and consume without hesitation.

But risk their lives for their home?

Fight for one another?

Protect something beyond themselves?

That, to them, was a joke.

And before the might of the Alliance — united, determined, burning with purpose — the Vorometallicae finally began to crumble.

Things grew worse and worse for the Vorometallicae by the minute. Their lines were collapsing, their formations breaking apart, and more of their warriors were dying with every passing breath. What had once been a terrifyingly unified force now looked fractured and desperate. Their roars no longer carried dominance but fear—fear of the inevitable.

And then it finally happened.

One of the Vorometallicae Lords saw his chance. His opponent hesitated for half a second, and that was all the opportunity he needed. With a violent push, he sent the Alliance warrior stumbling backward, then spun around with a snarl—not to strike again, but to flee. Without another word, he launched himself into the Void Between Worlds, abandoning the battlefield entirely.

Losing the Chaovorattities Plane would be a tremendous blow, one that would shatter his ability to expand his dominion for countless ages. But he was still a Lord. Lords could survive anything—starless voids, lawless realms, even the collapse of entire civilizations. He could rebuild his power elsewhere. But to stay and risk his life for a Sacred King? That, to him, was almost laughable.

One of the Alliance Lords prepared to give chase, fury blazing in his eyes—until he noticed Crown Prince Altharion glance at him and subtly shake his head. Even without words, the message was clear.

Yes, it would be ideal to kill every single Vorometallicae Lord, but they needed to focus on the larger picture. Allowing a Lord to flee had a far greater consequence than a single death: it destroyed what little cohesion remained in the Vorometallicae forces.

"If he runs, why should I stay?"

That thought passed through the minds of every remaining Vorometallicae Lord and Superior Legend. The moment they saw one of their own abandon the Sacred Kings, something within them cracked. The world was doomed anyway. Their stronghold was collapsing. Their enemies were burning their life force to slaughter them without hesitation. Why risk death when survival was still an option?

They could endure within the Void Between Worlds. It would be harsh, even tormenting—but it was survivable. And survival was all the Vorometallicae truly cared about. What happened to their home, their race, their subordinates—none of it mattered. Only power and continuation of the self.

The resistance of the Vorometallicae weakened rapidly as one figure after another took to the skies and vanished into the void. Altharion and the other Alliance Lords struck down as many as they could before they escaped, cutting several fleeing Lords from the air in explosive bursts of power. But even if some managed to run, it was not truly a problem.

The ones who mattered—the Sacred Kings—could not leave. With their forces scattering, it became far easier to ensure that Dormatu and the remaining Sacred Kings had only one destination left: the grave.

Explosions continued to shake the sky as the battle grew even more intense. The blood of the Sacred Kings rained across the sky in shimmering torrents, and the fading light in their ancient eyes betrayed their thoughts—they, too, were considering escape. But unlike their followers, there was nowhere left for them to go. Their era was ending, and they could feel the jaws of death closing around them.