Chapter 894: True Depravita vs Sector Master of Hell
Far beyond the shattered gates of the Wall of Torment, rising like a jagged wound across the horizon, stood a colossal fortress. The black stone citadel stretched for thousands of kilometers, its towers piercing the smoke-choked sky like spears. Around its perimeter, tens of thousands of broken bodies hung impaled upon vast spikes of iron and bone.
Such sights might have seemed like warnings, a grotesque tactic meant to intimidate enemies or deter intruders. But in Hell, this was mere decoration. Here, pain was art, death was adornment, and agony was beauty. The fortress was not made to repel visitors; it was made to announce to all who approached that this was the dwelling of one who reigned in terror.
Inside, the infernal energy was overwhelming, hundreds of times more potent than in the wastelands outside. The air itself throbbed with power, searing the lungs and burning the soul. For any Devil born within these walls, it was paradise—fertile ground to cultivate power, to gorge on energy until one’s strength burst through limits. The deeper one walked into the fortress, the stronger that energy became, until it converged upon the throne room.
There, dominating the chamber, stood the Infernal Monolith.
It was no mere artifact or construction. A jagged, rocky effigy rising straight from the flesh of the Third Layer itself, it was said to embody the very heart of this plane. Its power was so ancient, so unfathomably old, that not even Lords could fully comprehend its nature. It pulsed with infernal rhythm, like the heartbeat of Hell itself.
Facing the Monolith was the master of this Sector.
Loatan was a being of monstrous dread and overwhelming brutality. His crimson flesh bulged with grotesque muscle, every fiber of his body infused with corruption. Jagged spikes erupted from his shoulders and spine, while his chest bore a twisted emblem—an unholy fusion of bone and skulls grafted into his flesh, constantly shifting as if whispering in silent agony.
A helm of bone and horn crowned his head, bladed and jagged, obscuring all but the maw of serrated teeth that marked him as predator incarnate. Chains and tattered remnants of armor dangled from his frame, not worn for protection but displayed as trophies—the remains of those he had conquered and broken. His very presence radiated torment. He was not simply powerful; his body was a battlefield of agony, each breath exuding domination.
Loatan was no cunning manipulator, no silver-tongued schemer. He was a tyrant born of slaughter, the embodiment of domination through fear and the iron weight of brutality.
Like most days, he stood before the Monolith, basking in its infernal energies, feeding upon its essence to strengthen his cultivation. He dreamed of one day pushing deeper, toward the very core of the Third Layer, where the strongest of their kind ruled.
But then, his eyes opened.
A shift in the flow of infernal energy caught his attention. His gaze turned outward, piercing through leagues of scorched land. He saw Cerberus limping toward the fortress. One head was missing, blasted into pulp, and upon the hound’s back rode a group of powerful figures.
Loatan’s jagged teeth gleamed in a predatory sneer.
"More fools seeking my throne," he growled. "They have been arriving in numbers lately. Let them. I will make an example of these ones."
Without hesitation, his colossal body—forty meters tall and swollen with malice—blurred and vanished. A moment later he appeared above the fortress, his aura flooding the skies. Infernal flames roared across his flesh, thick with corruption and violence, spreading a wave of pressure so crushing that the air itself screamed.
A second later, seven other auras erupted behind him. These were his lieutenants, Superior Legendary Devils, the ones who bent the knee to him and ruled his Sector in his name. They emerged from the castle, their dark power staining the horizon like a plague.
Cerberus froze in place. Terror surged through the hellhound as Loatan’s gaze fell upon him. His two surviving heads bowed low, his body quivering. He knew this display of weakness—losing to intruders, being dragged back like a beaten dog—was unforgivable.
But Vlad and his companions did not bow.
The True Depravitas and Overlord all rose into the air, their figures sharp against the storm of infernal energy. Their eyes were cold, merciless, utterly devilish. They did not avert their gaze from the Sector Master, nor from the seven Superior Devils that flanked him.
Loatan’s golden eyes locked onto Vlad. For several seconds, he studied the young devil’s form, the way his aura bent reality. His gaze sharpened.
"You are not of the Third Layer," Loatan rumbled, his voice like cracking stone. "From where do you come?"
Despite his brutal nature, he was still a Devil. Cunning was etched into his instincts. He would always probe first, always search for weakness, always test his enemy before devouring them. Information was a weapon, and he would wield it.
But the only answer he received was a cold smile.
A dark blade appeared in Vlad’s hand, forged from death and infernal energy. In the next instant, he blurred forward.
Loatan snarled. Bone gauntlets erupted across his hands, jagged and spiked, ignited with infernal fire as he thrust his fist to meet the incoming strike.
"Hmph!"
The world exploded.
BOOOOOOOOOM!
Black flames and infernal fire erupted in a maelstrom, flooding the skies, annihilating the clouds, and staining the void. The shockwave tore through the fortress walls, shattering towers, sending debris crashing into the ground below.
Loatan’s frown deepened. He felt the deathly aura riding upon those black flames, the way they gnawed at his vitality like a thousand invisible teeth.
Vlad’s expression hardened. The physical power of Loatan was monstrous, and the heat of his infernal fire was so overwhelming that Vlad’s skin blistered with every breath.
Their eyes met again—one the True Depravita of Wrath, the other a Sector Master born of slaughter. Both radiated nothing but cold resolve and absolute brutality.
And then, as one, they clashed again.
Sword and bone gauntlets collided over and over, each impact shaking the firmament. Destruction grew rampant above the sky, flames and shadows tearing reality apart.
Below, the Superior Legendary Devils and the True Depravitas did not move. They hovered in silence, gazes locked upon one another, but no strike was made. They could feel it—their powers were evenly matched. For now, there was no point in wasting strength.
They would wait.
They would watch.
And when the battle above decided a victor, tradition would hold. All others would bow to the new master of the Sector.