Chapter 920: Vlad’s defeat
Hajack roared with all his power, generating a wave of energy that pushed the trio away, and then moved like a storm of fire and fury. His claws slashed with terrifying speed, each strike sharp enough to rend mountains. His wings snapped open and thrust forward like spears, stabbing through the air with crushing force, while flames bled from every wound across his body, coating the battlefield in an infernal blaze.
Vlad, Hazon, and Barkial fought with everything they had. Vlad darted across the field, teleporting in blurs of lightning, each strike of his sword warped by the laws of space itself. His blade would vanish from one angle and appear from another, carving rents in Hajack’s flesh.
The Devil Lords fought with a much more brutal and direct approach. Hazon fought head-on, his body swelling with raw muscle as his flaming claws hammered against the Demon Lord’s armored hide. Barkial struck from above and the flanks, his colossal machete whistling through the air, every swing powered by brute savagery, its edge chewing through flesh and stone alike.
Yet, Hajack endured. Every wound he received bled rivers of molten darkness, but none slowed him down.
The rest of the Devils dared not come close. They lingered at the edges of the battlefield, casting bursts of spells to harry Hajack from afar, but their attacks were little more than sparks against his overwhelming might. None of them wanted to step too close to the titanic clash in fear of being obliterated by stray blows.
The battle raged on with unrelenting violence. Vlad’s teleportation allowed him to stay alive, but even he was accumulating wounds: claw marks burned across his arms, blackened scorch lines traced his ribs, and blood seeped into his dark scales. Hazon’s claws dripped with his own ichor, cracked and burned as though they had raked across a star. Barkial’s hulking body was scarred with deep cuts, many of his bones shattered, and his flesh bleeding in sheets.
Hajack—though wounded before, though scarred by past battles—still held the upper hand. His movements were relentless, his power monstrous, as though every blow was backed by the abyss itself.
Exhaustion began to gnaw at both sides. Hajack’s flames burned hotter, licking across his frame in violent waves, while the trio’s bodies bore the marks of ruin—bruises, broken bones, and deep gashes. Still, they pressed forward. Their eyes met, and for a fleeting moment, there was no rivalry between Vlad and the Devil Lords. All three shared the same grim realization.
This was the true power of a superior Demon Lord. If not for the wounds Hajack had sustained before reaching this place, they might never have been able to hold their ground at all.
They were just preparing to hurl themselves back into the fray when all three froze.
From the distant horizon, the sky erupted. A swarm of divine light tore through the clouds, and then a barrage of god weapons screamed across the battlefield, faster than falling stars. Spears, swords, and daggers—each glowing with the radiance of Heaven—pierced the air, all aimed directly at Hajack.
The Demon Lord snarled and folded his wings across his massive frame in a desperate defense. A second later, the weapons struck.
The impact was like the sundering of worlds. Hajack’s body was hurled across the field, crashing through the ground and shattering the earth beneath him, until he was blasted directly into the colossal archway of demonic jaws that yawned open, leading deeper into the citadel.
He clenched his teeth, eyes flashing with uncharacteristic dread. He knew this power. He remembered the master of these weapons. With a snarl, Hajack turned and hurled himself through the maw. Facing the horrors within with enemies on the back was dangerous—but facing that being here was suicide.
Vlad and the Devil Lords exchanged shocked looks. For the first time, they had seen terror etched across the Demon Lord’s face.
And then they understood why.
A radiant figure descended, a manifestation of light and judgment. His wings unfurled like banners of purity, each feather dripping with divine radiance. His presence seemed to rise above the firmament itself, a being who looked down not just on Devils and Demons, but on reality itself.
Vlad’s thoughts raced. "He’s just as powerful as Alexandro."
The Archangel Metatron raised his hand. The sky split open with golden portals.
Another barrage of god weapons poured forth, this time aimed at the trio of Vlad, Hazon, and Barkial.
The weapons rained like divine meteors. Hazon roared, his claws igniting in infernal fire, swiping through the first spear to come near him. Barkial swung his massive machete, shattering a sword of golden steel. But they were too slow, too large. A storm of divine blades punched through their flesh, tearing open bloody wounds and blasting their hulking bodies into the air like ragdolls.
