Beyond the Apocalypse
Chapter 690: Tasting victory

Chapter 690: Tasting victory

Vlad did not wait.

He surged forward, his heartbeat thundering louder and faster with every passing second. Each pulse of his heart unleashed waves of wrathful energy that exploded from his body, igniting the battlefield with raw, uncontrolled power. His feet tore into the ground as he accelerated with momentum so immense it felt like the earth itself trembled beneath him.

His sword moved like death’s own scythe—unrelenting, absolute. Everything in its path was cleaved asunder. Voroe Sages, mighty as they were, fell like stalks of wheat before a storm, their bodies torn apart with every swing of his weapon.

"CHARGE!" Angelo roared, his voice cutting through the chaos like a divine horn of war. The Viking’s exhaustion from slaughtering tens of thousands of High Champions vanished, replaced by pure adrenaline and a voracious desire to kill. The same hunger echoed through every soldier who fought beside him. It wasn’t just war anymore. It was vengeance.

"BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM." "BOOM."

One explosion followed another in a devastating chorus across the battlefield as the Graecia forces advanced, tearing through enemy ranks with unparalleled fury. Despite being less than six thousand strong, they carved a path through the enemy’s one hundred thousand warriors like a blade through parchment.

Within moments, the vanguard reached the upper echelon of the enemy forces. Guardians fell by the dozens, their defenses offering little resistance to the wrathful tide. Even the Sages were pushed back, many of them falling under the might of Graecia’s advance.

Across the battlefield, chaos and bloodshed reached its apex.

Clusters of destruction lit the landscape, turning regions of the field into infernos. In the midst of this apocalypse were two titans of combat: Janus and Agamemnon.

The Imperial Prince and the Scion of the Solaris Family burned every ounce of energy in their bodies, pushing themselves past their limits. Their attacks echoed with immense power, surpassing even that of most Half-Step Legends. Their presence was an inferno of death, cutting down thousands with each sweeping blade, each eruption of divine flame.

The sheer disparity in numbers between the armies made the battle a desperate gamble. Yet with the overwhelming pressure brought by the Depravitas and the monstrous T-Rex, the momentum began to shift. Even that wasn’t enough. And so, Janus and Agamemnon gave their all, their swords and spells dancing like comets, their power illuminating the battlefield.

With every passing second, Graecia’s forces gained more ground. The battlefield was turning. What had once seemed like a hopeless stand was now an unstoppable march toward total domination. The sight ignited the hearts of the warriors from the Korokor Stronghold, their spirits lifted, their thirst for vengeance reignited. Their swords moved faster, their war cries grew louder, and their killing speed reached a fever pitch.

In the heart of the chaos, Jormungandr and the Hybrid Tyrannosaurus Rex wrought havoc like elemental gods. The center of the battlefield had become a graveyard of scorched Voroe corpses. The count of slain Sages consumed by the jaws of the titanic beast had long reached double digits. And still, it rampaged on.

The Depravita of Gluttony guided the monstrous power of the T-Rex, keeping its chaotic wrath from harming their own forces. His living spells formed protective wards and repelling barriers, keeping the Half-Step Legends at bay. The coordination between Depravita and beast was terrifying, a fusion of destruction and intent that few could match.

Not far from them, Fafnir, the Depravita of Envy, was locked in a truly chaotic confrontation. Blood ran from deep wounds across his shoulder and waist—impressive injuries considering his legendary defensive prowess. And yet, he smiled.

His grin was wide, feral.

Three Half-Step Legends now faced him, but they were not the ones he had started with. He had already slain two of his previous opponents!

"ROOOAAAR!" Fafnir’s draconic roar thundered across the skies as he charged again, his entire form ablaze with a mixture of wrath and hunger. His body gleamed with scales of living steel, crackling with power. His eyes glowed, not with pain, but with overwhelming bloodlust. He would take everything the Voroe could give—so long as he could kill them all.

At the deepest front of the Voroe formation was the Depravita of Wrath.

Behind Vlad was a trail of sundered corpses—most of them Sages. His body glowed with volatile energy, his heartbeat pushing him ever forward like a war drum of armageddon. And no one could stop him.

Only the Half-Step Legends had the power to challenge him, but none among the Vormetallciae dared face the mad war god alone. They remembered his initial strike—a burst of power so immense they had barely perceived it, much less understood or defended against it. The image haunted them. It paralyzed them.

"What are you doing!?" came a sudden voice, furious and commanding.

It was Shitaru, the bulking Voroe master of the Law of Space. His body was covered in burn marks and gashes—as if he had been struck repeatedly by lightning, his skin split from the sheer friction of overwhelming speed. He was injured, yes. But he was not broken.

His voice roared across the command lines, full of rage and disbelief.

"He already burned through the five waves of force that enhanced his abilities! Attack now, before he regenerates!"

The very next second the Depravita of Greed appeared before Shitaru in a flash of electrical arcs.

"Do you think you have time to worry about others?" Ouroboros’ voice was laced with venom and glee, his killing intent exploding from him like a pressure wave.

He unleashed a blinding barrage of kicks and punches on Shitaru’s chest—so fast they blurred into a storm. Explosions echoed with each impact, the sheer speed and power making it feel like a machine gun had been pressed to his ribs.

Shitaru clenched his teeth, his face twisted in agony, but his eyes flared with defiance. Gritting through the pain, he teleported behind the white werewolf Depravita, and with a roar of defiance, swung his massive spiked club with every ounce of strength he had left.