CHAPTER 864: RED SUN OF WRATH

"You... disgusting ants!"

The nightmare sky roared, its voice trembling with pure hatred and unrestrained rage. The mocking glee it had carried before was gone—burned away by the pressure crushing down upon it from within and without. The endless arrogance was replaced by the realization that the battlefield was slipping from its control.

It no longer had the luxury to jeer at their efforts. Now, its hideous expanse was being pierced—great holes ripped through its mass, so wide that the long-lost light of the sun managed to break through, spilling golden fire into the darkness. The devouring from inside its very essence was already driving it to the brink, and the relentless external barrage was draining its strength to a truly dangerous level—one it could not, and would not, allow.

"Insects... perish!"

With that roar, the nightmare’s form rippled like a storm-tossed sea, and from its endless, writhing surface emerged massive claws and warped, half-bone, half-flesh hands, each larger than the tallest towers of the Xaos Kingdom. They raked downward, striking at the forces below with catastrophic force. The impact shattered the ground, flattening battalions and even crushing Sages in a single blow.

The Xaos forces staggered under the sudden assault, shocked by its ferocity—but they did not break. Teeth clenched, their hearts burning with the will to survive, they resumed their offensive without hesitation. For every soldier who fell, another stepped forward, striking harder, fueled by grief and fury.

Above, Overlord and the True Depravitas in the sky answered in kind. They did not hesitate before burning their very life force, igniting themselves in blazes of power that pushed their strength to a higher realm. Each swung, lashed, and unleashed everything they had, obliterating as many of the mutated appendages as possible before they could reach the ground. This was no longer about survival—it was about holding the line long enough to achieve victory.

They had been prepared to die only moments ago, resigned to a final stand of defiance. Now, they gladly put their lives in jeopardy to seize the narrow chance before them. And so every single Xaos soldier fought without hesitation, their courage unshakable.

This defiance made the billions of eyes within the nightmare sky burn with fury. They needed their prey broken in spirit, trembling in terror, stripped of all will to fight. The nightmare’s nature demanded it. Despair was its feast; fear, its drink. Yet here, instead of cowering, they stood tall.

"Die, die, die!" the nightmare howled with frantic, almost animal hatred.

The battle unfolding in the real world took on the grandeur of a tale sung in the halls of heroes. Warriors blazed like suns against the dark, their weapons and magic clashing with a sky made of nightmares and oblivion. And unlike the fairy tales, there was no illusion here—death was real, blood soaked the earth, screams of agony mingled with cries of defiance. But even amid that slaughter, their will did not falter.

Within the nightmare universe, Vlad felt a measure of relief. Now that he was diverting much of the incoming psychic energy toward Freya, Jormungandr, Ouroboros, and Fafnir, the overwhelming pressure had lessened. It was still immense—enough to push the Depravita Moon to its limits—but it was manageable.

He had no idea what was happening outside, but the deep vibrations he sensed through the nightmare’s fabric told him the cohesion of the entity’s form was weakening. That could only mean one thing: the battle outside was fierce, and it was working.

Eyes blazing with will and determination, the True Depravita of Wrath continued his grim work—devouring every shred of psychic force and every single tormented soul trapped in the nightmare universe.

The Depravita Moon spun faster and faster, its radiance intensifying, its size growing by the heartbeat, inching ever closer to the next stage of evolution.

But the nightmare was far from finished.

The universe around Vlad shook violently. The next instant, massive waves of mutated flesh and rivers of dark blood surged toward the Moon. They folded over it, wrapping layer after layer, trying to suffocate its light.

If it crushed the Depravita Moon while it was still bound to Vlad’s existence, it could deal catastrophic damage that might force the nightmare entity into an eternal sleep. Yet, that was preferable to the nightmare’s own annihilation.

Inside the Moon, Vlad’s vision dimmed as the waves of flesh blotted out its light. The pressure mounted, threatening to choke the radiance out of existence. But he did not lose focus, nor did he allow panic to take root. His concentration was sharp, unyielding, as he continued to consume, to pull in, to claim everything the nightmare sent against him.

Wave after wave crashed into the Depravita Moon, so many that soon its light was fully smothered. The entity poured all its might into the effort, determined to end this before it was too late.

Then—just as it felt certain of success—cracks began to form in the cocoon of flesh. At first, they were hairline fractures, faint and scattered. But they spread rapidly, growing wider, spilling flashes of glorious obsidian and platinum light into the darkness.

The cracks split further. The cocoon trembled, and with a sound like the shattering of the world, it broke apart.

From the wreckage emerged not the silver light of the Moon... but something greater.

A majestic red sun burst forth, hanging in the void like the heart of a god. It did not burn with ordinary flame—its fire was wrath itself, given form. Its surface churned with storms of psychic power so intense that space itself seemed to warp around it. Every pulse of its radiance was a roar, every flare a battle cry.

Its light was not merely illumination—it was domination.

So immense was its brilliance that it tore through the boundaries of the nightmare universe, spilling into the real world. There, amid the chaos of battle, the warriors of the Xaos Kingdom paused for a heartbeat.

They looked up... and their breath caught.

The Red Sun blazed in the heavens, defying the nightmare sky, its crimson and gold fire bleeding into reality. Its presence alone drove the shadows back, filling their chests with renewed strength. Wounds hurt less. Weapons felt lighter. Even the fear in their hearts seemed to burn away under its gaze.

Within the nightmare universe, the entity stared at the Red Sun, and for the first time... it felt something alien in its own heart.

Horror.

"What... are you!?" it demanded, its voice shaking, not with rage, but with dread.

"I am the Red Sun of Wrath."

The words rang like a sentence passed by a judge older than time. And then, without warning, the Red Sun erupted.

Power—pure, annihilating power—poured forth in an all-consuming storm. A wave of psychic flames rolled out in every direction, so immense that they tore through the nightmare universe itself, sundering its fabric from within. Entire sections of its grotesque domain burned away, screaming as they dissolved into ash beneath the wrath-born fire.

The nightmare howled—not in defiance, but in agony.