Their massive forms had become their greatest weakness. Against Metatron’s precision and overwhelming force, size was nothing but a burden.
Vlad, smaller and faster, fought desperately. His body blurred with teleportation, slipping between strikes, redirecting space to deflect blades. Each time his sword clashed with one of the divine weapons, the shock reverberated through his bones, threatening to shatter them. Blood poured from his arms, but still he endured.
And that resistance drew Metatron’s gaze.
The Archangel’s eyes glowed, cold and merciless.
The barrage doubled in speed. The weapons struck faster than thought, faster than space itself could bend.
Vlad’s teleportation failed him. His chest exploded in pain as the first blade pierced him, then another ripped through his shoulder, then another impaled his skull.
The True Depravita of Wrath was hurled into the distance, his broken body nailed to the ground by divine steel.
Only then did Metatron move.
He walked with divine indifference, stepping past the bleeding Devil Lords without even a glance. To him, they were beneath notice, gnats unworthy of his time. His focus was on Hajack.
Behind him followed Emanon, silent and deferential, a shadow of menace dressed in elegance. His posture was one of a servant, his gaze lowered. Yet as they passed, his masked eyes flicked once toward Vlad’s impaled body. Something glimmered there, before he followed his master into the demonic maw.
The Legendary Devils were paralyzed by horror as the Archangel’s figure vanished into the abyssal maw. He had stood upon the battlefield for less than three seconds, yet that brief span was enough to etch his presence into their very souls. His power was not merely seen; it was felt, engraved into their essence like a scar that would never fade.
Though Metatron had not targeted them directly, the stray god-forged weapons that passed by the Devil Lords and Vlad had torn into their ranks. Some Devils were shredded to bloody mist, others left screaming with limbs torn away. The stench of scorched flesh and holy radiance still lingered in the air, mocking their frailty.
The Sector Masters themselves were left shaken. For all their might and arrogance, they now felt small, insignificant, stripped of certainty. How could they fight such an absolute force?
The True Depravitas and Overlord had also been caught in the collateral storm, but unlike the weaker Devils, they endured. Their bodies bore wounds, but their stares were steady, cold. Instinctively, their eyes turned toward Vlad.
Shortly after Metatron vanished within the citadel’s gaping jaws, the countless weapons of light dissolved into golden dust, scattering like fading stars across the battlefield. And then came the sound as Vlad’s body struck the ground.
Of the trio who had faced Metatron’s wrath, Vlad had taken the worst of it. Hazon and Barkial writhed in agony, rolling across the broken earth, but still clinging to life. Hazon’s right arm was nothing more than a mangled ruin, burned to ash from shoulder to wrist. Barkial’s chest bore a gaping crater, large enough to fit a fist through, his breath wheezing in broken rasps.
It took them a moment to rise, swaying like shadows of themselves. Their gazes hardened as they turned toward Vlad. The thought was unspoken but shared in silence: they were wounded, and to recover, they needed life—flesh, blood, essence. A corpse brimming with vitality. Vlad’s broken body would be the perfect feast. He had already been slain, pierced through brain and heart by divine weapons. Who would question them if they consumed him now?
But before either Devil Lord could move, before they could even agree on which of them would claim the first bite, a sound cut through the silence.
A heartbeat.
The Devils froze, eyes wide. That pulse echoed again, deep and steady, like thunder in their ears. Shock dawned across their faces as they watched Vlad stir.
His body twitched, then rose. The holes in his chest and skull closed as organs knitted together, veins rethreading in a grotesque yet mesmerizing display. Flesh mended, bones reformed, and with unnatural speed the wounds vanished, leaving only faint traces as if they had never existed.
Vlad stood upright, his expression dark. His eyes flicked toward Hazon and Barkial, and he saw the hunger in their gaze—their intent to devour him like carrion. He had not wished to reveal this part of himself, his regenerative abilities laid bare for all to witness. But survival left him no choice.
Yet, even that revelation was secondary to the shadow looming in his mind. The Archangel was one thing—a being of raw holy destruction—but the figure beside him, the butler draped in elegance and menace, was something else entirely. That aura... it was wrong, too familiar.
It was something tied to the Nightmare Universe itself.