Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 993: Dvergars

Though the destruction of Kukulkan’s fortress marked a stunning victory, Vlad did not linger to bask in it. To him, triumph on a battlefield, no matter how grand, was only one step on a much larger path. His vision stretched far beyond the Dark Land. Even this Doomsday World was nothing more than a fragment of a grander design, a single piece on an enormous cosmic board.

The true war, the war for the survival and ascendance of Terra and the Xaos Kingdom, would begin only when they brought the fight to the homeworld of the Vorometallicae Race. That was the battlefield that truly mattered.

Vlad moved without hesitation. With a thought, he released another swarm of insects, bioweapons forged in the Tiamathos Obelisk. They poured out from his space ring like rivers of living shadow, fanning out across the mountains. Each insect was a ravenous machine programmed to consume every trace of Voroe flesh, blood, and metal. Within minutes, not even dust remained. The mountains that had once served as the heart of Kukulkan’s domain now lay silent and clean, as though the warlord and his entire army had never existed.

The cleanup was nearly complete when Vlad’s attention snapped toward the horizon. He could sense movement, several faint life forces gliding toward the mountains. When his gaze sharpened, he saw a small group of figures with slender frames, pointed ears, and translucent wings that shimmered like glass.

"Faelaras," he murmured.

They were the native race of the Faerathia Empire—the long-lived children of light and wind who had fought the Vorometallicae for centuries. Proud, gifted, and unbearably arrogant.

"They must have been drawn here by the explosions," Vlad reasoned.

For a few moments, he stood in silence, weighing his options. Direct contact would be premature. The Faelaras were cautious and proud; they would never ally themselves with an unknown power that approached them first. But if he made himself into a myth, if his deeds echoed through the Dark Land like the voice of a god, then they would come to him. They would seek him out, not as a stranger, but as a savior.

With that conclusion, he sent a signal through his link with the Reapers. Instantly, the massive creatures burrowed into the ground, vanishing beneath the surface. The Legendary Demon Soul Hunters moved in the opposite direction, disappearing into the shadows. Within moments, the entire Xaos force was gone.

By the time the Faelaras reached the mountain range, nothing remained but stillness.

The group approached with wary eyes, their movements graceful but cautious. They had been assigned only to observe from afar, to monitor the stronghold and report any change in Kukulkan’s forces. But when the mountain had erupted in flames and the skies had split apart, their orders had become meaningless. Something of catastrophic scale had occurred, and curiosity—mixed with duty—had driven them closer.

When they arrived, the sight before them defied belief.

The once impregnable fortress of the Vorometallicae was reduced to blackened ruins. The ground was scorched, and the air heavy with residual energy. Yet there were no bodies. Not a single corpse of Voroe or ally remained.

The leader of the team—a young woman with a sharp, regal beauty and golden eyes that glowed faintly under the dark sun—stood silently amid the devastation. Her expression was calm, but her wings trembled faintly, betraying her unease.

"This..." she whispered, her voice low. "This isn’t the work of our armies."

Her subordinates looked to her for guidance. After a long pause, she turned away from the mountain.

"We withdraw," she said. "Inform command that a new force has entered the Dark Land. Something powerful—something unknown."

The Faelaras departed swiftly, vanishing into the black wind.

In the days that followed, rumors spread like wildfire across the Dark Land. Fortress after fortress of the Vorometallicae fell—each annihilated with surgical precision. The invaders struck from the shadows, leaving no survivors, no bodies, and no trace of origin.

Vlad was the storm behind those whispers. Guided by the memories he had extracted from Kukulkan’s soul, he struck at every strategic point across the continents. He infiltrated fortresses, dismantled energy networks, and unleashed devastation before any counterattack could be mounted.

Each strike was flawless. Each campaign ended the same way—ruins left behind, corpses erased, and silence reigning where once there had been armies. The Legendary Demon Soul Hunters handled the slaughter, while the Reapers melted through walls and tunnels, consuming the remains until not even ashes were left.

