Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 1012: Time to heal and harvest

Silence reigned for a long, breathless moment as the forces of the Alliance and the Vorometallicae stood frozen, staring at the place where Fefnir had fallen. His death alone was enough to declare the collapse of the Chaovoratities Plane, yet fate delivered another blow. The screams of Apophis, once thunderous enough to shake continents, faded into nothingness. Before the eyes of all, the soul and life force of the leader of the Sacred King guttered out like a candle drowned in darkness, marking the absolute end of his existence.

The remaining Voroes—those few still alive—stared at the sight with horrified disbelief. A heartbeat later, everything inside them crumbled. The last remnants of battle-will within their souls shattered completely. They could no longer fight. Their minds, crushed by despair and death, were incapable of logic. Panic surged through their bodies, and they scattered in every direction, running without aim or sense.

It was futile, of course.

But in the grip of terror, instinct overpowered reason.

The warriors of the Alliance on the ground did not hesitate. They were not about to allow the Voroes to escape and hide, only to return later like a plague reborn. Steel, spell, claw, and divine might crashed down upon the fleeing fiends. They fell one after another, their bodies split apart and smeared across the scarred battlefield. No pity shone in the eyes of the powerhouses watching from the sky. Not a trace of hesitation touched them as they witnessed the massacre of the Vorometallicae.

After all, every single member of that race was a creature worse than devils or demons—beings that lived only to steal, consume, corrupt, and destroy. They had devoured countless worlds; the fact that they were granted even the dignity of dying in battle was already more mercy than they had ever shown anyone.

The Lords floating high above could have descended into the Legendary battlefield at any time now. The Voroes were utterly broken. Yet none of the Lords moved. There was no need. The enemy could no longer muster resistance, and this was the ideal opportunity for their warriors to temper themselves with real combat.

Besides, the fall of the Sacred King marked the end of the war against the Vorometallicae—but it did not mark the end of danger.

Two powerful Demon Lords were still rampaging across the collapsing Chaovoratities Plane. Before, their destruction had been useful; the more they ravaged the world, the weaker it became, which only benefited the Alliance. But now, the situation had reversed completely. The Chaovoratities Plane belonged to them—the victors. Every treasure the Demon Lords seized was a treasure stolen from the Alliance. None of them were willing to accept that.

Each Lord had sacrificed much during this war—not just wealth and resources, but flesh, blood, and life force. Their wounds burned; their cultivation foundations trembled. They needed the riches of the Chaovoratities Plane to restore themselves, unless they wished to spend decades in seclusion healing. No one wanted that.

But neither could they be reckless.

Yes, they had more than enough numbers to slay two Demon Lords.

But they were wounded, exhausted, and drained. A careless battle could lead to grievous casualties. It would be humiliating—laughable even—if after surviving the war against the Sacred King without losing a single Lord, they allowed themselves to perish now, after the victory had already been won.

Fortunately, they did not have to wait long for a strategy to form.

A brilliant light manifested in the heavens, and the Overlord appeared.

The A.I. Chip Clone’s Archangel Body was battered, cracked, and scorched, especially after its final clash against Apophis. Yet the Nightmare Universe had returned to his stomach, and the overwhelming life force and spiritual essence it had devoured from the Sacred King’s leader surged through him. Before the eyes of all, his wounds began to knit together with visible speed. Not only was he healing—he was growing stronger, ascending further with each passing second.

Moments later, pale frost swept across the sky as the White Death materialized at his side.

Alexandro was not healing as rapidly as the Overlord, for he had spent tremendous power and suffered serious injuries during the battle. Still, he was a High Lord. Even wounded and exhausted, his presence radiated chilling might that could freeze a mountain range.

Overlord and the White Death exchanged a single glance, nodded in unspoken agreement, and pointed toward several Lords who were still capable of fighting. Without another word, they blasted off into the distance to hunt the rampaging Demon Lords.

