CHAPTER 938: BACK TO HELL

The True Depravitas and Overlord exchanged glances, their eyes heavy with thought. Each was searching the other for an answer, a spark of strategy that could solve the impossible problem before them. But no matter how hard they reached, no simple solution emerged.

Killing the Dream of Madness was out of the question. Even the strongest attack unleashed by Metatron—an Archangel burning his very life force—had only managed to break the monster’s right claw. Nothing more. Against that kind of endurance, their combined strength was less than an insect’s bite.

Taking the tomb with them was equally impossible. It was not merely a structure; it was embedded into the very essence of the dimension, fused with the Laws of space and time themselves. To uproot it would require power beyond their imagination—power none of them possessed.

For several long minutes the group argued, proposing plans only to discard them, frustration mounting as each idea fell apart. Then Jormungandr’s eyes glowed with a dangerous light. The small yellow cat spoke, his voice sharp and deliberate.

"What if... we collapse this dimension?"

The others froze. Slowly, one by one, their gazes turned toward him. Curiosity flared, mingled with a new kind of hope.

Jormungandr continued, his voice growing steadier as he felt the weight of their attention. "We cannot defeat the Dream of Madness. We cannot take the tomb with us. So let us make it unreachable. If we collapse this dimension, the rules of space and time will fracture. The tomb will fall into a maelstrom of chaos and broken Laws. It will remain, but trapped in a storm of instability, impossible to access without immense preparation."

Silence followed—but only for a heartbeat. Then understanding dawned in the eyes of the others, and wide smiles broke across their bloodied faces.

It was not a perfect victory. Emanon and his kind would never give up on freeing the Dream of Madness. With such a being as an ally, their campaign to drown creation in chaos would advance a hundredfold. But the tomb was not something one could simply smash open. It required a precise ritual, fueled by the living blood of Heaven, Hell, and Abyss. If the dimension itself were shattered, if the fabric of its Laws dissolved into chaos, then their enemies would first need to stabilize the maelstrom before even attempting to open the tomb.

That would take time. And time was something Vlad and the others desperately needed.

Overlord’s voice, calm and sharp as a blade, cut through their thoughts. "We must work quickly. The summoning draws near."

The words brought a collective sigh from the Depravitas. Victory always seemed to come with a fresh burden. Even after surviving the tomb, outlasting Metatron, and defeating Hajack and Orous, they were not yet free.

Nebolex awaited them.

The Master of Sector Four—the one who had sent them here to capture the corpse of a Primordial God. He had branded them with a seal, a chain that would drag them back to Hell when the Third Realm and the Sacred Dimension were aligned once more. Once they returned, they would have to answer for their so-called failure.

But failure was inevitable. There had been no corpse, only the tomb of a cosmic horror whose awakening would burn empires to ash. No argument, no explanation, however perfect, would change what Nebolex chose to believe.

Best case: he would accept their words and still condemn them, reducing them to slaves as punishment. Worst case: he would not believe them at all, and pry open their minds and souls, tearing truth from them piece by piece.

Neither fate could be accepted.

Fortunately, Vlad had prepared for this. From the moment the Sector Master had ordered them into the sacred dimension, the True Depravita of Wrath had planned contingencies.

"I have a way," Vlad said at last, his voice low but unshakably certain. "We will free ourselves from Nebolex’s chains—and reach the portal to the Zanis Homeworld without obstruction."

Relief and trust flickered in the others’ eyes. Vlad did not speak without certainty. If he said escape was possible, then they believed him.

For now, they turned back to the task at hand.

Overlord’s eyes glowed with streams of shifting code as he raised his hand. The Nightmare Universe overhead rippled like an ocean of stars and shadows. Five vast tendrils descended, brushing against the Depravitas. At once, vitality and psychic power surged into their veins, flooding their broken bodies with renewal.

The Nightmare Universe was not merely a weapon. It was a reservoir of power—an abyss that stored life force and psychic energy in endless quantities. And it gave freely to those Overlord chose.

The healing was not quick. For three full days they remained on the trembling ground of the collapsing dimension, their bodies knitting back together, their souls reforging themselves in fire and shadow. Pain was constant, but so too was growth.

