Chapter 880: Overlord vs Marshal Maximo
A shift rippled through the chamber the moment the power of the White Death, Vlad, and Altharion manifested fully. It was felt rather than seen, a pressure that weighed upon the very air. Though the chamber was filled with the mightiest leaders of the Graecia Empire, these three stood on a different plane altogether.
Their presence was overwhelming, their strength so immense that even the proudest faction leaders could not help but feel diminished, left trailing like shadows behind a blazing sun.
The White Death’s voice broke the silence, calm yet carrying the inevitability of a judge pronouncing sentence.
"Good. The three of us will take the frontlines. Our task is simple: to face the strongest forces of the Zanis Family and slay as many as possible. By doing so, we will reduce the pressure upon the rest of you."
Vlad and Altharion exchanged grave expressions. They understood the weight of those words. What awaited them was peril beyond measure, and a single misstep on that battlefield could mean their deaths. Yet neither faltered. Both had walked through fire before and were ready to stand at the edge of the abyss again.
The White Death, satisfied with their resolve, shifted his gaze toward the rest of the gathered powerhouses. His eyes, sharp and cold, swept across them as though stripping away their pretenses.
"As for you," he continued, "your mission is not slaughter, but destruction. The satellites orbiting the Zanis Homeworld must fall, as must the formation cores spread across its orbit. Intelligence reports a total of one thousand five hundred and sixty-two targets. Destroy two-thirds—one thousand and forty-two—and the planetary shield will collapse. Once the barrier is gone, our armies will teleport directly onto the landmass, and the battlefield will shift into the world itself."
At his words, every warrior’s eyes sharpened. They all knew what it meant. The instant they set foot upon the Zanis Homeworld, the final phase of the war would begin—and it would be a slaughter unlike anything the empire had seen in generations. This was not merely the extinction of a bloodline. It was the destruction of an entire world.
"I, the Xaos King, and Altharion will move independently, carving our own paths through the enemy as the situation demands," the White Death said. "The rest of you will follow the command of Marshal Maximo, who will lead you to strike at the satellites and dimensional cores with precision."
The faction leaders nodded, accepting the decree. The name of Marshal Maximo carried enormous weight. His reputation spread across the empire as not only one of the strongest Superior Legends—already nearing the Half-step Lord realm—but also as a strategist who had claimed countless victories across the Doomsday Worlds. In their minds, there was no better choice to guide them.
But one among the three apex warriors thought differently.
"I would like to speak regarding the commander position," Vlad said evenly. His voice was respectful, but unflinching.
He did not let his newfound power swell his pride. He knew the truth well: though he stood mighty, the White Death remained in a league above him. And strength, in this chamber, was what demanded respect.
Emperor Alexandro turned his gaze toward Vlad, silent for a moment, then gave a slight nod. Permission granted.
Vlad inclined his head respectfully before turning toward Marshal Maximo.
"Marshal Maximo is a great commander," he said clearly. "He has proven his wisdom and skill time and again, and he certainly possesses the ability to lead us efficiently through this battlefield. However... there is someone present who is even more suited to the role."
At those words, he turned his gaze to the figure standing silently at the edge of the chamber, Overlord.
All eyes shifted at once. Until now, few had paid him more than cursory attention. The chamber already contained many strange beings—angelic hybrids, clones of ancient demons, warforged entities born of forbidden sorcery. In comparison, the Divine Avatar had not seemed particularly unusual. But now, under the scrutiny of so many, his presence became undeniable.
He stood unmoved by the weight of their stares. No fear. No tension. No pride. His face held nothing but calm, sharpened focus, and relentless calculation.
Vlad’s words carried across the hall.
"His existence began as artificial intelligence, but he has evolved far beyond that origin. He possesses wisdom, imagination, and the ability to see paths others cannot. More importantly, his mind is free from the distractions that plague us all. Fear, greed, the lust for glory—none of these will cloud his judgment. His decisions are unshaken, always aligned with the ultimate goal. That clarity makes him the best choice to guide us."
The White Death’s gaze fixed upon Overlord, cold and testing. Yet even beneath that crushing presence, the Divine Avatar remained utterly unchanged. No flicker of emotion passed his features.
Then the White Death raised his hand, and with a wave, a massive virtual screen manifested in the heart of the chamber. Black and white stones appeared upon a great board, 181 black and 180 white.
