Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 680: One hundred thousand Voroe

Chapter 680: One hundred thousand Voroe

Vlad was thrilled by the sheer magnitude of his recent improvements.

Not only had his energy pool finally advanced to Level 20, a major threshold that granted him heightened recovery and casting stability, but his body had also ascended to Level 22, placing him firmly at the peak of the Sage Tier.

Just one more breakthrough—Level 23—and his physical form would step into the Legendary Tier, granting him an immense boost in raw might, resilience, and body control that would greatly improve his survival abilities.

That alone was worth celebrating.

But what truly made his blood burn with excitement was the enhancement of his Depravita Aura.

Thanks to the consistent and methodical strengthening of his Depravita Seed using Jormungandr’s potion, he had successfully advanced from three waves to five full waves.

Though abstract to some, Vlad could clearly feel how the radiation of the Depravita Seed was now not just empowering his techniques—it was reshaping his very existence. Every cell, every nerve, every thought within him now hummed with the resonance of wrath incarnate.

"It won’t be long now," Vlad whispered, eyes glowing like crimson suns. "Soon, I’ll have the strength I need... to ascend."

His heart thundered with purpose. Becoming a True Depravita was no longer just a distant dream—it was inevitable. With each day, each battle, each potion, he drew closer. But even in his exhilaration, Vlad kept a tight rein on his emotions. The path was not yet complete, and complacency would be a fatal mistake.

He had just turned to return to his work when suddenly—

A sharp alarm screamed across the stronghold.

The walls of his residence lit up with urgent red glyphs as warning sigils danced across every surface. Crimson sirens pulsed like angry beacons, a signal no one could ignore.

Vlad’s expression hardened. He and Jormungandr turned to each other instantly, their gazes grim and silent. They both understood what this meant.

Another incursion.

This wasn’t uncommon. The Void Heart Fortress had launched regular offensives every ten days for the last six months. It was routine. Expected.

But it hadn’t even been three days since the last attack.

"They’re breaking the pattern," Jormungandr muttered, his voice laced with tension. "That’s not a good sign."

Vlad nodded sharply. There was no time to speculate. Together, the Depravita of Wrath and the small yellow cat rushed out of the residence and joined the other elite warriors mobilizing within the fortress.

Six months ago, the Greacian stronghold had boasted almost 300 Sage-tier warriors—mighty defenders capable of wielding power that could level cities. Now, that number had been whittled down to just over 230. Each Sage that fell wasn’t just a loss in manpower, but a blow to the very foundation of Graecia’s strength.

Sages, in every human civilization, were elites among elites—granted titles, territories, lifespans spanning five centuries or more. For over sixty to have perished in six months spoke volumes about the brutality of a Doomsday World.

And yet, the Vorometallicae had suffered even worse.

Their losses in Sages had been nearly tenfold, and though their numbers were naturally larger due to their militarized society, even they could not sustain such losses without consequence. Which made this latest move... curious.

The Graecia army reached the walls.

And what they saw nearly stole the breath from their lungs.

A tide of Voroe stretched across the horizon—black, writhing, and endless.

There were over one hundred thousand approaching, a number so massive it defied belief. Of those, only a few hundred were Sages and less than four thousand Guardians. The rest were High Champions.

"They didn’t train those here," Vlad said slowly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the endless lines of marching Voroe. "These came straight from the Chaovoratities Plane, their homeworld. They must’ve transported them directly into the Void Heart Fortress."

Jormungandr’s expression grew darker.

"They’ve shifted strategies. If they can’t win through precision or explosive might, they’ll bury us in corpses instead. Waves of cannon fodder designed to bleed us dry—not just in strength, but in focus, in energy, in morale."

It was ruthless—and terrifyingly effective if executed properly.

Vlad could already see the pieces falling into place. The High Champions wouldn’t pose a threat individually. Their weapons couldn’t pierce the protection of a seasoned Sage much less Vlad’s. But if sent forward in endless waves, they could become distractions, disrupt spellcasting, obscure vision, force mistakes. And within that chaos, enemy Sages or Half-Step Legends could slip through to land a devastating strike.

Even more disturbing, these Voroe weren’t just brainwashed—they were emptied of will. Their eyes were blank, their expressions void of personality, their movements robotic. They had been transformed into weapons, stripped of everything that once made them people.

"They’ve turned their own kind into suicidal puppets," Vlad growled, disgusted. "Just to make us flinch."

But something else was wrong.

There were no shield-bearers. In every prior assault, the Voroe had deployed massive warriors with fortress-sized shields to absorb the brunt of the stronghold’s magical artillery. Without them, the energy towers would shred through these High Champions like wheat before a storm.

"Why would they send an army like this... with no defense?" Jormungandr asked quietly.

Even General Tiberius, watching from the sky, felt the wrongness in his bones. He didn’t hesitate, but his instincts screamed of deception. Still, they couldn’t wait to be attacked.

Tiberius turned to the heavens.

"Let’s move."

In perfect synchrony, Tiberius and the other two Greacian Legends soared upward, cutting through the sky like comets. Their presence was immediately met by three Voroe Legends, who surged upward to meet them, the battle above reigniting with thunderous intensity.

Below, the High Champion army marched on.

Once they reached striking distance, Tiberius gave the signal.

"FIRE!"

A moment later, the stronghold’s energy towers roared to life. Runes activated, magic conduits lit up, and the sky shattered with violent brilliance.

Beams of elemental force and blazing fireballs surged outward in a synchronized volley aimed directly at the heart of the Voroe horde.