CHAPTER 943: INTO THE PIT OF THE DARK DIMENSION

Alexandro and Pompeyo launched at each other with killing intent that shook the firmament. One spear, bathed in white flames, embodied the inexorable truth of all things—entropy, decay, and collapse into nothingness. The other spear, radiant with golden light, carried the might of creation itself, a weapon capable of sundering moons and shattering stars with a single thrust.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"

The explosion from their first clash was cataclysmic. The ground beneath them pulverized into dust and ash. The sky itself cracked apart, chunks of torn firmament falling into nothingness like broken glass drifting in the void.

The Patriarch of the Zanis Family had been enhanced by his dark Master, his flesh and spirit reforged into something beyond his former self. Here, on the surface of the Zanis Homeworld, Pompeyo could channel overwhelming quantities of Origin Power, magnifying his might to nearly twice what he had possessed in the Void Between Worlds.

But he was not the only one who had grown stronger.

Alexandro, the White Death, was a man whose very essence resonated with entropy. His Laws were not those of growth, order, or creation—they were the Laws of collapse, of endings, of the inevitable death of all things. Through years of war, oceans of slaughter, and entire worlds laid waste, he had steeped himself deeper into entropy’s core.

The destruction he left behind, the countless lives reduced to ash, all refined his strength, and his journey through the Zanis Homeworld became a catalyst that pushed his mind and soul to a state of enlightenment. The White Death had become so attuned to entropy’s origin that his white flames now reached a height capable of contending with the top-tier Lords of Hell and the Abyss themselves.

The two powers smashed together, equal and opposite, neither willing to retreat. Their arms trembled as they pushed forward, their auras exploding, turning everything around them into a furnace of destruction. Finally, the clash birthed a spark between their weapons, and that spark ignited into a devastating eruption. The air split apart. Cosmic energies whirled outward, cascading like tidal waves of flame and lightning. The two were blasted away, sent hurtling through the air, crashing into mountains, ripping canyons across the earth.

And yet—less than a second later—they rose again.

Both men blurred into the sky, bodies streaking as beams of light. The battlefield trembled as the duel resumed.

Pompeyo struck first. His golden spear whistled through the air with a force that made the earth itself shriek. Each thrust carried the vitality of his world, the life essence of countless souls funneled into pure kinetic might. His movements shattered space with every swing, each strike detonating shockwaves strong enough to level fortresses.

Alexandro moved like a phantom. His body blurred, phasing in and out of existence as entropy itself unraveled the fabric of space around him. His spear flowed like water but struck like death itself—sapping motion, crumbling strength, eroding Pompeyo’s raw power bit by bit. Where Pompeyo was a raging tide of creation, Alexandro was the eternal undertow, dragging all back into silence.

Pompeyo lunged forward with a spear strike infused with the life of his planet. The earth beneath him cracked into a thousand shards. Alexandro pivoted, his white flames swirling like a spiral of decay, and parried with entropy’s bite. Their spears slid past one another, each forcing the other to twist and recoil. Sparks of gold and white cascaded into the sky, glowing like falling stars.

In a heartbeat, they had exchanged hundreds of blows. Every clash annihilated the land further. Storms of raw energy consumed the battlefield. To mortal eyes, they would appear as two streaks of destruction colliding again and again, too fast to comprehend.

Though it took long words to describe, all these strikes—each deadly exchange—happened in the span of less than a single second.

From the rubble of the mountain he had been hurled into, Vlad dragged himself free, blood drying on his lips. He could barely keep his footing as he lifted his gaze toward the duel above. What he saw filled him with awe.

He had grown immensely powerful—through the Third Layer of Hell, through the devouring of sectors and their Origin Power, through battles that pushed him beyond his limits. Yet as he watched Alexandro’s might, Vlad realized there was still a chasm between him and the White Death.

"He is not yet at Metatron’s level," Vlad admitted inwardly, "but the potential of those white flames... it is not lesser than the Heaven’s Gate itself."

The True Depravita of Wrath could not help but admire the raw majesty of entropy made manifest. Still, there was no time to linger on marvels. His sharp eyes turned downward as the scorched ground cracked open further, releasing what lay beneath.