"The game is Go," he said. "I want to see your skill."
Marshal Maximo’s eyes narrowed, but he gave no protest. He was not a child, nor a man driven by wounded pride. He understood what was at stake: countless lives and the survival of the empire. If another proved the better strategist, he would yield without hesitation. There was no room for ego at this level of war.
He and Overlord took opposite sides of the board. The match began.
The speed of their thoughts was breathtaking. Stones struck the board in blurs of white and black, moves layered with traps, counter-traps, and gambits within gambits. In less than five minutes, the game concluded. The victor was Overlord.
Without pause, the board reset. A second match began. This time, Maximo adapted, adjusting his tactics to match his opponent’s alien style. But again, he lost. A third game followed, then a fourth, a fifth. Ten games in all, each ending the same way: Overlord victorious.
By the tenth match, the chamber was silent. None could deny it any longer—Overlord’s skill surpassed even the empire’s finest strategist. Yet as the final stones settled, complicated expressions crossed the faces of the faction leaders. For they had seen more than victory. They had seen the shape of Overlord’s mind laid bare.
His style was not born of passion or ambition, but of pure, unyielding calculation. His moves were devoid of hesitation or doubt, cold and merciless, each step driving toward inevitable triumph.
Overlord’s style on the board was ruthless. He constantly employed lures and feints, sacrificing stones with cold precision to bait his opponent, only to crush them later in a grander scheme. To watch such a mind at work was unsettling. The message was clear: under his command, pieces would be discarded without hesitation if it meant increasing the odds of victory.
None in the chamber feared death. They had all long accepted mortality as the price of their path, and they were ready to throw everything into the coming war. Yet there was a difference between dying in battle and being treated as expendable pawns. These were not ordinary soldiers. They were rulers, sovereigns, and leaders of factions ruling over billions. They had clawed their way to the peak of the Graecia Empire, and with that position came the expectation of respect.
The White Death understood the weight of their unease, but he did not hesitate. His decision came swiftly. A stream of psychic energy erupted from his mind, flashing into the Divine Avatar. In an instant, Overlord was infused with the full breadth of imperial intelligence.
The Zanis Homeworld, its defenses, the intricacies of its orbiting formations, the known strength of its armies—all the knowledge required to direct the empire’s forces.
"Overlord and Marshal Maximo will work as one," the White Death declared. His voice carried the authority of judgment itself. "Together, they will command our forces in the destruction of the targets and the annihilation of the net that shields the Zanís homeworld."
Relief flickered across the faces of the faction leaders. It was the perfect balance. Overlord possessed the cold brilliance to devise flawless strategies, while Marshal Maximo held their trust and respect, grounding those decisions in experience and human understanding. Between the two, they could accept the commands that would lead them into battle.
Seeing the matter settled, Emperor Alexandro lifted a hand. A new projection flared into being above the chamber—an immense virtual rendering of the Zanis Homeworld. Satellites and dimensional cores gleamed across its orbit like a deadly web, the shield they would need to shatter in order to set foot upon the enemy’s soil.
"Prepare your strategies," the Emperor commanded. "We move in thirty-four hours."
With a sweep of his hand, a portal tore open above him. He gestured for Vlad and Altharion to follow. Without hesitation, the trio stepped through, vanishing in a flare of light.
The atmosphere within the chamber sharpened as soon as they departed. The Legends straightened under the sudden pressure. Overlord and Marshal Maximo immediately set to work, their voices steady as they began to weave the framework of the coming operation. Every word, every projection, carried the weight of looming war.
Meanwhile, far above, the White Death, the Xaos King, and the Crown Prince emerged at the peak of the White Blade, the colossal warship. From its heights, they gazed across the endless void toward their target.
In the distance hung a massive world, radiating such potency that it seemed eternal. The Zanis Homeworld pulsed with ancient law and inexhaustible energy, a realm born to endure.
The three warriors exchanged a single nod. Then, together, they exhaled and unleashed their power.
Their combined radiance burst forth like a storm, waves of energy sweeping across the void, traveling countless kilometers in a single instant until it crashed upon the Zanis Homeworld.
There was no need for secrecy. Pompeyo already knew they were coming. Better to let their presence weigh upon him, to press against the hearts and souls of their enemies, announcing that the storm had arrived—one from which there would be no escape.