Chapter 897: A new weapon
A small smile curved Vlad’s lips as realization struck him—just with Jormungandr’s power alone, his battle strength now reached the absolute limit of the Half-Lord Tier, only a single step away from achieving a true Lord battle power. More importantly, this was a state he could maintain for hours, even days, without suffering backlash thanks to the vast, stabilizing might of his Red Sun of Wrath.
But there was no time to bask in victory.
Not even a second after Loatan’s body had crashed lifeless into the ruins, Vlad felt it. Countless predatory gazes locked onto him from every direction within the Sector. Devils—superior and lesser alike—had fixed their eyes on the new throne, their instincts sharpened by greed and bloodlust. Now that Vlad had spent much of his strength in the fight, they saw what they believed to be the perfect opportunity: kill the fresh Sector Master before he could brand the Infernal Monolith and solidify his claim.
"Heavy is the head that wears the crown," Vlad thought grimly, his small smile hardening into something sharper.
Then, his body began to throb with crimson light. Wounds across his flesh hissed as Depravita Aura coursed through him, and in moments, the injuries he had sustained in battle knit together, closing as if they had never existed.
The predators froze.
The Devils of Hell were ruthless, but they were not fools. They understood what they were seeing. The new Sector Master was not only overwhelmingly powerful and a wielder of the Law of Space, but he also possessed innate regenerative abilities of terrifying scale. In mere moments, he would be fully restored and capable of slaughtering any who dared to strike.
Yes, if every pretender to the throne banded together, pooling their strength, they might have had a chance. But Devils and teamwork had never mixed. Suspicion and self-interest always rotted unity from within. So one by one, their gazes faltered. Some looked away. Others bowed their heads. And in that silence, Vlad’s smile widened.
He had won. Not only had he claimed victory, but he had secured it without unveiling the full extent of his might.
The air shimmered as Freya, Ouroboros, Fafnir, and Overlord appeared at his side. They had not moved to defend him earlier, instead waiting until the moment his rule was secure before showing themselves—like true Devils, who knew no concept of loyalty, only advantage. Their timing was perfect, their instincts cruelly pragmatic.
Now that everything was in order, Vlad turned his gaze toward the colossal corpse of Loatan in the distance. With a wave of his hand, the body—mountainous and broken—rose into the air and flew to him.
The eyes of the Devils watching glittered with naked lust. The flesh of a Sector Master was a treasure beyond imagination. Devouring it could catapult one’s strength, perhaps even shatter bottlenecks that had resisted centuries of cultivation. But before any dared move, the corpse shimmered and vanished into Vlad’s space ring—a dimension none of them could ever reach.
Disappointment and hunger curdled in their expressions, but none dared protest.
Vlad then turned his eyes to the massive fortress that served as Loatan’s castle, the seat of power built around the Infernal Monolith. The place swarmed with Devils—servants, concubines, soldiers, sycophants—those who had thrived under Loatan’s brutal reign. Some bore his lineage. Others had been dragged here to sate his whims or ease his life. To Vlad, they were all worthless.
"Leave."
His voice was laced with psychic force, resonating like a thunderclap across the entire structure. The command brooked no defiance. The air itself seemed to shake with the weight of it.
Panic erupted. Lesser Devils fled like vermin before a firestorm, clawing and shrieking as they scrambled out of the castle. Only seven remained—the Superior Legends who had once served as Loatan’s lieutenants.
In Hell, shifting allegiance was as natural as breathing. The moment a master fell, his lieutenants bent the knee to the victor. And so, they came forward, heads bowed in submission to the new Sector Master.
Keeping them at his side was risky. Their ambition was plain, their loyalty hollow. At any sign of weakness, they would drive a blade into his back. But Vlad only smiled coldly and nodded, accepting their fealty.
Jormungandr emerged from his soul in a ripple of light, settling gracefully upon his shoulder.
"Let’s go to the Infernal Monolith."
With those words, Vlad, the True Depravitas, Overlord, and the seven Superior Legends strode into the now-empty fortress. Their footsteps echoed through vast corridors until they reached the throne room.
At its center rose the Infernal Monolith.
