Beyond the Apocalypse-Chapter 994: Forging alliances

Exhaustion lingered on the faces of both the True Depravita and the Dvergar, yet it could not suppress the triumph that burned in their eyes. Wide smiles stretched across their faces, reflecting the light of molten metal still glowing in the grand forge around them. Jormungandr and Horin met each other’s gaze, and for a brief moment, the air between them felt as heavy as the birth of a new world. Then both nodded, a silent exchange of acknowledgment passing between two masters who understood each other through the sacred act of creation.

"You are a true master," Horin declared, his deep, gravelly voice echoing across the forge. "A powerhouse of creation. You have my respect, Master Jormungandr—and I will be more than happy to speak of war with you."

The small golden cat’s eyes glowed with satisfaction. Beside him, the Grand Marshal Anglius allowed himself a rare smile of happiness. They were moving forward, one more empire drawn toward the growing force of the Xaos Kingdom.

The Dvergar Empire was not vast in population, but its power was legendary. They possessed only a single Lord, yet their creations—colossal war machines and living weapons forged from metals unknown to most civilizations—could rival divine entities. If the Dvergar joined the invasion, the balance of the coming war would tilt decisively in their favor. Their soldiers would strengthen the ranks, their forges would arm the legions, and their ingenuity would greañtuy enahce their chances of success once they reach Vorometallicae homeworld.

As the molten light of the forge dimmed, both the True Depravita and the Dvergar stood in mutual respect.

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Across the cosmic sea, another Doomsday World burned beneath a blood-red sky. It was known as Volcan World, a realm of endless destruction, where rivers of magma carved fiery scars across the landscape. The very air shimmered with heat, and any being below the Guardian Tier would suffocate in seconds, their lungs turned to ash.

Above this infernal world, the firmament trembled as two titans clashed. They were no Vorometallicae, but dragons. One was a colossal beast covered in black crystal scales that gleamed like obsidian armor, his wings sharp as blades, his body radiating unyielding strength. The other dragon was a living inferno, his form molten and fluid, veins glowing with molten gold as flames erupted with every motion.

Their roars shook mountains, their collisions illuminated the sky. Each strike between them unleashed waves of energy that split clouds and turned the air itself into fire. Below their titanic battle stretched two armies: one of dragons, their scales glittering under the molten light, and another of humans bound to Demon Souls, flanked by bioweapons forged in the Tiamathos Obelisk.

For hours, the obsidian Dragon and the fire dragon fought with relentless fury. The battlefield quaked beneath them, neither willing to yield. Finally, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the first shadows of night settled over Volcan World, the two dragons halted, hovering in midair.

For a moment, there was only silence—the smoldering breath of two warriors who had tested each other’s strength. Then, the obsidian dragon threw back his head and laughed, his booming voice echoing across the burning plains.

"Good. Very good!"

He brought his massive claws together and inclined his head slightly in a gesture of respect. Fafnir, the True Depravita of Envy, returned the bow, his molten body flickering like a dying star. Then, side by side, they descended to the scorched ground below.

The obsidian dragon’s name was Arthur, firstborn son of the Obsidian Dragon King, ruler of one of the most powerful dragon civilizations in the universe. Just like humanity, dragons were not united under a single banner. They existed in countless kingdoms and clans, each shaped by their environment and lineage. The Obsidian Dragon Kingdom, however, was a sovereign realm unto itself—independent, proud, and immensely powerful.

Their long era of prosperity had ended when the Vorometallicae turned their gaze upon them. The royal bloodline of the Obsidian Dragons carried within it mineral hearts—crystalline organs that could be refined into materials capable of elevating beings to Lordhood. To the Vorometallicae, it was an irresistible prize.

The Obsidian Dragon King had refused, even when faced with annihilation. Not even his corpse, he swore, would fall into the hands of the metallic fiends. Thus, war erupted.

Arthur, his eldest son, had taken command of the campaign across Volcan World. Though powerful and strategic, he could only hold a stalemate, forever locked in a brutal dance with the Vorometallicae armies. That changed the day Fafnir arrived.

