Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 683: Defeat

Chapter 683: Defeat

The Korokor Mountains had become a grotesque theater of war, the once-verdant terrain now reduced to a churned morass of mud and blood. Scarlet rivers ran so thick they practically melted into the soil, distorting the mountains into a horror-scape of smeared crimson.

Tens of thousands of Vorometallicae corpses littered the ravines and ridges—most of them High Champions sacrificed as cannon fodder. More than fifty thousand Voroe had perished here, yet the higher-ups of the Void Heart Fortress would not care. To them, losing wave after wave of High Champions mattered little if it meant eventually sapping the Graecia’s defenders’ stamina and morale.

Indeed, among the Voroe Sages and Half-Step Legends, faint smirks now replaced initial grimness. They sensed the toll the endless slaughter was taking on the Graecian forces.

Every time another wave of High Champions died, the Sages behind them found fresh opportunities to exploit. Even for formidable warriors, the mental weight of killing tens of thousands of foes chipped away at their focus and reserves—precisely what the Voroe masters hoped to achieve.

Things would have been even worse for the Graecia’s soldiers were it not for the blitzkrieg units operating at their limits to eliminate Voroe Sages before they could overrun the battlefield.

Jormungandr, Fafnir, and Ouroboros in particular fought with lungs burning, raw from oxygen depletion and exhaustion, but they never faltered. Gulping down potions to stave off fatigue, they pressed on, charging into the densest pockets of Voroe elites. Meanwhile, Janus, Agamemnon, and their teams matched them stride for stride, unleashing bursts of martial prowess to keep the swarm of Sages occupied.

All of them understood the precariousness of the situation. If they faltered for even a moment, the Voroe Sages would break through, slaughtering Graecia’s battered lines. Driven by desperation, every soldier poured what little they had left into holding the line.

Amidst this chaos, Vlad found himself locked in one of the fiercest battles of his life. He sensed the dire straits of the Graecia’s army but could do little to help them. Shitaru, the towering Voroe half-step Legend who wielded the Law of Space, refused to grant him any respite.

Shitaru’s body was riddled with wounds—every cut bleeding profusely—but he seemed oblivious to the agony. His colossal spiked club crashed down again and again, demanding Vlad’s undivided attention.

Vlad, by comparison, had fewer wounds. Most of Shitaru’s attacks had missed or been blocked, leaving him battered but still in control. Yet the drain on Vlad’s energy and stamina was enormous. Even relying on potions, he felt like he was nearing the edge of a death spiral. Exhaustion, not raw power, was Shitaru’s real ally here.

And Shitaru found the opening he needed.

In the midst of a furious exchange, Vlad’s footwork faltered for the briefest instant—the consequence of ragged breathing and an energy pool nearing depletion.

Shitaru lunged forward, swinging his monstrous club with the full momentum of his bulging muscles. It loomed before Vlad’s chest, impossibly large and inescapable. This time, Vlad had no chance to teleport or dodge.

The weapon landed point-blank.

It felt like being hit by a meteor. Bone after bone in Vlad’s rib cage groaned in protest, until several snapped under the pressure. A fraction of a second later, he was hurled through the air like a ragdoll, rolling end over end across the blood-soaked earth before finally skidding to a halt. Agony flared in his torso with every labored breath.

Shitaru exhaled a ragged breath, satisfaction coloring his burning gaze. The blow had nearly drained the last of his strength, but he relished the thrill of what felt like a mortal strike. Yet he did not linger in his triumph. Before Vlad’s body could even settle, he leaped forward, club raised, intending to end it right there—to crush Vlad beneath a single downward smash.

A heartbeat before impact, Vlad forced his battered body to respond. He twisted into a half-kneel, sword angled upward. Blood ran freely from his mouth, but his eyes were alight with raw, lethal intent. Four waves of Depravita Aura coursed through his limbs, suffusing the blade with seething darkness.

Shitaru’s eyes widened in disbelief seeing that the the Depravita was not only capable of moving but also mounting an attack. However, it was already too late. Vlad slashed downward, unleashing a massive dark crescent of energy that careened into the still airborne Voroe.

"CRASH!"

The empowered strike smashed into Shitaru with a force that sundered the very air. The half-step Legend roared, half in rage and half in pain, as the energy arc ripped through his torso, leaving a smoking, sizzling wound from head to waist.

It didn’t stop there—severed chunks of terrain exploded in the arc’s path, sending razor-sharp shards of rock and flesh flying in all directions.

Vlad didn’t wait to witness the aftermath. His entire body screamed in protest, his broken ribs sending waves of crippling pain through him. He needed to get away—now.

Leaning on the power of his Burning Eyes of Fury to vaporize anything obstructing his path, he blinked in and out of space with every shaky step, retreating from the center of the battlefield. No matter how fierce his dedication or how deep his wrath, he knew that staying any longer risked a fatal misstep, given the catastrophic damage to his chest.

By the time Shitaru’s airborne body slammed into the ground, Vlad had already vanished into the stronghold.

When the smoke cleared, Shitaru looked barely alive. The entire front of his armor was torn open, revealing raw, charred flesh. The Mark of Cain accelerated the corruption, blackening the wound and sapping what little life he had left.

The Voroe’s vision blurred, dizziness threatening to tip him into unconsciousness at any second. Through sheer will, the Voroe managed to retrieve a crystal from his armor. He crushed it in one trembling fist, releasing a powerful spatial distortion far beyond his own capabilities.

Instantly, an overwhelming wave of translocation enveloped him. In a single flicker of warped reality, Shitaru vanished from the battlefield—and the entirety of the Korokor Mountains—spirited away by an unknown force.

He was gone.

The abrupt disappearance of the formidable space-wielding Voroe did not go unnoticed. Nor did the gaping hole where Vlad had once fought. On both sides of the conflict, soldiers paused for a heartbeat, stunned by the absence of both champions. But while the duel had seemed a private war between them, its end signaled a larger turning point.

Less than a minute later, a voice thundered across the sky, echoing over the clashing armies:

"Retreat!"

That single word sent ripples of shock through the battlefield. The Voroe had grown accustomed to hearing the retreat call from their own Legends, but this time, the order came from General Tiberius himself.