Chapter 886: Closer to the end of the war
The void surrounding the Zanis Homeworld had become a battlefield unlike any other. More than four hundred Legends clashed, their powers colliding in waves that lit the emptiness brighter than stars. At the center, the Lords tore at one another with blows so fierce they eclipsed supernovas. Each strike warped space itself, scattering aftershocks across the endless dark.
The White Death, Vlad, and Altharion did not slow down upon seeing how their Legends were dominating the battlefield, and victory was near. On the contrary, they let their energy erupt outward in violent storms, ensuring none of the enemy could interfere with their mission. With every distant explosion that marked the fall of a satellite or a formation core, the trio’s grim smiles widened. They could see victory inching closer with every shattered defense.
Pompeyo, however, was drowning in wrath and dread.
Every detonation was a disaster. Each was another wound to the protective shell surrounding his world. If the cores fell, the Graecian forces would pour through, and the flames of battle would reach the Zanis Homeworld itself.
"No matter what, I cannot allow that. Not yet!" Pompeyo roared in the silence of his mind. His primordial treasure flared, power exploding from the sword as he threw everything into forcing back the White Death. If he could just buy himself a handful of seconds—long enough to cast devastation upon the Graecian battalions of Legends—then he might tip the scales back.
But the White Death did not relent.
His spear moved like a comet, parrying every slash, deflecting every desperate blow. No matter how Pompeyo pressed, the weapon was there, answering, and always prepared to strike back with killing precision.
Beside him, the True Depravita of Wrath’s eyes burned with murderous rage. Vlad’s heartbeat thundered like a war drum, feeding the storm of wrath that strengthened his body and sword. His blade became the storm incarnate, sundering the flesh of the Devil Lord he faced.
His battle style came with a lot of wounds, but his Depravita Aura constantly healed him. And luckily, the Eye of Gluttony siphoned energy ceaselessly from the surroundings, refueling Vlad’s relentless onslaught. He was fury given flesh.
The Devil Lord had no love for the Zanis Homeworld, but a contract bound him. Against his will, he was forced to fight with everything he had. His body, consumed again and again, reformed with dark plasma, replacing bones and sinew with infernal matter. Still, the truth was clear: though he held for now, if the battle continued, his life would hang on the thinnest edge.
Elsewhere, Altharion fought with an entirely different rhythm. The Crown Prince’s glaive swept like a god’s judgment, carving deep wounds into the towering Artificial Life Forms before him. Their once-impervious frame weakened under his relentless strikes, sparks and molten fragments scattering through the void.
And yet the young man conserved his strength carefully. He fought not recklessly but with perfect economy—his movements precise, his power disciplined. He preserved his reserves, ever prepared for the worst. In that, he differed greatly from his father.
Where Alexandro always pressed forward, Altharion thought of futures yet to come, of disasters yet unseen, and prepared himself. Perhaps that was why the White Death had come to rely so heavily upon him. A leader did not need a mirror. He needed someone who could cover his blind spots, who could act in ways he could not.
Thanks to the unyielding efforts of the trio, the Lord-tier battlefield became an isolated storm, sealed away from the rest of the war. No one could interfere. Around them, the greater struggle unfolded, stretching across the void like a mural of fire and ruin.
Overlord and Marshal Maximo took command of the empire’s Legends, dividing them into two colossal battalions. Each advanced on opposite flanks, leaving trails of destruction in their wake. Satellites and formation cores floated like black fortresses among the stars, shielded by forcefields that would laugh off even Superior Legends’ strikes. Yet Overlord had devised a method.
The True Depravita of Lust led the Royal Guards to one of the largest satellites—a structure the size of a city. The moment they neared, the pressure of the forcefield pressed upon them, a suffocating weight of Law meant to deny intrusion. Yet they wasted no time.
Freya raised her rusted sword, its edge glowing with unnatural allure, and slashed. A narrow beam of light cut into the forcefield. She did not attempt to break the entire barrier outright. She followed the Overlord’s plan—focus all strength upon a single point.
Before the barrier could fix the damage, Mirena unleashed a spear of lightning, a laser-thin beam of concentrated force, precisely where Freya’s strike had landed.
