CHAPTER 753: ALEXANDER, THE WHITE DEATH

Waiting outside the Travel Agency was an old man with a bald head and calm, ancient eyes. Dressed in a simple white robe, there was nothing particularly flashy about his appearance—no ornate sigils or divine artifacts—yet the moment Vlad’s gaze met his, a shiver ran through him.

It felt like standing before a cosmic ocean so vast and deep that no end could be seen. The sheer weight of his presence pressed down on Vlad’s soul, making him clench his fists involuntarily.

"Lord Cesar..." Konstantine’s voice broke the silence, his tone low and respectful as he performed a deep bow. That alone was enough to tell Vlad everything he needed to know—this old man held immense power and status within the Graecia Empire.

Vlad, though unsure of Cesar’s exact identity, wisely followed suit and bowed as well.

The old man’s expression remained serene, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he nodded in acknowledgment. He gestured gracefully for the two men to rise, his attention shifting toward Vlad.

"Duke Xaos," Cesar spoke with calm authority, "my brother summons you. Please accompany me."

Vlad’s brow furrowed in confusion. His brother? The request only deepened the mystery. Before he could seek clarification from Konstantine, Vlad caught the shock and awe in the Kylon King’s expression—eyes wide, breath held.

Before Vlad could ask a single question, Cesar was already rising into the sky, his robes fluttering as he moved with effortless grace. With little choice, Vlad followed.

It was clear they were heading toward one of the Sacred Kingdoms, the floating domains of the Graecia elite. Yet as they ascended, a feeling of awe and tension grew within Vlad—one that intensified with every meter gained.

Then he saw it.

The apex of Constantinopla, the Sacred Kingdom that stood above all others—a colossal structure of white marble, radiant and seemingly carved from the clouds themselves. This was the highest point in the empire, where only the most exalted could tread.

"Could his brother be..." A thought formed in Vlad’s mind, almost too audacious to speak aloud. He couldn’t look away from Cesar, unable to shake the suspicion building within him.

They landed on the kingdom’s surface—an expanse of pristine marble streets, edged with flowing streams of light and surrounded by ethereal clouds.

As they walked forward, Vlad’s senses were bombarded by countless powerful auras. Some radiated strength comparable to Superior Legends, yet none dared approach. Every figure they passed either bowed deeply or stepped aside, ensuring Cesar’s path was undisturbed.

The halls they passed were lined with wonders: frozen phenomena encased in crystal, ancient relics that seemed to pulse with forgotten power, and artifacts that made even Vlad, seasoned by the Doomsday World, pause in awe.

Finally, after several minutes, they reached a massive gate—so large that a giant could have walked through without ducking. The craftsmanship was flawless, the surface engraved with shifting patterns that seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the universe itself.

Cesar stopped, turning to Vlad with a small, knowing smile.

"You must go on alone from here, young man. Good luck."

Without another word, the old man turned and walked away, leaving Vlad standing before the colossal gate.

For a brief moment, Vlad felt a flicker of hesitation. He knew who waited on the other side. He, who had shattered worlds, butchered Lords, and stood atop a quadrillion souls.

Vlad had never feared charging headfirst into battle, even against overwhelming odds. He had stormed the Voidheart Fortress, had battled the Superior Angel with unrelenting fury. Yet, standing before these gates, he felt an uncharacteristic weight settle over him.

Still, he took a deep breath, his will sharpening like a blade. His eyes glinted with renewed determination as he stepped forward. The gates opened on their own, a pulse of divine power sweeping through the air as they parted.

Light flooded the room, blinding and pure. For a moment, Vlad’s vision faltered, unable to adjust to the overwhelming radiance. But soon, the brightness receded, and he could see.

At the center of the chamber sat a man on a throne carved from what appeared to be a single piece of radiant crystal. The throne pulsed faintly, as if alive.

His figure was striking—his presence was an amalgamation of raw power and supernatural grace. His armor resembled an organic exoskeleton, sleek and segmented, predominantly silver-white with glowing blue accents coursing through its seams like rivers of energy.

The armor’s texture radiated a terrifying aura—Vlad could sense the essence of the Vorometallicae and the Demon Race infused into its very fibers, harvested from the corpses of supreme powerhouses from The Darkness.

There was no doubt. This was a man who had not merely fought against the greatest monsters of the universe—he had butchered them and made their remains part of his power.

His hair was short and spiked, flowing upward like ethereal flames, glowing faintly with an energy that seemed to crackle in the air. His eyes burned with an intense, vibrant blue, their gaze sharp, fierce, and unwavering. His features were chiseled and commanding, yet there was a cold, distant edge to them, as if the weight of countless lives rested upon his shoulders.

Surrounding him was a swirling, white-blue flame-like aura—an energy not generated by his will, but rather a reaction of the universe itself to the sheer, overwhelming force of his existence.

Vlad felt a cold sweat on his brow. This was power beyond comprehension.

"Come," His voice echoed—not loud, yet it reverberated through the room, resonating deep within Vlad’s soul. For a moment, he felt his legs move of their own accord, as if compelled by some cosmic force.

But then, with a surge of willpower, Vlad forced himself to stop. His eyes sharpened, a fierce glint of defiance flashing through them. He stood his ground.

The man’s gaze narrowed slightly, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He gave a subtle nod, acknowledging Vlad’s resistance. Then he spoke again, his voice calm yet commanding.

"Come."

This time, there was no ethereal compulsion, no supernatural weight—just the simple, absolute authority of a man who ruled an empire.

Vlad took a deep breath, steadied his mind, and stepped forward. He approached until he stood ten meters away from the throne, then knelt, head bowed.

"Duke Xaos humbly salutes the Graecia Emperor—Alexander, the White Death."

Alexander stared at him for several seconds, his eyes unreadable, before giving a faint nod. His voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Hero of Wrath. Slayer of Vorometallcae. Care to tell me your goal in Valhalla?"