The structure towered like a fragment of eternity itself, a black stone effigy that pulsed with the heartbeat of the Third Layer of Hell. Ancient, oppressive, and unfathomable.
The eyes of the Superior Legends burned with naked desire. To bind the Monolith was to rule the Sector, to command its Origin Force, to wield power beyond compare. Every one of them dreamed of seizing it. But none moved. Not while Vlad still drew breath.
For now, they could only bow their heads and bide their time, waiting for the moment when opportunity—or weakness—presented itself.
Vlad ignored their hunger. His attention was fixed solely on the Monolith. He stepped forward, his soul force reaching out like a probing flame.
Behind him, Freya, Ouroboros, and Fafnir exchanged grim glances. They knew the risk. The Infernal Monoliths were not meant to accept outsiders. If one who was not truly of Hell attempted to brand them, the backlash would be merciless.
The Monolith’s aura surged, oppressive and violent. The air thickened with crushing power as it tested him.
Then, suddenly, it shifted.
A connection bloomed.
Vlad’s lips split into a grin. Overlord’s alterations to his Soul Dimension had succeeded. The Monolith regarded him not as a foreigner but as a Devil, a true heir of Hell’s bloodlines.
A stream of Origin Force trickled into his body, steady and sure. It was not overwhelming, but it was pure. Over years, it would fortify him, sharpening his power further.
Yes, he could devour more—force the Monolith to surrender its essence, as Loatan had done. But that was taboo. To drain it was to weaken the Sector itself, to cripple the cultivation of all who lived within it. To commit such an act was to invite hatred eternal, to paint a target on one’s back until the whole of Hell conspired for vengeance.
That was a path no Devil would willingly take—yet Vlad only smiled, his expression cold and predatory.
"Why would I care about the thoughts of Devils who will soon become food?"
His words hung in the air like a death knell. The seven Superior Legends stiffened. Instinct screamed at them to move, to flee, but before they could react, Vlad turned his gaze upon them. His smile widened, sharp as a blade.
"Speaking of food..."
Terror rippled through the seven lieutenants. Their bodies tensed, but escape was already impossible.
Four hollow sockets flared open on Vlad’s forehead, and in the next instant Jormungandr, Freya, Ouroboros, and Fafnir surged forth in streaks of psychic force. Their essences merged into those empty eyes, and the world trembled.
The True Depravita of Wrath’s aura erupted, his form rising into its apex. He ascended beyond his limits—becoming a Lord.
The air thickened into a crushing weight. A psychic force of such magnitude fell upon the Superior Legends that their legs buckled. Bones cracked, spines snapped, and they collapsed to the ground, flattened as if invisible hands of titanic size were pressing them down.
There was never a chance that Vlad would allow these Devils to remain close to him. They were powerful, yes—but also ambitious, cunning, and dangerous. Keeping them alive was a risk that could easily unravel his disguise, exposing secrets that could not be revealed. Yet rejecting their allegiance outright would have been even worse. No Sector Master in Hell turned away such potent subordinates. Doing so would invite suspicion, whispers, and questions—none of which Vlad could afford.
But there was, as always, a third path.
Overlord stepped forward. His eyes gleamed with a mechanical coldness devoid of mercy, compassion, or hesitation. From his mouth erupted a grotesque sight—seven pale orbs, each bristling with twitching tentacles lined with razor-sharp barbs. They writhed like parasites yearning for prey.
Vlad’s eyes narrowed slightly as he recognized the resemblance, a flicker of memory flashing in his mind. Those eyeballs reminded him of a very powerful enemy.
He turned his gaze toward the A.I. Chip Clone.
"A new weapon, Prime Master. One that will serve us well in the endeavors to come."
Overlord’s voice was calm, clinical, as though speaking of tools rather than lives.
The seven eyeballs quivered, then launched themselves forward with a wet hiss, streaking through the air toward the immobilized Superior Legends.
Agony followed.
Screams tore through the throne room as the parasitic orbs attached themselves to their hosts. Tentacles burrowed into flesh, wriggling beneath skin, ripping out one of each Devil’s eyes in fountains of blood before forcefully embedding themselves in the sockets. The Legends writhed, their bodies convulsing as the new eyes pulsed with a sickly light, bonding to nerves, corrupting souls, rewriting what they were.