Chapter 904: Inheritance by murder?
Vlad could not help but frown as he saw the intruder approaching the tower. The aura pressing from afar was overwhelming—just as powerful as Zialath had been when empowered by the Infernal Monolith’s Origin Force. That fact alone was troubling. Yet the True Depravita of Wrath did not falter. He had Jormungandr to fuse with, the other three True Depravitas to fight by his side, an army at his back, and the Nightmare Eye Superior Legends ready to attack with suicidal might. If this was some attempt to seize the throne, it was a suicidal one.
Finally, the figure arrived, descending until it floated above the spire of the Sector Master’s tower. It waited there calmly, like a blade poised in still air. There was no fear in its single star-like eye, no arrogance either, only cold, pragmatic focus as he calmly waited.
Vlad’s own eyes sharpened. He turned briefly toward the tower below.
"Remain here," he ordered.
With that, his figure blurred and vanished, reappearing an instant later in the sky directly before the intruder. His voice cut across the winds, sharp and commanding.
"You are trespassing in my domain."
At once, his dark sword appeared in his hand, its edge cloaked in slivers of death-fire that writhed like serpents eager to consume.
The White Devil did not flinch at the threat. He regarded Vlad with silence, though when his eye slid toward the blade, a faint flicker of greed lit its void-like depths.
"What an interesting treasure," he said at last. "A Lord-tier weapon. I have wanted one for a long time."
Vlad’s expression hardened, eyes colder than steel. He expected resistance, perhaps even negotiations, but instead the White Devil showed contempt. Yet, just as the rage was about to explode, he sighed and shook his head, lowering his head.
The gesture of resignation seemed to delight the visitor. A gleam of glee flashed across that singular eye. To him, this was the sign of a weaker ruler, one who could be pushed, tested, and perhaps even dominated.
That arrogance was his mistake.
The instant his guard lowered, Vlad vanished.
Shock widened the White Devil’s eye. He twisted his body desperately, summoning his spear of searing radiance in time to intercept the death-flame sword that had appeared above him, descending with murderous intent.
The clash was brutal. Sparks of dark fire and radiant light scattered like meteors. Thanks to the steady flow of Origin Force from Sector 53’s Monolith, Vlad’s power had surged to the Half-Lord Tier. Even without Jormungandr’s fusion, he pressed down with strength enough to shatter mountains. His intent was clear—this was no test, no spar. He sought to kill.
The White Devil clenched his teeth, every muscle straining under the crushing pressure of Vlad’s wrath-fueled swing. Then, in a burst of radiance, his body dissolved into streams of light, reappearing above Vlad like lightning incarnate. The spear dropped faster than thought, descending upon Vlad’s skull.
No ordinary speed would have saved him. Yet space bent.
At the last possible instant, Vlad twisted aside, guided by the Law of Space. The spear struck his left shoulder instead of his head, shattering bone and drawing a fountain of blood. Pain lanced through him, but his right arm still moved, sword flashing upward in a counterstroke that carved a searing wound across the White Devil’s chest.
The intruder’s body broke once more into light, scattering across the sky. But not all of it returned. The streams tainted by Vlad’s death fire burned away to nothing, erased utterly.
Vlad’s gaze narrowed. This constitution was formidable—able to reforge itself from light, purge foreign energies, and move with terrifying speed. Losing fragments would take time to recover from, but it was a survival mechanism that would make killing the creature difficult.
Still, his intent did not waver. He raised his sword again, wrath radiating from his body, ready to end the fight.
Then the White Devil’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.
"I am Amur, envoy of Devil Lord Nebolex—Master of Sector Four of the Third Layer of Hell."
Vlad froze. His killing aura flickered. His eyes grew solemn.
The Devil Lords of the Third Layer were shrouded in mystery, their full power whispered of but rarely witnessed. Yet the top five were legends even in other planes, their might rivaling the Emperor of Graecia or the Empress of Valhalla. To lie about serving them would be suicide, so Vlad believed him.
But belief did not answer the greater question: why was such a being interested in him?
Amur, as if reading the thought, continued coldly.
"Sector Master Zialath had forged a pact with my master. Since you have slain her, the responsibilities of that pact now fall upon your shoulders."
Anywhere else, such logic would be absurd. Inheritance by murder? But this was Hell. Here, power dictated law. If a Devil Lord decreed that a killer inherited the victim’s debts, then so it was. Power made it truth.
Amur did not linger. A roll of parchment appeared in his hand, glowing with seals of infernal light. He tossed it toward Vlad.
"Here is the pact forged with Zialath. You will fulfill it."
Then his tone darkened, his single eye flashing with killing intent.
"Or do nothing, and ignore it."
The threat was left unspoken but clear: refusal would mean annihilation.
Without waiting for an answer, Amur turned and vanished into the distance, his body dissolving once more into radiance until the last mote of light disappeared beyond sight.
Vlad remained still, staring at the parchment in his hand. His face was a mask of calculation and complication. He had not come to Hell to be entangled in the schemes of Devil Lords. His mission had been clear: infiltrate, ascend, and find the hidden portal to the Zanis Homeworld. This interference was a storm he had not accounted for.
He exhaled slowly, lips curling into a rueful smile.
"If you want to make the universe laugh, just tell it your plans."
With that bitter truth, the True Depravita of Wrath turned and descended back into the throne room, the parchment heavy in his grip.