As for those who remained behind, none voiced complaint. They were too wounded, too drained to be of real use in another major confrontation. Joining the strike force would only slow them down. Accepting this truth without shame, they settled into meditation, allowing their bodies and souls to finally relax and begin healing.

A few of them, despite their fatigue, allowed faint smiles to appear as they turned their gazes toward a distant, broken mountain where a young man sat resting. At his side lay a small yellow cat, a young woman with gentle eyes, a white werewolf, and a fire dragon curled protectively nearby.

Although the peak powerhouse of this battlefield had been the White Death, and although the core strategist had been the Overlord, every Lord present knew the truth.

He had traveled across worlds, gained the trust of peoples and realms that had never before cooperated, and forged them into a single unified Alliance. He had kept his word to each of them, and through sheer determination, will, and vision, he had brought about the downfall of the Vorometallicae Race.

He had led the invasion.

He had slain the first Sacred King.

He had faced the leader of the Vorometallicae long enough for the White Death to land the finishing blow.

It was because of him that the Alliance existed.

Because of him that this war had been won.

This victory belonged to the Xaos King.

Vlad could feel the Lords’ gazes—filled with admiration, gratitude, and awe—settling on him. The young man simply smiled, calm and steady despite the chaos still spreading across the dying plane.

Truthfully, he also felt a deep sense of accomplishment and relief. The universe was growing more dangerous every day; enemies stronger and stranger than the Sacred King lurked in the infinite dark. Yet this victory—this impossible triumph—proved something important.

Things might not be as dire as they seemed.

– BOOOOOM –

A powerful, flaming white explosion echoed in the distance, snapping Vlad’s mind back to reality. The shockwave rolled across the ruined landscape like a tidal wave of heat. Moments later, a second blast followed—a golden eruption that tore open the sky with thunderous force.

The True Depravita of Wrath was not surprised. Strength and violence were the only language Demon Lords understood. It was inevitable that the two Demon Lords who had slipped into the Chaovoratities Plane would refuse to leave simply because they were ordered to withdraw. Now that Apophis and the remaining presence of the Sacred King had fully vanished, the Demon Lords had no reason to restrain themselves. Instead, they had chosen to continue ravaging the dying plane, determined to feast on its remains until nothing was left.

Their decision, as expected, led to an intense and destructive clash.

The Demon Lords were at their peak—brimming with vitality, overflowing with power, and still untouched by the exhaustion that plagued the Alliance’s forces. Their roars split the heavens as they unleashed torrents of demonic energy across the battlefield. Yet even so, their advantage did not last long.

Overlord and the White Death were already suppressing them.

The god-weapon wielded by the A.I. Chip Clone carved brutal, ever-deepening wounds into one Demon Lord’s flesh, slicing through demonic armor as if it were wet paper. Meanwhile, the other Demon Lord found his body engulfed by white flames—flames that did not merely burn, but unmade. Every spark peeled apart the very threads of his existence, unraveling him at a fundamental level.

Unfortunately for the Demon Lords, they had no real opportunity to retaliate. The Lords accompanying Overlord and the White Death remained constantly alert, attacking from the sidelines the instant any opening appeared. Their combined pressure left no path for escape, no gap for counterattack, and no moment to breathe. Wound after wound bloomed across the Demon Lords’ massive bodies. Their blood sizzled as it hit the scorched ground.

Sensing true danger at last, the two demons glanced at each other. Hatred and fury burned in their eyes, but beneath that fire was reluctant understanding. With snarls of frustration, they retreated, marching into the Void Between Worlds.

They wanted to keep slaughtering and devouring, of course—but they were not mindless brutes. They had already seized a great amount of treasure. If the wounds they had received grew worse, they might lose the strength needed to protect their spoils once they returned to the Abyss. Escaping now was the only rational choice.

Overlord and the White Death did not pursue. Their goal was the security of the Chaovoratities Plane, and that objective had already been achieved.

Now, at last, it was time to heal... and to harvest.