From the gargantuan pit at the heart of the Zanis Homeworld emerged the alien Lord—an eldritch entity birthed from the dark dimension. Its skull-like face grinned inside a cage of bone, and its elongated claws twitched with anticipation.

As it rose, hundreds of thousands of nightmare creatures poured out in its wake, filling the battlefield like a living tide of locusts. A wave of corruption surged outward, carrying agony and madness.

The alien Lord turned its gaze briefly to the battle in the distance—the duel of Alexandro and Pompeyo—before its attention snapped toward Vlad.

"ARRGGRHRHREJEJHE!"

The psychic scream tore across the battlefield. Agony and horror poured directly into the mind, but Vlad grit his teeth, his aura flaring. The monster lunged at him, claws extended, bone spike aimed directly at his skull. Behind it, the swarm surged forward like a storm cloud ready to devour his very existence.

But then the sky lit up.

Hundreds of thousands of dazzling lights flared overhead, bolts of radiant energy falling like rain into the monstrous swarm. Explosions erupted, shaking the world as swaths of abominations were incinerated in the bombardment. The forces of the Graecia Empire had finally arrived on the ultimate battlefield of the Zanis Homeworld.

Sages clad in radiant armor, Legends wielding weapons that glowed with divine inscriptions, and entire divisions of war-machines soared across the sky. Each radiated killing intent, each resolved to give their lives to end this nightmare once and for all.

The alien Lord recoiled, blocking the storm of artillery with its grotesque wings. But still it pressed forward, lunging toward Vlad with unstoppable momentum. Its bone spear arced downward—

And was stopped cold.

A radiant glaive, blazing with divine power, cleaved into the alien Lord’s chest and forced the monstrosity back with a howl.

From the glow stepped a figure draped in imperial light, Altharion, Crown Prince of the Graecia Empire. His aura shone with the pride of his dynasty, his eyes set firmly on the enemy.

Vlad’s eyes narrowed as his focus sharpened on Altharion. He could feel it—the Crown Prince’s aura had risen immensely, echoing the might of his father.

The young heir no longer lingered at the bottom of the Lord Tier; his strength had grown formidable, more than enough to contend with many of the Lords of Hell or the Abyss. But the opponent before him was no ordinary fiend or tyrant. The alien Lord was something far worse—an entity born from a kind that could manipulate the supreme rulers of Hell, Abyss, and even Heaven as though they were pawns upon a board.

Its uniqueness was immediately displayed. The massive gash Altharion’s glaive had carved into its chest began to seal with terrifying speed, flesh knitting together as if cancerous cells were multiplying endlessly to repair the wound. In mere breaths, the damage was gone, replaced with flawless, hideous perfection.

Yet Altharion did not falter. His expression did not twist with fear, nor did his aura waver. He stood resolute, though the clarity in his eyes betrayed his understanding. He knew exactly what kind of monster stood before him, and he understood that his chances of victory—alone—were perilously slim.

Still, he tightened his grip on his glaive and stepped forward.

"I need to march into the pit and close the portal to the dark dimension. You must face it alone."

It was Vlad’s voice, heavy with urgency. The command struck deep, but Altharion did not waver. His jaw tightened, his fingers flexed around the glaive’s shaft, and though his heart weighed with the knowledge of the trial ahead, determination surged to the surface.

He gave a single sharp nod toward the True Depravita of Wrath, acknowledging his role, his burden, and his courage. Then, with a roar, Altharion hurled himself forward, his glaive flashing like a divine arc of light against the darkness of the alien Lord.

From a distance, Vlad bowed his head briefly, a gesture of respect toward the Crown Prince’s valor. But he did not linger. There was no time to waste. The ground shattered beneath his feet as he launched himself downward, a comet of wrath, toward the yawning pit below.

The scene that greeted him was more grotesque than anything above. Even now, despite the chaos and destruction tearing across the heavens, members of the Zanis Family hurled themselves willingly into the abyss. Their bodies shattered against the obsidian rocks, their blood and flesh spilling like an endless river into the black maw of the portal. Each sacrifice fed the growing rift, nurturing the connection to the dark dimension.