Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 1037: Change in the True Depravitas

In the forty-first layer of the Abyss, a realm drowned in fire and ruin, the land itself seemed alive with malice. Countless volcanoes towered into the ashen sky, their jagged peaks vomiting rivers of molten lava that spread endlessly across the blackened plains.

The air was thick with sulfur and heat so intense it warped perception, bending sight and sound alike. Every breath carried pain.

At the heart of this inferno, two figures clashed. 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

One of them was a nightmare given form.

The Demon Lord stood tall amid the lava flows, his body jagged and skeletal, forged of charred, obsidian flesh split apart by glowing fissures of ember-red light. From his chest sprouted multiple elongated limbs, twisted and unnatural, each gripping a crimson blade that burned as if a volcano had been sealed within its core. The heat radiating from those weapons distorted the air, and every swing left molten scars in space itself.

He was Arkanz, one of the most brutal Demon Lords of the lower Abyssal layers, feared not for cunning or sorcery, but for sheer slaughter. He possessed no refined techniques or esoteric abilities—only overwhelming physical power and swordsmanship honed through countless massacres.

When Arkanz entered a battle, he closed the distance relentlessly, drowning his enemies beneath storms of blades capable of carving gods apart.

And for once, his opponent did not flee.

Freya stood before him, her form wreathed in golden and crimson light that clashed violently with the infernal landscape. The heat of the Abyss could not touch her. Her violet eyes burned with unwavering determination, a will so fierce that even Arkanz’s ferocious aura faltered beneath it.

She no longer carried a shield.

Instead, a second sword gleamed in her left hand, its edge humming with restrained power.

Freya moved like a butterfly caught in a hurricane of steel—graceful, relentless, lethal. Her body twisted and flowed between Arkanz’s slashes, evading fatal blows by fractions of an instant while allowing lesser wounds to carve into her flesh. She did not slow. She did not retreat.

The way the True Depravita of Lust fought now was fundamentally different from her battles in Hell. Though only months had passed, the change was not merely physical. It was psychological—existential.

Valhalla had broken something within her... and reforged it.

She no longer fought to defend, to endure, or to protect alone. The universe did not need shields anymore. It needed blades—blades sharp enough to cut down the invaders.

And Freya was ready to become one.

Arkanz roared, swinging all six blades in a murderous arc meant to sever her completely. Freya raised her arm without hesitation, allowing one infernal blade to crash into it. Flesh burned. Bone cracked.

She did not scream.

Using the impact, she surged forward, burying her sword deep into Arkanz’s neck.

"ARGHHHH!"

The Demon Lord howled as molten blood erupted from the wound, his roar echoing across the volcanic plains.

---

Freya was not alone in her transformation.

Each of the True Depravitas had been changed by Valhalla’s fall. They had been used—manipulated into spilling blood that became fuel for a ritual beyond their comprehension. The enemy had turned their victories into sacrifices, opening a gateway that doomed an entire domain.

That failure carved itself into their souls.

High above the twenty-ninth layer of the Abyss, a new God Prison shimmered into existence, its golden structure clashing violently against the chaos storm contained within. Inside it, thunder roared endlessly.

Two figures moved within the raging tempest.

One was a colossal humanoid entity larger than an island, his entire body composed of living dark lightning. Every movement released arcs of destructive energy that tore apart space itself. He was Philisto—the Living Storm, a Demon Lord whose existence embodied annihilation through speed and power.

Bolts of lightning erupted from his body in continuous waves, each one capable of vaporizing cities. His eyes burned with pure killing intent as he fixed his gaze upon a white blur racing toward him.

Philisto unleashed barrage after barrage, lightning screaming across the prison. Yet the white flash dodged them all, slipping through impossible gaps.

Finally, one arc was different.

Faster. Larger. Overwhelming.

It struck.

Philisto smiled.

But his triumph lasted less than a heartbeat.

The white blur burst through the lightning.

Ouroboros’ scales were charred and smoking, blood seeping from the burns. Yet, his eyes were cold—utterly devoid of emotion—as he detonated his energy outward and crashed into Philisto’s chest with devastating speed.

The impact sent shockwaves through the God Prison itself.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the golden structure as the Demon Lord was driven backward and slammed violently into the prison walls. Ouroboros did not stop.

