Chapter 912: The corruption of a Primordial God?
"What are you after?" one of the Devils finally asked, voicing the suspicion that had been weighing on them all.
Vlad did not make them wait. "I am a Master of the Law of Space. What I need are treasures, books, or phenomena that I can study—things that will help me deepen my mastery."
As he spoke, a meaningful light flickered in his eyes. He could not openly search for a portal leading to the Zanis Homeworld—that would only draw suspicion. Instead, he asked for anything related to the Law of Space. A gateway strong enough to connect Hell to the vast cosmos would inevitably generate strange anomalies, distortions, or spatial phenomena. By gathering reports and knowledge of such occurrences across the Third Layer, he hoped to narrow the possibilities and uncover the portal’s true location.
None of the Devils found his request unusual. Vlad’s combat style was clearly rooted in the manipulation of space. Soon, an exchange began between his group and the others. Carcasses of slain beasts were traded for fragments of information, maps marked with anomalies, and treasures imbued with space-aligned energy. By the time the bartering ended, Vlad had parted with nearly all the spoils he had reaped in battle. To some it seemed foolish—the trades looked uneven, almost as if the others were cheating him—but the True Depravita of Wrath showed no concern.
After all, what did it matter? When this expedition ended, there was every chance he would slaughter them all and claim everything they had hoarded.
Their journey continued.
Again and again they encountered packs of mutated beasts, twisted into forms of nightmare. Each one bristled with energy and vitality uniquely beneficial to Devils. The hunting was brutal, but each kill swelled the group’s strength. Vlad continued his trades after every skirmish, exchanging his trophies for knowledge. Piece by piece, he was assembling a map of patterns, strange distortions in reality—clues pointing toward what he truly sought.
After four and a half days of endless fighting and marching, their eyes sharpened as a colossal structure rose into view. Even the towering Hazon looked small before it.
It was a pyramid, impossibly vast, its black stone sides cracked and worn with age. A gaping hole yawned in its flank, as though some great force had torn it open. Time had battered it into ruin, yet still it loomed with an aura of dread.
"Inside," Hazon commanded immediately. Any structure, no matter how decrepit, might hold information about this realm. And information meant a step closer to the corpse of the Primordial God.
The Devils obeyed, but the moment they passed the threshold, frowns appeared on every face—even Hazon’s.
An unseen force pressed in, veiling their senses, shrouding their awareness. Consciousness itself seemed muted. They could barely perceive beyond the glow of their own bodies. Darkness coiled around them, heavy and suffocating.
Only Vlad’s senses pierced the veil. The A.I. Chip within his mind had long surpassed the level of ordinary perception. It cut through the shroud with ease, mapping every detail. But he betrayed nothing, keeping his expression unreadable as he followed the group.
The pyramid was no simple ruin—it was a temple, a sacred ground.
Faded murals and inscriptions lined the walls, carved in jagged, flowing symbols. At first, they depicted offerings of harmony and plenty—golden harvests, radiant fruit from celestial trees, and treasures of light given freely to a towering figure, the Primordial Lord. But as they advanced deeper, the scenes shifted.
The offerings grew darker, crueler. Blood replaced fruit. Screams replaced hymns. The figures no longer brought gifts with devotion but were dragged in chains, bound in agony, their bodies carved apart as they were thrown into sacrificial pits.
What began as a temple of harmony had become a sanctuary of blood and terror.
The Devils glanced at the murals but showed little interest. To them, such rituals were natural. Power always demanded a price, and blood was the oldest coin.
But Vlad frowned.
For a Primordial God, such a drastic shift in essence was unnatural. Their natures were usually fixed—embodiments of fundamental Laws. To twist from harmony to carnage so utterly was not merely odd; it should have been impossible. Something here defied all precedent.
Before he could ponder further, the A.I. Chip chimed in his mind.
[Warning: hostile lifeforms detected ahead.]
Vlad gave no outward sign but subtly transmitted a signal to Ouroboros and Freya, ensuring they were ready.
Hazon strode at the front, his molten aura burning away the creeping darkness as best it could. But when they reached the end of the hall, he froze. His massive body tensed, eyes widening.
From the shadows stepped a monstrous warlord.
The figure towered even larger than Hazon. His molten-crimson skin was stretched taut over rippling muscles, jagged horns curling like the crown of a beast forged in hellfire. His maw glowed from within, light spilling through serrated teeth like the forge of a demon-smith. His chest was torn open—not with a wound, but as if by design. Within was no flesh, but a furnace of fire, lined with gnashing, blood-soaked teeth that devoured the very air.
In one clawed hand he gripped a cleaver larger than a fortress wall, its chipped edge blackened by the blood of countless butchered foes. His tail lashed, cracking stone, while his clawed feet gouged furrows into the floor as he advanced.
And he was not alone. Behind him marched an entourage, a delegation of lesser horrors. Their aura mirrored the discipline and structure of a Devil Lord’s court.
But it was the figure himself that froze every Devil in their tracks.
This was no beast.
This was a Demon Lord.
The realization struck like a hammer. For an instant even Hazon faltered.
The Demon Lord’s eyes blazed with chaotic hunger, and though shock lingered on his features, his savage instincts drove him forward. With a roar, he raised his massive cleaver and brought it crashing down.
The blade tore through the air with a sound like the sundering of worlds.
Hazon had no time to react. The strike carved into his chest, cleaving through molten scales and armor, spilling rivers of glowing blood across the floor.