Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 1017: The rage of the Alien Lord of Valhalla

Vlad closed his left and right eyes, concentrating all his power on the Quantum Eye and releasing the full might of his Seal of Sin, exponentially enhancing his domain over the Law of Space.

The void around him dimmed as his presence expanded, not explosively, but with deliberate control. Space responded first. Distances folded inward like obedient pages, angles losing their meaning as his authority over the Law of Space asserted itself. What had once been an endless expanse compressed into a malleable medium, pliant beneath his will.

Nex Vlad began to merge the Heart of Apophis with the Lord Tier treasures that carried the five elemental forces.

His domain over the Laws of Life unfurled, weaving through the heart’s essence, refining its raw vitality into something structured and stable.

"Form," Vlad whispered.

A foundation appeared.

Space thickened, crystallizing into invisible frameworks that intersected and overlapped, defining boundaries where none had existed before. Vlad stretched those frameworks outward, shaping them with surgical precision. Streets emerged first—vast arterial lines of space, wide enough to carry the passage of sovereigns and war fleets alike. From them branched smaller corridors, layered dimensions designed to host markets, vaults, and sanctuaries.

Life followed structure.

Vlad released controlled streams of vitality into the skeletal realm. The city began to breathe. Energy veins spread beneath the spatial foundation, pulsing like living arteries. The realm stabilized, no longer an empty construct, but a living environment capable of sustaining existence without drawing from the physical plane.

The Sovereigns watched in silence as the domain over the Law of Space left all of them in awe.

A city took shape before their eyes—not grown, not built, but forged. Towers rose from folded space, their surfaces reflecting no light, yet gleaming with contained power. Platforms suspended themselves naturally, anchored by laws rather than matter. Every structure resonated with balance, reinforced by spatial anchors that ensured permanence even under catastrophic strain.

When the realm reached the size of a great city, Vlad halted its expansion.

Now came the most delicate part.

He reached outward, beyond the boundaries of the physical dimension, feeling for the seams where reality overlapped itself. Between those folds existed a narrow, unstable interval—a space neither fully real nor entirely void.

With precise intent, Vlad opened it.

The city-realm folded inward, compressing without collapsing. Space obeyed, reducing volume without loss of scale. Vlad guided the construct into the interdimensional fold, threading it between layers of reality like a blade sliding into a sheath.

The Laws of Life anchored it.

Vitality roots extended outward, embedding themselves into the surrounding dimensional strata. The realm latched on, stabilizing itself within the in-between space, drawing just enough ambient energy to remain self-sustaining without disturbing the physical universe.

Vlad exhaled.

The pressure receded. The void brightened once more.

In the place where the city had been, nothing remained—but the Sovereigns could still feel it. A presence just beyond reach. A realm hidden between dimensions, accessible only through sanctioned pathways.

Vlad opened his eyes.

"It is done," he said quietly.

The first true foundation of the Six Sun Alliance had been completed.

After taking a moment to bask in the might of his creation, Vlad turned toward the gathered powerhouses and extended his will.

Threads of his consciousness split and flowed outward, precise and controlled, forging pearls that flew toward the hands of the Sovereigns.

"Within these pearls," Vlad said, his voice echoing softly across the void, "you will find the knowledge required to forge the teleportation formations that lead to the Six Suns Galactic Trading Realm."

The Sovereigns accepted the streams without hesitation. As they gazed into the knowledge engraved within—layered runes, spatial anchors, and elegant pathways of folded distance—wide smiles appeared across their faces.

The formations were astonishingly simple.

They required minimal energy, relied on stable spatial constants rather than brute force, and could be constructed even by normal Legends without straining their reserves. Movement in and out of the trading realm would be effortless, unhindered by the crippling costs that plagued most interdimensional travel.

This alone elevated the value of the Six Suns Galactic Trading Realm beyond expectation, making wide smiles appear on all their faces.

Vlad smiled broadly as he observed their reactions. His thoughts were already racing ahead, envisioning future expansions, refinements, and possibilities that extended far beyond trade alone.