He rammed his fists into Philisto’s body again and again, each strike detonating with catastrophic force. Every blow felt like plunging his hands into burning plasma, yet he did not slow.

"Faster," Ouroboros growled.

His Seal of Sin ignited.

Vitality burned away as speed multiplied beyond reason. His movements blurred into afterimages, fists raining down without pause. Philisto attempted to retaliate, but the relentless assault never allowed him the chance.

The Living Storm began to falter.

---

In the sixty-fourth layer of the Abyss, a vast, burned forest stretched endlessly beneath a crimson sky. The trees were calcified, their bark turned to blackened stone, yet they were far from dead.

Instead of oxygen, they were nurtured by flame. Rivers of fire flowed through their roots like veins.

These trees had endured for countless centuries, surviving wars between Demons and the rise and fall of Abyssal domains. Yet today, they were being shattered—broken apart as collateral beneath the clash of powers far beyond nature’s tolerance.

A massive explosion echoed through the heart of the forest.

The ground ruptured, geysers erupting skyward as a colossal humanoid dragon was hurled across the scorched earth. His immense body smashed through rows of petrified trees, shattering them into flaming debris before finally skidding to a halt, leaving behind a trench of molten stone.

Fafnir rose immediately.

His massive form unfolded as he pushed himself upright, adopting a battle stance with practiced precision. His draconic eyes locked onto his opponent without a shred of hesitation.

Standing across from him was a Demon Lord who embodied destruction itself.

Karkazo loomed like a living furnace—a hulking demon forged from obsidian flesh and flowing magma. Curved horns crowned his head, framing a face carved with unrestrained rage. Glowing fissures ran across his body like molten scars, leaking heat so intense that the air warped around him. His massive arms ended in clawed hands capable of tearing mountains apart.

Every step Karkazo took scorched the earth beneath his feet.

He was a Demon Lord known for raw, overwhelming strength—power so absolute that even Lords of equivalent rank were crushed beneath it.

And moments ago, he had thrown the True Depravita of Envy across the battlefield like a broken toy.

Fafnir did not flinch.

If anything, his eyes burned brighter.

This was exactly why he had chosen Karkazo.

Fafnir’s body had already reached the threshold where it could endure the direct blows of Lord-tier entities. But endurance alone was not enough anymore. Not after Valhalla. Not after witnessing a world collapse because they were not strong enough to stop what lay beyond.

He needed the power to strike back.

To crush Lords beneath his feet.

And the soul of this Demon Lord would give him that tool.

Karkazo’s eyes ignited with pure killing intent as he launched forward, his massive frame blurring with terrifying speed. The ground exploded beneath him as he closed the distance, claws raised for a killing blow.

Fafnir roared.

His Seal of Sin activated.

A crushing force surged through his body as his weight multiplied exponentially. The very concept of mass bent around him, reinforcing his frame until he felt like a living mountain.

The collision was cataclysmic.

Shockwaves rippled through the forest, flattening everything in their path. Using his reinforced weight to neutralize Karkazo’s raw strength, Fafnir twisted his body mid-impact.

The two titans crashed into the ground together.

The earth shattered beneath them as Fafnir forced the battle downward, turning brute force into controlled domination.

---

Far deeper, within the eighty-first layer of the Abyss, battle unfolded in stark contrast.

Here, destruction was methodical.

Overlord faced Hekato, a Demon Lord whose grotesque form defied logic. Dozens of heads twisted and screamed from his body, while hundreds of arms erupted from his torso, each capable of independent attack. The sheer number of limbs created an endless web of offense, capable of overwhelming nearly any opponent.

Nearly.

Overlord’s glowing eyes tracked everything.

Every movement. Every attack vector. Every possible outcome.

His mind analyzed patterns in real time, predicting strikes before they fully formed. He moved with calculated precision, dodging attacks by millimeters, countering with surgical efficiency. With each response, an arm was severed. A head was split. A weakness exploited.

Hekato roared in fury as his countless limbs were dismantled piece by piece.

Second by second, the Demon Lord weakened.

Overlord advanced without pause, his expression unchanged as he delivered a relentless, perfectly optimized barrage of strikes. There was no hatred. No rage. Only execution.