CHAPTER 458: HOLLOW VEIN XXII

The abyss shook as the figure finally stepped forward—not just a sea of chains, but a titan, a nightmare armed with blades, spears, and flails forged from its endless links.

Its first strike came without warning—a chain-blade sweeping wide enough to cleave a world.

Asher charged to meet it, his scythe blazing crimson. Dominion clashed against iron, the shockwave ripping the pit apart. The chain twisted mid-strike, snapping back at his flank, but he spun with it, rivers of bloodlight corroding it into rust.

The titan pressed closer. A hammer and spear fell together—one overhead, one for his chest. Asher caught the spear with a wall of blood and split the hammer apart with an upward carve, shredding its fragments with a spiral of Dominion.

Still, the figure advanced. Its chains wove into a colossal greatsword, swung with the force of the abyss itself.

"BREAK," its voices roared.

Asher didn’t flinch. He leapt into the strike, scythe blazing in a flood of bloodlight.

"If you want my blood to break—"

Steel met crimson, the sword cracking, corroded from within.

"—then drown in it!"

The weapon shattered, but the titan unleashed more—tens of thousands of chains surging like a tidal wave to bury him.

The abyss bent under their weight.

Asher only smiled, cloak flaring, veins burning like lightning.

"Good. Then I’ll cut every last one of you."

The storm descended. And he swung.

The clash was apocalyptic.

The storm of chains slammed down like the fall of a thousand worlds, each link carrying enough force to level mountains. The abyss buckled, fissures racing through its endless stone ribs. The air itself shredded under the weight of so many strikes.

But Asher was no longer fighting link by link—he was fighting the abyss itself.

His scythe became the eye of a crimson tempest, each swing carving rivers of bloodlight that tore through swaths of chains. Dominion poured from him in surges, his veins blazing brighter with every cut. Where chains struck, they corroded, melted, or shattered, collapsing into heaps of rust before they ever touched his flesh.

Still, for every wave he broke, another followed, thicker, heavier, endless.

The titan roared, its countless mouths shrieking in one terrible harmony:

"SUBMIT. DROWN. BE UNMADE."

The chains wove tighter, not just striking but forming—a cage around the storm itself, layer upon layer meant to suffocate him.

Asher’s boots dug into the abyss floor, cracks spiderwebbing beneath his stance. He gritted his teeth, cloak flaring like a sea of fire, and raised his voice to match the storm:

"My blood doesn’t submit!"

He slammed the butt of his scythe into the ground. A pulse erupted, Dominion tearing through the abyss floor. Rivers of crimson split outward in all directions, bursting through the cage as if the pit itself had been struck by veins of living fire.

The chains shrieked as they snapped. The titan staggered, its arsenal faltering for the first time.

Asher moved before it could recover. His body blurred in a surge of bloodlight, scythe carving a spiraling path straight through the densest wall of iron. Chains exploded in showers of sparks and ash as he cut a line toward the titan’s core.

The figure raised a thousand weapons to intercept—spears, swords, hooks, blades crashing down in a single storm meant to erase him mid-charge.

But Asher didn’t slow. His veins burned hotter, his Dominion rising past its limit. The scythe howled with him, its edge no longer just steel, but a flood made solid, a crimson tide bound to his will.

He roared into the abyss, meeting the storm head-on:

"BLOOD—CUTS—ALL!"

And his strike fell.

The abyss split.

Asher’s scythe came down like judgment, its arc not a blade but a river unleashed—an unending surge of crimson force. The storm of weapons met it head-on, thousands of chains crashing in a single instant.

The impact tore the pit apart.

Shockwaves ripped through the abyss, snapping ribs of stone in half. Entire sections of the void collapsed inward, swallowed by the chasm’s hunger. The titan staggered as its arsenal shattered under the flood, blades screaming into fragments, spears dissolving, hooks and flails bursting into clouds of rust that scattered into the dark.

But Asher didn’t stop with the clash—he drove through it. His scythe carved a spiral cleave that didn’t end, cutting deeper and deeper, straight through the titan’s colossal chest. Bloodlight cascaded in his wake, rivers burning like fire across its flesh.

The figure reeled back, hundreds of mouths erupting in a cacophony of pain, fury, and defiance. Its chains snapped and writhed like severed nerves, lashing wildly across the abyss in desperation.

Asher burst through the other side of its massive body, cloak flaring in a storm of red. He landed light, boots digging into the abyss floor, blood dripping down his jaw but his gaze sharp as steel.

The titan clutched at its gaping wound, black ichor pouring in torrents. Its voices overlapped in a frenzy:

"YOU TEAR—YET STILL—WE ARE ENDLESS—"

Its colossal frame convulsed. From the wound, new chains sprouted—thousands more, weaving themselves into crude organs, ribs, and veins, rebuilding what he had destroyed. In moments, the hole was gone, replaced by a writhing mass of reforged links.

The titan’s eyes burned brighter than ever, its voice shaking the abyss:

"IF BLOOD CUTS ALL—THEN WE SHALL BE ALL CHAINS!"

Its entire body dissolved. What had been a titan became an ocean—an endless tide of chains, pouring in every direction until there was no figure, no shape, only an abyss filled entirely with blades, hooks, and spears.

The pit became its weapon.

And Asher stood at the center, cloak snapping in the storm, scythe gripped tight, veins blazing brighter than ever. His lips curled into a sharp grin.

"Then I’ll drown your ocean in mine."

And his blood surged once more, Dominion roaring outward as he launched himself into the living sea of chains.

The abyss convulsed as the two oceans collided—iron and blood, abyssal tide against crimson flood. Chains shrieked as they struck, each link like a blade, spear, or whip, all driving inward to tear Asher apart. But every strike that reached him dissolved, corroded into flakes of rust as his Dominion devoured them. His blood wasn’t just defense—it was hunger, just as endless as the storm it faced.

He carved through the tide, his scythe a burning crescent, every swing birthing arcs of bloodlight that split the sea into rivers. Chains wrapped around him in nets, walls, and cages, layering upon themselves to crush him from every side—but he spun into them, cloak flaring, veins glowing with the radiance of his will. Rust bled outward in every direction, whole sections of the ocean collapsing into heaps of ash as his flood consumed their strength.