Then Amara followed, her shadows compressed to a needlepoint. Frank’s magma blast blow was next, condensed into a single searing strike. Roman and Clasius joined, one after another, each blow falling upon that single scar in the barrier.
The void shook as power after power was hammered into the same tiny wound. Finally, the shield buckled. A narrow hole tore open.
It was too small for a Legend to pass through. Any attempt to squeeze inside would see the barrier snap shut around them, a deadly trap. But Freya did not need entry.
Her lips curled in a cold smile as she flicked her hand.
A space ring darted through the hole.
The forcefield snapped closed instantly, as if mocking their effort. For a heartbeat, it seemed all their work was for nothing.
Then the ring shattered.
From its fragments emerged a strange sphere, glowing brighter and brighter until it rivaled a star. These were Graecia’s most devastating explosives, weapons so potent they could annihilate a Superior Legend outright.
The forcefield that had once shielded the satellite now betrayed it. Instead of allowing the blast to disperse into space, it trapped the explosion inside, magnifying its fury. The detonation ripped the satellite apart, tearing it into shrapnel until nothing but twisted wreckage remained.
The void fell silent around the ruin.
"One down."
The True Depravita of Lust’s voice was calm, her cold smile fixed as she and the Royal Guards turned toward their next target. The fire of destruction reflected in their eyes, unyielding, merciless.
And all across the battlefield, more explosions blossomed—each another nail driven into the Zanis’ defenses.
Overlord did not fight at the side of the True Depravita of Lust and the Royal Guard. His place was elsewhere—his mind constantly issuing commands to the vast battalion that advanced along the left flank of the Zanis Homeworld. Even with that immense task weighing upon him, he was simultaneously locked in combat with several Superior Devil Legends at once.
The eyes of the Divine Avatar glowed with sacred fire and code, its body shimmering with power and authority as it cut through the darkness. Overlord’s movements were precise, swift, almost preternatural. He parried savage strikes, sidestepped infernal spells, and answered with his blade—slicing off arms, piercing chests, and severing heads with cold efficiency.
Devils were cunning beyond measure. Forged in the brutality of Hell itself, they were masters of treachery and relentless combat. Those who reached the rank of Superior Legend were monsters whose instincts for battle made them catastrophic if left unchecked. That was why Overlord himself, along with other powerful faction leaders, took the burden of facing them head-on. None could be allowed to slip past.
Thanks to the faith he had gathered from Exilon, the Divine Avatar had ascended to the rank of Superior Legend. And more than that—the consciousness within it, the very core of Overlord’s being, had evolved further still. His thoughts moved with impossible speed, his mind refined into a weapon as sharp as any blade. In terms of cognition and processing, the Divine Avatar now stood on par with a Lord. That was why Overlord could duel half a dozen Superior Devils at once without faltering.
Each time a Devil fell, Overlord wasted no time. He harvested their bodies, storing them in his space ring with mechanical precision, and moved immediately to the next opponent. There was no hesitation, no celebration of victory, not even the faintest flicker of satisfaction. Only duty. Only drive. His was a mind without distraction, a will honed into a single point. There was a goal, and he would succeed—nothing else mattered.
Marshal Maximo fought differently. He was powerful in his own right, but his mind did not match the incomprehensible speed of Overlord’s evolved intellect. Instead, his focus was anchored in the flow of the battlefield itself. He led his battalion with unshakable resolve, guiding them through the storm against the Superior Legends of the Zanis Family. Maximo ensured that none of those elite defenders could interfere with the rest of Graecia’s forces.
Where Overlord was a machine of endless calculation, Maximo was a commander of flesh and blood—his leadership grounded in instinct, charisma, and the iron will to hold a line no matter the cost. Together, the two commanders formed a perfect counterbalance.
Explosions lit the void in staccato bursts, each one marking another defense torn down, another victory claimed. The battlefield thundered with the clash of weapons and the roar of dying legends. But through it all, the strategies of Overlord and Maximo held firm. Their coordination was flawless, their teamwork absolute.
Step by step, blast by blast, the Graecian Empire’s Legends pressed closer to the end of the war. The walls around the Zanis Homeworld were crumbling.