Chapter 884: Wrath, entropy, and method
As he heard those words full of mockery, the Devil Lord’s eyes hardened with a coldness and brutality so absolute it could only have been born from an existence forged in darkness and fire. His gaze was pure horror made manifest, the chilling essence of Hell itself.
The next moment, the vast runes etched across his chest ignited. Black fire surged outward, then condensed, forming a mantle of seething plasma that clung to his frame. The bleeding ceased, shredded muscle reknit, and broken bones fused back together.
Vlad’s eyes narrowed. It was an ingenious application of the Law of Death—a fusion of destruction and regeneration, each wound transforming into fuel. The Devil Lord would not go down easily. Yet still, Vlad smiled. His breath steadied, his grip tightened, and with a thunderclap, he flashed forward once more.
The True Depravita of Wrath’s battle style became raw ferocity incarnate. He did not care what horrors his body endured. He sought only damage, only blood. At times, the Devil Lord’s blade cleaved through his throat or severed his spine, but even that could not halt him. Lightning surged across his sword, the power of space split the void, and every strike left deep gashes in the infernal Lord’s flesh before Vlad regenerated again and again.
Pompeyo, locked in his deadly duel with the White Death, still kept a sliver of awareness fixed on the other battles. Altharion’s fight against the artificial legion progressed as expected. But the True Depravita of Wrath... he was something else entirely.
Pompeyo had heard of True Depravitas’ survival, of their madness on the battlefield. Yet to see it firsthand—to watch a man take a blade through the skull and rise an instant later—was almost too much, even for him.
That moment of shock cost him.
"Hmph!"
The White Death’s sneer accompanied a spear thrust that blurred past Pompeyo’s massive war axe. The radiant point streaked forward, aimed straight at his neck. Pompeyo twisted desperately, and the strike missed its intended mark. Instead, the spear plunged into his shoulder, shredding through enchanted armor and piercing deep into flesh.
Pain seared through his body, and though Pompeyo stifled the scream, agony flickered in his eyes. This was no ordinary spear—it was a weapon of entropy itself. The white flames that cloaked it disintegrated everything they touched: armor, bone, sinew, even essence. The agony was monstrous, tearing through him like a thousand suns imploding.
The White Death smiled coldly at Pompeyo’s suffering. He twisted the spear deliberately, intending to force it through the joint and rip the entire arm free.
Before he could succeed, the floating knives orbiting Pompeyo’s body flared with divine light. In an instant, they streaked forward from every direction, each a dagger capable of sundering space.
Even Alexandro could not ignore them. He was destruction incarnate, but not immortal. A dozen divine treasures striking at once could tear even him apart. With a low growl, he released the spear and shifted back, deflecting blade after blade with flawless sweeps of his weapon.
As he parried, Pompeyo raised his hand. A strange orb of golden blood manifested in his palm. Without hesitation, he pressed it to his ruined shoulder.
The blood burned with supernatural vitality. Flesh knit, bone solidified, sinew reattached. In seconds, the wound was repaired.
The White Death did not snarl. He did not rage. Instead, a greedy smile spread across his face.
"You even possess God’s Blood," he said coldly. "I wonder what other treasures I will harvest from your bloated corpse."
Alexandro cast aside the last dagger with a sweep of his spear. His aura erupted as he lunged once more, white flames of entropy consuming everything in their path.
Pompeyo gritted his teeth. Even with the Origin Force of the Zanís homeworld at his back, he was losing ground. Each clash hammered the truth deeper into his soul—he was not as mighty as he had believed.
"Damn it!"
With a roar, Pompeyo ripped a massive sword from across his back. At once, the weapon blazed with primordial energy. His aura doubled, then doubled again. When next his blade met the White Death’s spear, the void shook. For the first time since their battle began, neither side could overpower the other.
The Emperor’s eyes narrowed at the weapon, then his smile widened with cruel amusement.
"So, you wield a primordial relic," Alexandro said, voice sharp as frost. "But tell me—how long can the energy inside that blade endure? One hundred strikes? Two hundred, perhaps?"
Pompeyo’s teeth ground together. He knew the truth. The weapon magnified his strength to terrifying levels, but its core was finite. When its power was spent, he would be vulnerable.
The disdain in the White Death’s eyes stoked his fury. Rage and killing intent poured from him like a storm. He swung the weapon with greater desperation, each strike heavier, faster, louder, as though force alone could bury the truth.
Alexandro only smiled. His spear moved with flawless precision, countering every attack, his body unshaken. He was not reckless, not impatient. He waited. Waited for the sword to weaken, for the power to bleed away. When it did, he would attack with all he had.
Every clash was cataclysmic, detonating like small supernovae, illuminating the void in bursts of white and gold. Their duel painted the battlefield in light and ruin.
Meanwhile, Altharion’s own struggle raged on. The Crown Prince fought with neither the explosive recklessness of Vlad nor the unstoppable ferocity of his father. His battle was methodical. His glaive carved through the half-Lord constructs with precision, one step ahead of their relentless coordination. He struck not to annihilate but to weaken, to wound, to buy time.
Where Vlad risked everything and Alexandro burned all, Altharion chose balance. He conserved strength, avoided grave wounds, and fought with the wisdom of one who knew this war was not yet at its climax. Someone needed to remain measured, ready to unleash power the moment things turned against them.
That was not fear. That was foresight.
And in the chaos of the void battlefield, the three styles—wrath, entropy, and method—wove together into a storm that was ready to swallow an entire world.