At last, strength returned. Power ignited within them once more. One by one they rose, their eyes gleaming with predatory sharpness. No words were needed. A simple nod was enough to bind their resolve.

Vlad and Overlord led the way, guiding the group toward the dimension’s nexus points—the hidden seams where the Laws of space converged. Only Vlad’s mastery of the Law of Space and Overlord’s ability to analyze infinite streams of cause and effect in real time had made it possible to uncover these fragile spots.

They were invisible to the untrained eye, guarded by layers of natural protection. But once revealed, they could be broken.

And broken they were.

Strike after strike rained down upon the nexus points. Each blow sent tremors through the dimension. The land cracked and buckled, canyons tearing themselves into existence. The sky splintered like a dome of glass, fragments of reality drifting in every direction.

The Depravitas worked without pause, pushing their strength to the limit, each attack carving deeper into the fabric of the realm. The trembling grew with every heartbeat, the unstable Laws groaning as they unraveled.

Finally, just as the day of their summoning drew near, their work bore fruit. The entire dimension shook violently, its foundations breaking apart. The end had come.

Within hours, the realm would implode, collapsing into a storm of chaos where up and down, forward and backward, left and right, would lose all meaning. The tomb would remain—but it would be buried in a maelstrom so vast and broken that reaching it would demand power, ritual, and sacrifice far beyond even Emanon’s current means.

The True Depravitas could feel it—the faint threads of energy left by Nebolex’s seal beginning to stir, resonating like chains rattling in the distance. Overlord alone was unaffected. His own bindings had been obliterated with the destruction of his Divine Avatar, and now his new Archangel vessel was invisible to Nebolex’s senses. That detail was crucial to Vlad’s plan, the hidden dagger they would carry into the Devil Lord’s court.

Their expressions hardened, solemn as stone. A plan was one thing, but they all understood the danger of what lay ahead. They were about to confront a Sector Master in his own domain, where his strength would be magnified by his Infernal Monolith. To fight a Devil Lord in Hell itself was like striking at a storm from within its heart.

...

Far away, within the throne room of Sector Three in the Third Layer of Hell, Nebolex prepared. His aura surged in mounting waves, rising ever stronger as he reached across the gulf of reality to connect with the Sacred Dimension.

The effort demanded power in unimaginable quantities. Nebolex’s presence rippled through every corner of the third sector, shaking walls, rattling chains, and making lesser demons collapse in terror. But the Devil Lord was relentless. With a snarl, he tore open the portal, his awareness piercing through the fragile fabric between realms until his will latched onto the seals he himself had branded.

Then he paused.

A deep frown creased his features. "Strange. I could have sworn there were five seals an hour ago. Now... only one remains."

For a moment, his mind turned over the possibilities. The tomb had been deadly, yes, a trap of madness and godly remnants. Losses were expected. But for four seals to vanish just as his servants prepared to return? That was peculiar.

The darkness of his thoughts coiled tighter.

And then he smiled.

"He doesn’t want to share."

The answer, to him, was obvious. In his Devil’s logic, betrayal was not a flaw—it was ambition. One of his pawns had slain the others, eager to seize glory, rewards, and recognition for himself. It was the kind of ruthlessness Nebolex admired. After all, Hell’s hierarchy was not built on loyalty, but on clawing higher over the corpses of rivals and comrades.

Content with his conclusion, the Devil Lord wasted no more time pondering. He inhaled, his lungs drawing in the stench of brimstone and despair. Then he exhaled, unleashing his aura in a cataclysmic wave. The throne room trembled as his will poured through the seal, a torrent of infernal might dragging its bearer into his presence.

Flames bent inward. Shadows shrieked.

The summoning completed.

A figure now stood before the Devil Lord. Nebolex’s grin widened, expecting to see a scarred, bloodstained survivor—some ruthless devil whose hunger had driven him to murder his comrades.

Instead, his smile froze.

What appeared was no groveling pawn, but a young man with four eyes gleaming across his forehead. In his hands was a sword drenched in the essence of death and destruction itself, radiating a suffocating aura of slaughter. His stance carried no hesitation, no deference. Only pure, sharpened killing intent.

The throne room fell silent, as if Hell itself were holding its breath.

And then the young man moved.

The blade came down in a stroke meant not intimidation, but execution.