CHAPTER 957: THE WHITE DEATH’S EVOLUTION

The moment the White Death’s hand touched the nebula, reality itself seemed to flinch. His atoms trembled at such a violent frequency that everyone could see his cells shaking—each particle of his body oscillating between matter and nothingness.

Then, without warning, a pillar of white flame erupted from his figure, expanding upward and downward across the void. It grew and grew until even the farthest Legends could no longer perceive where it began or ended. The brilliance devoured distance.

The pillar blazed like the spine of creation, radiating such purity and heat that time and space around it began to distort. The Law of Entropy, the essence of decay and renewal, manifested in its truest form—so perfect, so absolute, that the universe itself struggled to sustain its presence.

Around him, the void screamed. Dimensions twisted like molten glass, while the flames roared without sound.

Awe and terror gripped every heart that witnessed the scene. Even the True Depravita of Wrath and the Archangel stared in silent disbelief. They could feel the surge of the White Death’s aura expanding far beyond his previous limits, shaking the very principles of existence.

Since his rise to power, Entropy had been the foundation of his might—his signature, his path. But until this moment, it had never reached its perfect form. He had always possessed weaknesses: limits of flesh, limits of soul. Yet now, those limits shattered.

His evolution was complete.

Every fiber of his being—body, soul, and Law—rose to the next realm.

The intensity of his aura was so immense that even the great Lords of Hell would have quailed before it. The heat of his flames could now incinerate Orous, a top-tier Lord of the Third Layer of Hell, while his physical raw might could have crushed Hajax, one of the most powerful Demon Lords of the Abyss.

Alexandro—the White Death—had not yet reached the likes of Metatron at his zenith, but he now stood within the same pantheon of supreme beings.

The white pillar slowly began to wane, collapsing inward like a star cooling after a supernova. As the light dimmed, the figure of the White Death re-emerged.

He looked unchanged—same armor, same pale gaze—but the feeling he emitted was unrecognizable. Every observer felt it in their bones: the unmistakable pressure of evolution. His very presence resonated with the heartbeat of the cosmos.

And when their eyes met his, they felt something deeper—a sense of enlightenment, of clarity beyond mortal reason.

The White Death’s eyes glowed with boundless white light. In them was the reflection of infinity unraveling. He inhaled softly, the motion simple yet commanding, and spoke two words.

"Null Horizon."

Instantly, the void responded.

Around him, a milky white sphere unfolded—smooth, silent, and all-consuming. Energy dissolved. Vibrations ceased. Even light itself stretched and vanished as it touched the edge of the white horizon. Within that sphere, existence was nullified.

Every motion, every particle, every quantum ripple that entered it was erased—not destroyed, but rewritten as nothing.

A hushed awe fell over the assembled armies. The True Depravita of Wrath could only whisper in disbelief.

"A... Gift?"

Null Horizon was not merely an ability—it was a Law unto itself, a force on par with Heaven’s Gate. To witness it was to behold the impossible.

Yet, even as they tried to comprehend this new power, the White Death raised his hand once more. His expression was tranquil, but his eyes burned with experimentation—curiosity tempered by infinite control.

He extended his palm toward a distant star—a moon-sized body glimmering faintly in the distance.

"Grave of Infinity."

The words resonated like the tolling of a celestial bell.

His soul force erupted, flooding the void with silent command. His fingers clenched slowly, deliberately.

At first, nothing seemed to happen. There was no light, no noise. Only a faint shimmer, like heat haze rippling across the moon’s surface. Then, shadows began to stretch—the wrong way—bending toward a single invisible point.

Craters elongated. Dust rose in threads. The horizon of the moon curved inward upon itself.

At the center, a black sphere bloomed.

It began smaller than a mountain, yet its pull was not gravitational—it was spatial. Distances collapsed. Kilometers became centimeters. Valleys and plains folded like silk drawn into a fist.

There was no explosion, no shockwave—only a smooth, silent implosion so perfect it looked serene. Within seconds, the moon’s core inverted upon itself. Dimensions folded and folded again until they ceased to exist.

The sphere contracted—not because it was shrinking, but because it was devouring the concept of size itself.

Finally, only a single lightless node remained. It pulsed once, and the ripple that followed was not energy but absence—a wave of forgetting.

The moon was gone. Not shattered. Not reduced to dust. It had been erased. Its coordinates, its memory, its very existence overwritten by zero.

Silence reigned.

Even the stars seemed to dim in reverence—or fear.

The armies of the Graecia Empire stood frozen, their hearts seized by disbelief. None had ever seen such power—power that didn’t merely defy the Laws of the universe but stood above them.

Vlad and Overlord exchanged glances, both realizing the same thing: this strength rivaled that of Metatron’s Longinus Spear, the weapon that had once shattered the arm of Dream of Madness, the alien entity sealed within the tomb of a Primordial God.

Even the White Death himself looked momentarily stunned.

He raised his trembling hand, staring at his own fingers as if unsure they still belonged to him. Then, a trickle of blood leaked from his eyes, his nose, and his lips. His body shook.

A wave of weakness crashed through him, tearing at the newly forged equilibrium of his soul.

Without hesitation, he retreated—flashing away from the nebula, crossing hundreds of kilometers in a blink until he reached the safer edges of the void.

His people turned toward him, panic etched across their faces. But Alexandro simply wiped the blood from his chin and let out a small, sheepish smile.

"A minor backlash," he said, voice steady but hoarse. "It seems I... overdid it. I’ll recover in a few days."

Relief rippled through the ranks of the Graecia Empire. Their Emperor still stood—wounded but unbroken. They understood the embarrassment in his tone; even gods could be reckless in the ecstasy of newfound power. Yet none dared to laugh. None would ever mock the White Death.

As Alexandro withdrew, determination flared in the eyes of the other Lords who remained before the nebula. If touching the singularity birthed by the death of a world could awaken such transcendence, they too hungered for it.

But desire and attainment were never the same.

Overlord advanced first. His radiant form pushed forward, wings trembling as waves of golden energy rippled from his body. Yet every meter felt like moving through molten glass. By the time he reached one hundred and fifty kilometers from the nebula’s surface, his body had begun to fracture, and his soul was burning under the pressure. He could go no further.

His potential was immense—absolute even—but there was still a long way until he returned his Archangel’s body to its peak.

Next came Altharion, the Crown Prince. He pressed onward with regal grace, his armor glowing brighter the closer he came. Seven hundred kilometers from the nebula’s surface, his advance faltered. The cosmic radiation became unbearable; even his blood began to boil. He stopped, accepting that this was as far as he could go.

Lastly came Vlad, the True Depravita of Wrath.

His aura blazed like a red comet as he strode forward, refusing to yield. Six hundred kilometers from the nebula, his steps slowed to a crawl. Every inch of his flesh screamed, every cell threatening to disintegrate. But he endured—until endurance was no longer possible.