Within three weeks, half the Vorometallicae presence in the Dark Land had vanished.

The Faelaras were thrown into confusion. Their scouts and generals debated endlessly over the identity of this mysterious destroyer. Some speculated that an ancient weapon of the gods had reawakened. Others whispered that a rogue Lord had descended into the Doomsday World.

But that theory was quickly dismissed. The Doomsday Worlds were blanketed in universal sensors, and any surge of Lord-tier energy would have been detected immediately. Since no such anomaly had appeared, the only explanation left was that a Legend-tier being of unimaginable power was at work—one with a disciplined, perfectly coordinated army. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

The mystery only magnified the awe and fear surrounding the name that soon began circulating among Faelara soldiers:

The Shadow Sovereign.

Vlad had become a myth.

Word of the phenomenon reached the Faerathia Empire itself. The imperial court trembled with uncertainty. For centuries, they had fought the Vorometallicae with all their might and achieved only stalemates. Now, an unknown force was wiping out the enemy within weeks.

An imperial envoy was dispatched into the Dark Land to investigate—and, if possible, to make contact. Exactly as Vlad had intended.

---

While the True Depravita of Wrath advanced through the shadows of the Dark Land, he was not the only one making progress. Across the stars, the other True Depravitas were carving their own paths toward victory.

Far from Terra, Jormungandr, the True Depravita of Gluttony, stood beside Grand Marshal Anglius on a volcanic plateau in the Doomsday World known as the Land of the Ice and Fire. Before them gathered a host of beings unlike any other.

They were small but muscular, their bodies forged from living stone and glowing magma. Sparks flickered across the cracks in their skin, and some even resembled humanoid volcanoes, breathing smoke with every word. These were the Dvergars, one of the oldest and most resilient races in the universe—kin to the mythical dwarves of legend, though their essence was far more primal.

At their head stood a towering figure. His armor gleamed with intricate metalwork that spoke of both nobility and battle. A thick fur cloak hung across his shoulders, and arcs of blue lightning flickered through the cracks of his rocky skin. His dark hair and neatly kept beard framed a face carved from stone itself—stern, proud, and indomitable.

His name was Horin, the second son of the Dvergar King—a powerful prince and a master smith whose creations were said to rival those forged in the hearts of dying stars. He had been sent into the Land of Ice and Fire to meet with the mysterious power that had been butchering the Voroes and aiding in the conquest of their territories.

When Horin stood before Jormungandr, the True Depravita of Gluttony, the two measured each other in silence. The Depravita appeared in his usual guise—a small, golden-furred cat with eyes like twin suns—and yet the aura that surrounded him was that of a cosmic predator, an ancient being who had devoured the essence of Hell.

They exchanged a single nod. That was all the formality either of them needed.

Without words, both raised their hands. Waves of molten metal burst from the ground, forming two vast forges that glowed like miniature suns. Sparks danced through the air as both masters began their work.

The Dvergars were a people bound by ancient tradition, and few things were more sacred to them than the act of creation. To forge was to shape the soul. Every weapon, every piece of armor, was an offering to existence itself—a tool to protect life, honor, and legacy. To them, destruction without creation was blasphemy.

That was why Jormungandr had been chosen for this mission. Of all the True Depravitas, he was the most suited to negotiate with a race that worshipped the forge. He understood the beauty of transformation—the alchemy of consumption and rebirth.

The two masters worked side by side, the clang of hammer against metal echoing like thunder through the volcanic caverns. Horin’s craft was raw and powerful, his strikes carrying the weight of tradition and the fire of his people’s pride. Jormungandr’s technique, by contrast, was alien—fluid and hypnotic, as if every motion of his claws reshaped reality itself.

Hours turned into days, and the molten rivers around them flowed brighter than ever before. Each creation they birthed surpassed the last—swords that hummed with the voices of the elements, shields that pulsed with molten veins, and armor that shimmered like captured lightning.

When the final strike was delivered, both stepped back from their work.