The True Depravita of Envy was a master of subtlety and destruction. His army struck from the shadows, exploiting every blind spot, every weakness the Vorometallicae overlooked while fixated on the dragon forces. Under his coordination, decisive victories followed one after another, and soon the tide began to turn.

When Fafnir finally sought a formal alliance, Arthur demanded a duel. It was the way of dragons—a sacred custom. They believed that the heart of a true warrior could only be revealed through battle.

Their clash had lasted from sunrise to moonrise, but in the end, both warriors had seen the truth in one another’s strength.

"Now," Arthur rumbled, his obsidian scales reflecting the crimson glow of the world’s molten rivers, "let us speak of alliance."

Fafnir’s molten features twisted into a sharp, satisfied smile.

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While most Doomsday Worlds resembled dying stars—scarred and barren—there was one exception: a realm of deceptive beauty known as the Emerald Abyss. Covered in endless jungle, its surface was an ocean of towering trees, bioluminescent vines, and colossal flowers that shimmered with poison. Yet beneath that beauty hid unspeakable danger. The flora here were predators, evolved to consume life itself, their roots and petals feasting upon anything foolish enough to wander too close.

Through this verdant nightmare marched a group of Amazons—a race of warrior women born from ancient human bloodlines. Each carried weapons infused with divine energy, their armor adorned with sacred runes. Their eyes were cold and resolute, their steps unflinching.

They stormed the gates of a Vorometallicae fortress with no hesitation, their war cries echoing through the jungle. What would have seemed like a suicidal assault was, in truth, a calculated strike. The Voroe legions had no time to focus on them, for the ground itself had betrayed them—thousands of monstrous beasts had erupted from below, tearing through their ranks with brutal efficiency.

The one leading the assault against the Vorometallicae base was none other than Freya, the True Depravita of Lust. She stood at the heart of the battlefield, her eyes gleaming like molten jewels as the inferno of war raged around her. With a hundred Legendary Demon Soul Masters at her side, she led her forces with a deadly grace, their formation a perfect blend of chaos and precision.

Their task was simple, yet perilous—to engage and occupy the full strength of the Vorometallicae defenders, drawing their focus and fire away from the main gate. Freya’s troops struck like shadows, their bodies wreathed in demonic energy that shimmered with seductive light and deathly promise. Every movement, every strike, was a dance—beautiful, hypnotic, and utterly lethal.

Meanwhile, the Amazons advanced from the front. Fierce and unrelenting, they stormed through the primary gate with divine fury, their blades blazing with celestial power. With Freya’s elite cutting through the defenders from within, and the Amazons carving their way inward, the once-mighty fortress of the Vorometallicae soon became a tomb.

Voroe screams echoed across the jungle as the last of the Vorometallicae soldiers fell, their bodies torn and scattered amidst pools of molten blood. The fortress burned in the distance, the once-proud banners of the Voroe race now reduced to ash.

Freya stood amidst the ruins, her breathing heavy, exhaustion evident in her stance. Yet a radiant smile curved her lips. Despite launching an assault on one of the most heavily fortified Vorometallicae strongholds in the entire Doomsday World, she had not lost a single one of her Legendary Demon Soul Masters.

The same could not be said for the Reapers, who had suffered losses during the siege. But Freya was unbothered. Her gaze shifted toward the mounds of shattered Voroe corpses surrounding her.

The biomass would serve her well, more than enough to make up for all the Reapers that were lost during this battle.

The True Depravita of Lust’s eyes then turned toward the Amazon leader, a striking woman with long black hair matted with blood, a divine sword in one hand and a radiant shield in the other. The two warriors locked eyes across the carnage and exchanged a nod of mutual respect. No words were needed; both understood the other’s worth.

Another alliance had been forged—not through diplomacy, but through battle, blood, and victory.

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The final Doomsday World was one the Xaos Kingdom knew well—the Land of the Three Calamities. And there, Ouroboros was already moving with precise and devastating efficiency, forging his own path of conquest alongside the forces of the Graecia Empire.