The first step had been taken, and he could already see the power to face the horrors of the Alien Race forging around him.

---

While events unfolded favorably for the powers of the Six Suns Alliance, matters were far from calm in the heart of Valhalla.

"BOOM!"

A violent tremor tore through the throne room as a figure was blasted into the ground with crushing force, blood splattering everywhere.

Given the feral nature of Valhalla and the increasingly unstable state of its Emperor, displays of rage and brutality were not uncommon. Many Vikings had already been crushed to pieces, for even small offenses, and there was nothing anyone could do about it since Antorus’ might was undisputed.

Yet this time, the one embedded into the shattered stone floor was Antorus himself. The high and mighty Emperor of Valhalla was bleeding in his own throne room.

Pain exploded through his skull. The pressure bearing down on him was so immense that he could neither speak nor move. His body trembled helplessly as he stared upward with eyes filled with terror and desperate pleading.

Before the pitiful Emperor of Valhalla stood a shadowed figure, a being whose ultimate power could make figures like Apophis tremble in dread.

Of course, he was no other than the Alien Lord, and he was gazing at Antorus with nothing but contempt.

For a single, merciful second, the pressure vanished.

"You have failed me again," the Alien Lord said coldly. "The Vorometallicae are not gone—and I have lost an important piece from my board."

Antorus clenched his teeth.

The collapse of the Vorometallicae Race was not his fault. True, he had not marched to their aid—but that had never been his duty. And he would never have entered a battlefield where the White Death was present simply to save a doomed race.

The Alien Lord saw those thoughts as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud.

He saw the cowardice and fear of death. However, that was precisely why Antorus had been chosen.

Once the wrath faded, only icy focus remained in the Alien Lord’s gaze. He turned away from the broken Emperor and fixed his attention on a silent figure standing within the throne room.

A member of the Fleshcrafters.

The fiend stepped forward at once and bowed deeply.

"Accelerate the awakening of the Voroe Hybrids," the Alien Lord commanded. "I want them ready as soon as possible."

"My Lord," the Fleshcrafter began hesitantly, "forcing the awakening will severely weaken the—"

He never finished.

The Alien Lord’s gaze fell upon him, and the Fleshcrafter’s heart screamed in terror. His kind was born of nightmares, creatures meant to inspire fear—but in that moment, he felt no greater than an insect beneath an uncaring god.

"As you command!" the Fleshcrafter blurted out.

The Alien Lord had already turned away. There had never been any other acceptable answer.

He faced Antorus once more.

"You have five children," the Alien Lord said. "Bring them to me."

Antorus’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

Despite the corruption that had seeped into every corner of his body and soul, he was not a fool. He knew exactly what would happen if he obeyed. There would be no salvation for his descendants—only obliteration, or something far worse.

Yet the hesitation did not last.

He bowed his head, a strange serenity settling into his gaze.

"My goal is to live forever," Antorus said quietly. "Why would I need descendants? And if I miss them... I can always create new ones."

The Alien influence had already eroded emotions like family love beyond recovery.

Without another word, the Emperor of Valhalla left the throne room.

Less than ten minutes later, he returned.

Three men and two women followed behind him. Some were hundreds of years old; the youngest was barely twenty. Confusion clouded their expressions, yet resistance was impossible. Corrupted Totems had already marked them, binding their wills completely.

They knelt instinctively.

The Alien Lord transformed.

His form dissolved into a living stream of shadow that surged forward and merged with Antorus’s body. The Emperor convulsed violently as his chest split open, flesh tearing apart without blood or sound.

From within erupted massive tentacles of mutated flesh and pulsing veins.

They struck in an instant.

Each tentacle pierced a heart with flawless precision.

Streams of corrupted flesh and blood began to flow into the body of Antorus’ descendants, their bodies and souls transformed into something beyond monstrous.

The Fleshcrafter watched the entire process.

A smile of awe and exhilaration spread across his twisted features.

To him, this was not horror.

It was perfection.

Majestic beyond measure. Beautiful beyond comprehension.

A glimpse into creation itself—reborn through corruption.